Please be advised that a trigger warning is in effect for discussion of disordered eating throughout the second section of this chapter beginning with "The Atheneum…". If you'd like a summary of this section, feel free to reach out via PM!

.

When I was a child I truly loved:
Unthinking love as calm and deep as the North Sea.
But I have lived, and now I do not sleep.
—From Grendel, John Gardner

—-—-—

a great leap in the dark
part III: sixteen

—-—-—

rites

—-—-—

Sparks ascend amidst an atmosphere of indigo, drawn as with a magnet towards the glinting, growing stars.

Her face illuminates, shadows drawing strokes along her skin before they're dashed away by flickers of the torch. Her features are set and stony. But stone doesn't conduct a flame. Her hair's grown out a few inches from when she had it trimmed in the Capitol and she's tied it up, perhaps afraid she might ignite and burst the way her district partner did. Not that she understood the full severity of his immolation until she sat just across from the famous Casitella Vaden, her eyes frozen to the screen before her not in interest, but like she was holding herself there: rigid, restrained.

Elias' howling. His flesh melting. All a precursor for the carbon that would soon consume the entire arena, and drive Cavara's remaining competitors towards their glaring mortality.

The crackling of the torch is confined, but she must understand: the boundary between a flame and a firestorm is thinner than its crucible, thinner than a match. She watches the flame's dance, wary, as the mayor calls her to take it in her hand. Uneasy, she closes her left hand around the torch's base. Custom calls for her to use her right hand, but who are we to stifle our Victor? Tradition is only as stable as its adherents, and if Cavara isn't comfortable with her prosthetic, her left hand is far better than none at all.

His instructions are simple. Her role is immense. Valerius pushes her forwards, gently, the wheels nearly silent on the stage.

"Seems a bit excessive," Mallen whispers.

I already know where she's going with this. "Shh. Don't."

"Burning him again? They better have soaked his ass in gasoline if they expect there to be anything more to burn."

Cavara raises the torch along the base of Elias' casket. Gorgeous, molded hardwood, too precious to be devoured by flames. But such is its fate.

She tips the torch forward, and flame swells along the base of his coffin. It's slow, almost delicate for a moment as the fire explores a new terrain, gnaws away at the lacquer, and crawls around the edges of the casket.

Then the pyre combusts, flames leaping into the sky.

The rush of fire is met with whooping, bounding yells, the flames snapping their teeth along Elias' burial place, his ravaged body within. Tarquin and Mallen yell from beside me, and I lift my voice to match theirs for as long as the fire burns.

At the base of the pyre, Cavara watches it burn. The cheers are as much for her as they are for Elias— his sacrifice, of course, was for the betterment of his partner. In the end, though, she was the sole survivor. My screams savage my throat, leaving it raw and ashy.

In the glimmer of the roaring blaze, her lips twist— pride, or arrogance, feverish and irrepressible. But in the shadows between flares, her bearing is stiff as ice.

Elias is the corpse, but somehow, Cavara looks colder.

The Atheneum is always more vibrant after a victory. I remember that from my Twelves year when Neo returned. It doesn't matter if our Victor's here to revel in it— Cavara sure isn't, although I'd attribute that to her amputation and extensive leg fractures more than personal choice. But there's a certain energy that makes the pain of workouts a little more tolerable, the pressure of failure a bit more distant in their wake.

Some places are still frigid. If there's been a victory, the training room doesn't seem to realize it, not with half the room draped and hidden from view for our yearly physical exams. I tap my heels on the bench as I wait, feeling the ache of loneliness from some combination of Rhodes, Cavara, and Aspra's absences. Rhodes is still around, of course, but not during the exams. And I haven't heard from Aspra since the day of Cavara's victory.

The training room has become so familiar, and suddenly it's foreign again. When Iona steps out, pushing the plastic curtain aside like it's a genuine affront to her, I slip past her in silence, my mouth already stale.

"Caverley, yes? I'm Eliska."

Eliska's stature strikes me first— she's not particularly tall, but the strength in her shoulders and legs is impressive and the slightest bit intimidating. She'd be stocky, if I were to name it, but she's more strong than anything. I try to shrug off my insecurity in my own bony, lanky limbs and smile politely, propping myself up on the bench as she finishes wiping it down. "Yes. Nice to meet you."

"You as well. Depending on how the year goes, I hope for your sake we don't have to make close acquaintances of each other— but you never know."

Sure don't. I certainly never planned to meet Rhodes or Aspra or Cavara, but my injury, frustrating as it was, brought me to them. Then again, as nice as Eliska may be, I'd rather stay out of the training room if I can avoid it.

She asks me a few introductory questions, and I take in her features— hair tied back but still loose around a tough but otherwise youthful face. She's built like the ideal cadet, and I find myself wondering if she's from here, if she ever trained. She must have, if Valerius was able to replace Aspra with her so quickly. A shot of something cruel and unfair surges through me until I shut it down. I have no grounds to dislike Eliska. There's no need to be needlessly cold without provocation.

Still, there's a lack of comfort that stems from my unfamiliarity with her, with this environment, somehow alien under her control. When I step up for Eliska to measure my weight, the scale numbs my soles through my sock feet, its metallic surface frigidly smooth. Even wearing my usual training shorts, my bare legs feel naked, goosebumps speckling their surface. It's far better to be hidden behind a plastic curtain than out in front of the whole year like this time last year, but it's still unnerving that the only person here with me is all but anonymous. I trust Eliska's training, but knowing her personally is another thing altogether.

"Good. Step down, please." I obey. "We'll just take your height. Heels against the wall, and stand straight."

My breaths lock in my throat like they're fabric, snagged on some rogue fingernail or obstructive snare. I make myself look forward, but I'm tempted to instead follow Eliska's movements as she measures me, marking my height, drawing a cloth measuring tape around my waist and hips, and examining my stature. If she's aware of me watching her, she doesn't show it, doesn't force me to look away in embarrassment.

"All right," she says finally. "Sit up here for me."

I resist the temptation to swing my legs along the bench, instead gnawing at the inside of my lip as Eliska runs me through basic tests— blood pressure, hearing, reflexes, balance. I walk backwards on my toes along the half of the office Eliska's blocked off. Aspra's office, it still feels right to say. The tests themselves are fairly standard even if Eliska is performing them with a slighter air of aloofness than Aspra might have, or at least they seem to be. "Were you a cadet?" I finally have to ask.

"I was," she says. "A decade ago or so. Trained with Slater, if you can believe that."

"Oh? How was that?"

"Terrifying, at times," she admits. "She's scary when she's angry. Scary even when she's not, frankly."

"I don't know much about her," I say. "I just watched her Games one time. She was— yeah, ruthless," I half-laugh. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Sure do," she says. "Let me ask you a few more personal questions, if that's alright with you."

I nod, my shoulders relaxing some.

"Have you started menstruating?"

I smile involuntarily. "Yes," I say.

"At what age did you start?"

"Eleven."

"So, five years ago. Okay. And when was your last period?"

"Um…" Eliska watches me, waiting for a response. "Not sure."

"Last month? The month before?"

"It's been awhile," I say, feeling my cheeks flush. There's nothing embarrassing about it. There shouldn't be, after all. If I could talk openly with my mother about maturing— even if that was one of the only things I could speak openly about with her— I can discuss it with Eliska. "April, maybe?"

"April," she says, writing it down. "How about, within the last year, how many cycles have you had?"

I consider a moment, replaying the last year in my head, where I was each time I bled. Sessions with Kova, stressing that I wouldn't be able to make it to the toilet and put something in before I bled through my shorts in front of my year. Watching the rest of Evianna's speeches as she triumphantly travelled Panem as my abdomen pinched with disdain. Trying axes with Rhodes, reining in my growing frustration as I found yet another weapon that wouldn't fit me. "Three. Wait—" The day of the interviews, and Two had no attendees. No, that was the year before. "Yeah, three."

"Three," she repeats. "Is that right?"

"Yes," I confirm. I watch warily as she scribbles down more notes, her forehead frozen, focused. "But that's not bad, right? I mean, it has to be some sort of adaptation— it won't interfere with my training this way."

Eliska frowns, resting her clipboard on her thighs. She's not dissimilar to Aspra in the way her eyes crease, hardened, pressed into thin, worried lines. Only I don't know her well enough to judge if that's truly concern, or just displeasure. The two are hard to discern sometimes. "It's a bit more complicated than that. Truthfully, it's not a good sign if you're not having regular periods, especially with your weight."

My stomach twists. "What do you mean, my weight?"

"You're underweight," she says, "which I'm sure you know by now, based on weight records from this time last year. Short-term, that's reversible. We can help you gain that weight back. But it's really not healthy to be missing so many periods."

I shouldn't be surprised at all. My eating habits are disconnected at best— I do what I can to help my training, but how many times have I compared myself to my friends, felt envy surge inside me at their careless attitudes towards food? I've done better living here where there's less stress associated with the cafeteria than the eating area back home, but that's short-lived compared to how long I've been training here. "Okay," I say, not sure how else to respond.

Eliska stares, her gaze accusatory. "I'm serious. Being underweight, not having periods— I don't have a tool to measure it like they might in the Capitol, but there's a high likelihood your bones are weakening, too. Becoming more brittle. You're more likely to break something or become injured in any form. Not to mention, if you're missing periods now, that can be doing irreversible damage to your reproductive system. You don't want to look back at yourself ten years from now if you can't bear children and wish you'd done something to prevent that."

Maybe it's short-sighted, but I'd actually rather look back and know there was nothing more I could do to enhance my training. There will be time to worry about kids when I've won the Games. Until then, all I can really make out in my future is a lot of fighting, a lot of strength training, and, eventually, myself up on that stage, lighting the torch that immortalizes my fallen District partner. "I know," I say. "Just— you know, the period thing. I don't really mind not getting them all the time, which might sound bad. It's just, it makes me feel sick, and training's harder—"

"I understand," Eliska says, her voice subtly scathing. "But I can assure you you would much rather have to train through those symptoms than be unable to walk because you've got a stress fracture in your ankle. I'm glad you haven't had one, but from my standpoint, I think it's only a matter of time. With the amount of activity you're asked to do— well, let me ask you this, first. Can you afford enough food to complement your training?"

"Yes," I say carefully.

"Do you have consistent access to food?"

I nod, knowing what's coming.

"Then allow me to be frank with you. If you want to see any more success in this program, you need to start taking your health more seriously. Whatever issues are contributing to your inability to eat properly, you need to push past those instead of allowing yourself to slowly destroy your own body, or else your body is going to continue to break itself down."

I'm taken aback by how brusque she is. "I'm— I promise, I'm not purposely trying to sabotage myself."

"I hope you're not," she says. "But if you're not taking in enough energy, your body can't perform properly. Instead of getting stronger you'll start to break down your own muscles and essential tissues. Even if you don't think you're breaking yourself down, your body is. Maybe you can't lift as much as you want to. Maybe you're not able to focus well enough on your weapons work."

"I just—" I feel the need to defend myself. "I've tried, I mean, to eat more— better, I guess— but it's like I'm forcing myself sometimes. Or I'm just not hungry." I wouldn't be so honest with her if I didn't feel threatened by the assumptions she's undoubtedly already forming about me. "I've had a stressful year. That's probably not an excuse, but I feel like I've put it behind me anyways, or I've tried to."

"I understand," she says, in a voice that suggests she truly does not. "But I'm here to keep you safe and to make sure you're able to train at your highest capacity. I'm not going to sugarcoat it or be sensitive with you. If that was Aspra's style, I apologize. But I need you to take this seriously."

Aspra mentioned it once. Once, after last year's physical, after Kova weighed us all and then sent me and a few others back to her. She'd asked the same questions, too— about my history of injury, my cycle, my eating habits— and told me to work on trying to eat more. But that's all she could do, especially when more often than not I was avoiding the training room, afraid of running into Cavara. What was I supposed to tell her? It wasn't like I was consciously trying to starve myself. At a certain point I just wasn't hungry anymore, simple as that. Maybe things deteriorated some, but I haven't seen serious effects, at least not to the degree that Eliska seems to be concerned about.

"I'm not going to make you modify your training or sit out from testing tomorrow, but I do want to work with you to make changes in the next few weeks. Is that something you're willing to do?"

"Yes," I say automatically.

She watches me a moment longer. I'm not lying— of course I want to be better. I just don't know how feasible that change is. "It's not entirely uncommon," she says. "A lot of cadets— a lot of the female Peacekeepers, those in training, you'll see something similar. Overexertion without enough calories to support it. They get run-down, their periods stop. It's not healthy, but it's not unheard of. Just— care enough to take care of yourself. If you really want to gain that weight back and make yourself stronger, you can. That's ultimately what it comes down to."

Eliska lets me go with a page of notes and a primary diet plan. But back outside that curtain, I find myself tense again, worrying about what might be different this time. I've moved out, sure, but what's to say any of that stress from last year is gone? If anything, my fate at the end of Sixteens should be more overwhelming. It's all in my hands now. Seventeens is mine to lose, mine to gain.

She's right, though. How long have I been frustrated at my slow improvements or at the way my progress has plateaued in the Vaults? My training performance has always been the most important thing to me. To have someone look me in the face and tell me I'm sabotaging it myself… that stings. More than that, it scares me. That something that's made me feel inferior, I've done to myself.

Aspra would be disappointed. That's far worse than anything I might be feeling for myself, that Eliska might have been feeling towards me even as she kept her gaze averted, in those last few minutes, reading notes she'd already scanned a dozen times. As much as I wish Aspra were here, though, it's far easier to frustrate Eliska, who I have no ties to, than to even imagine letting Aspra down.

Easier still to look back at the last two years and see, in many ways, there's only myself to blame. If I want to turn things around, then only I can do it.

I'm up before six the next morning, pressing my feet into worn-down sneakers in the near-darkness. Pre-Trials aren't until noon, but I match the Seventeens' and Eighteens' wake-ups if for no other reason than to prove I'm worth their respect. The adjustment, physiologically, was remarkably easy. Socially, it was nerve-wracking. But I've found that, even if I'm younger, there's little resentment towards me, if any. I'm not their competition. That alone makes me far more worthy of basic kindness and respect, especially compared to the way I've heard a few of the girls speak to each other or among themselves. When you're directly competing against three or four others, I can only imagine former friendships become frayed at best, more likely fragmented. Volunteering is the highest honor— no use letting feelings become involved. At some point, those same relationships that made training bearable are what interfere with your chances of earning that volunteer spot, the whole reason you did this in the first place.

I don't eat until after they've all cleared out, though. I like the privacy. I like being careful about my food selections, not that there's a ton to choose from, but I tend to be particular anyways. At least with Cavara's victory, there's a greater variety, a bit more flavor from the Capitol shipments. But more than anything, my choices reflect Eliska's warning, that unless I act soon I'm going to destroy myself, destroy any chances I have of making something of myself. I start with two eggs, a slice of toast, and a dish of oatmeal, vowing to return for a second helping of everything. For once, I follow through. My nerves are making me inexplicably famished.

Pre-Trials. Technically tomorrow is the first official day of Sixteens, but in terms of impressions, today is critical. At the end of the year, there will only be ten of us left— the last cluster permitted to take the next two years to officially pursue a nomination. Urban mentions this too, once we're all finally gathered in the main gym together— finally, because I couldn't stand to pace the Atheneum any longer by the time people finally started arriving for our time in the gym. Even now, holding my focus secure on Urban, my heartbeat skips in my chest.

"In twelve months, only ten of you will remain," he says. "Five women, five men. This cycle will not only well-prepare you for the trials at the end of the year, but for the years to come— and for two of you, the Games themselves."

I swallow. Avari shifts between her feet. It's true that most everyone still here— the forty or so who've made it this far— will be gone a year from now. But looking around, I already recognize casualties: Ceto, thrown out during our Fourteens tests for succumbing to fatigue and not risking drowning. Petra and Emory, who quit together just a week ago. Even if they might not have made it to Seventeens, they never gave themselves the chance. And Khione, of course. I haven't seen him since the night Elias died.

"Sixteens results have no basis in however you may have tested during Fourteens," Urban says. "We've all changed since then. I like to think you've grown past that." My twentieth-place ranking and I appreciate that, Urban. "Today, however, does hold some weight in how we'll judge you at the end of the year. While it is a baseline, do not pretend this doesn't matter. Oftentimes, consistency trumps improvement in my book— what kind of fighter are you over an extended period of time? Can you adapt? Can you handle change and manage it with poise? Can you cope with stress and come out stronger? And can you do so whenever it is asked of you, not solely on a good day?"

I bounce on my toes and roll out my ankles as we approach the doors to the foyer, preparing for the run that's ahead. Three miles is all. I crushed this last time. But Eliska's warning hangs heavy in the back of my mind as we line up in groups, and I begin to worry. One misstep, pressing against slick footing, and something might snap.

That's just a risk I'll have to take. I join the first group and take off running.

I finish easily, my legs burning but not ripping at the seams, muscle from bone. I've learned from two years ago to pace myself; there's no use flying in that first test and crawling through the rest, not when there's clearly so much still to do. And it serves me far better, especially for the set of sprints we're sent to do— forty yards, the same distance as the plates to the Cornucopia, measured ten times for our best speed, our worst speed, our average. By the time we finish, I'm out of breath but not entirely empty. A relief, considering where we're going next.

The ceiling in the Vaults seems lower, the walls a bit more slimy and slick. Must be the heat, coursing into the lower levels of the Atheneum even in the mid-morning. My grip on the bar is slippery and I rest the cool metal back further along my shoulders, even as it digs into my skin and leaves rugged imprints along the base of my neck. Last time I was here with so many judging eyes— maybe they're not watching now, but they will be if I mess up— I crumbled. I will not let that happen again.

"Easy down… and back up," Mallen says. I grimace, but there's no unwelcome pain in my back, just a comfortable ache in my legs. "Good. Nice. Hot."

I'm already lifting more than I was early last year, but the natural thought process is to mourn what I could have done if I'd trained and eaten properly. Leave that behind, I try to remind myself. It's a new year. I lift two more increments higher before my legs lock, trembling. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force the weight higher. Instead, it starts to sink.

Panic can hardly close its fingers around my throat before Mallen catches me, keeping the weight from crushing me.

"Thanks," I breathe.

"Not worth a thanks. It's kind of the expectation."

Unthinkingly, my eyes seek out Avari, her face strained as she lifts in front of Elissa. "You'd be surprised."

"Thank you for destroying any faith I had in you to spot me properly," Mallen says. "I'm never helping you again. Fuck."

"Just do your dumb lift," I say, focusing back on our rack.

Foolishly, I think that's the end of it— the physical testing, that is, or anything particularly exhausting. Back upstairs, Urban partners us off haphazardly, closely regarding our basic sparring skills against a steady cycle of opponents. I manage Az for a good couple of minutes before he knocks me over. Tarquin is overpowering. I handle Denali much better than I would have a year ago. But we're fatiguing— not just me, but all of us, especially in the warmth that's slowly permeating the entirety of the gym to a stifling degree. By the time we split up for weapon work, I'm breathing heavily, my hair frizzy and slick with sweat. Elissa looks particularly run-down, her face drenched with perspiration, but she's fairly steady at the archery station. My shots waver, but I assure myself I'll be better with my knives.

Trainers patrol the gym, taking basic notes— Urban, of course, but also Nell and Easton, filling in where Urban can't attend. Under Easton's icy watch, I fling knives at the targets, still somewhat shaky. I'm not bad by any means— I hit inside that second ring every time. But I know I've done far better for Rhodes.

Rhodes, who for whatever reason, is seldom in the gym except for his own sessions. He's never judged our sessions or assisted with any testing. I'd be curious to know why, but it's really not the time. Not when that heat's becoming suffocating to the point of distraction, worsening with every round of our repetitive drilling. Torin seizes up suddenly as he launches a spear forwards, grabbing for his calf— the first of many heat-related injuries we send to Eliska. I keep mostly focused on my own skills, but between exercises it's hard not to miss Denali being propped up along the far wall, sipping at her water like it's going to burn her. My throat aches with exertion and a savage yearning for water, but we haven't earned it yet.

Then Elissa collapses. I half-catch her as she crumbles, limp and heavy, against my shoulder. It's Easton, though, who comes to gently set her down next to our station. "Keep going," she orders, and we don't question it. Any other trainees who glance over don't stop, either. It's not our responsibility. Concern might start to look too much like laziness, and then who benefits?

When Urban finally releases us for a drink, I swallow half the bottle until my throat is raw. My chest heaves between swallows and water sprays along my lips and onto the neck of my shirt. My head swims, fatigue swirling the room like watercolors dabbling in dark-grey hues. Sweat streams down Cas' face, his cheeks flushed with exertion. In the corner, Avari hitches over, gagging.

"Are we… done?" Pike dares ask.

"Nearly," Urban says. "Let's go outside, get some air. You've managed the heat long enough."

I'm not naive enough to believe Urban's simply letting us outside to give us a break, but I have to be thankful for the first rush of fresh air that washes over me when we step outside. He takes us around the side of the building to where we're shaded, our skin cooling out of the heat. There's a slight breeze to air out the stuffiness from inside the gym. Better. So much better.

"Take a few more minutes. Drink your waters, but slowly. We have one last activity. Everyone feeling okay?"

A few people nod. I decide not to waste the energy.

Once he's given us ample recovery time, Urban beckons us to our feet. "Trials are meant to test you in numerous ways— your strength, your abilities— but none of that matters if you are not mentally tough enough to weather the storm. Your ability to manage heat is one example of that. This last test will be another one. Waters down, and spread out, please."

We situate ourselves along the wall, backs pressed to the pale brick. My body aches, but I'm not so lightheaded anymore. Whatever this is, I'm determined to complete it.

"Wall sits," Urban announces. "Two minutes, then a rest. If anyone drops, we start over. Hands above your heads and sit back, like so. And it's a full two minutes, so get comfortable. You're going to want to be disciplined with your thoughts— it's a long time to sit there hating it, trust me. Clear your heads, and start thinking of why you want to be here. Why you want to serve Two. For your family? For yourself? Whatever it is, hold onto it, and don't let it go." Urban nods as we settle back against the wall. "Begin."

In the wake of the stressful gym atmosphere, the relative silence is eerie. I love this, I tell myself as my legs begin to burn. I want to fight for Two. This is what I was made for. I stare ahead at the yellowed grass, the hill ascending up and away from us, and grit my teeth.

In some ways, it's more bearable knowing we've already had two hours of work today. I don't have to shame myself so much for my fatigue— the aching that quickly ascends to burning, first tolerable, then debilitating. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my nails into my elbows, pressing my arms down onto the top of my head.

There's heavy breathing at some point down the line, ragged, the tail end of a whimper. Martina's legs are trembling. I press my soles further into the concrete, my legs already screaming stop, stop, quit—

"One minute down," Urban says.

The pain swells, compounds. Halfway might be comforting to some, but to me it sounds like only halfway. I remind myself I thrive on pressure, thrive on fatigue. I can handle pain. I crave it. I tighten my grip on my elbows, forcing air into my chest, and let my legs sing to me— hot and howling, blades flaying my thighs. I love this. I love this. I couldn't straighten my knees even if I wanted to. I'm lost in their aching, the pain pressing in from every direction, my vision speckled with fragments, blackened sand, minuscule blood spots in my eyes, ducking and diving like gnats. I'd wave them away but I can't think of moving my arms now either. If I break any angle my body's going to break down entirely, one bone and then all at once, shattering like Cavara as she slid, slow-motion, from the edge of the canyon wall.

"Thirty seconds."

Mallen curses under her breath, and my focus frays. I set my gaze ahead even as my expression gives in to fatigue but I try to force it back, my cheeks and teeth upwards into a grimace rather than a wince, pressing my eyebrows down and narrowing my eyes, baring my teeth. Fight this pain, I tell myself. Fight it, Caverley.

But my nails slip from my elbows, a whimper curling up in my throat as I lose my grip. Trembling, defenseless against the searing in my quads, all I can do is take it for the last few seconds, squeezing my eyes shut against the agony. "Come on," I whisper, more for Urban than myself. "Come on."

If Akello were running this, he wouldn't allow the quiet. He'd be screaming. Kova would be screaming. I think the silence might be worse, though— no one's telling me what I'm supposed to be thinking. I have full control.

I don't particularly like it.

"Down."

Thirty-odd bodies crumble in sync, panting and groaning. I rest my elbows on my sprawled knees and push my hair back, slicking the loose hairs back along my head as my legs twitch, aching.

"Breathe," Urban says. "A couple of minutes to rest, and we'll go again."

"Again?"

Pike is lucky that Urban isn't so strict about his outbursts, but he shoots him a disapproving look as he answers. "Ninety seconds this time. Same rules. You're tired— I know. That's the point. It hurts— it's supposed to. You have to learn how to control it. When it hurts, when you're exhausted, you can't give up. You can't allow your body to give in. It feels like you can't do it, but your brain is a liar. It wants you to think you're weak, but you're stronger than that. Prove it to yourself."

On Urban's go-ahead, I practically crawl to my feet. When I slide back into my sitting position, my glutes cramp. Laughter trickles out of my throat at how helplessly tired I already am. But I'm no quitter. Not by a long shot.

As my legs seize up again though, this time far quicker than the last time, I'm starting to wish I were. Again I grit my teeth, but there's less to insulate me from the brashness of my self-criticism. Fatigue doesn't just chip away at my muscular strength— it wears down my mind, too. Just like Urban said, but I've known that for years.

Push past it. Don't be weak.

I'm not weak.

You're acting like it. Come on— be stronger than this.

Be stronger is effective for all of ten seconds until the fire flares back up in my legs with a vengeance. I shift onto my heels, but that only seems to fuel it further. My face contorts into a look less worthy of fear, and more of pity. I hate it, but I can't fight it back this time. I wheeze out my next breath, gasping for air as I swallow my pain. Hold on. Hold on. You can do this. It's all you want.

I can't.

I can.

It's too long. You won't make it.

I'm nearly there.

It's longer than you think.

I'm supposed to be tired.

Then good. You're doing that much right.

My low back and hamstrings are seizing, rigid, with exertion they're rejecting. I hate this. I hate this. It's shorter than the last hold but worse somehow. I try to anchor myself to the thought of it being me positioned on a plate forty yards from the horn, but suddenly the thought of running, of any exertion, is repulsive.

"Down."

I exhale and collapse against the pavement, my heart practically bursting in my throat. Thank Panem he called it there. You wouldn't have made it a second longer. I lean forward, releasing my back and legs as fatigue tries to tighten them.

"Good work," Urban says. "This is going to be our last round, so take a minute to rest, stretch your legs. We're going for a minute minimum, and then as long as you can. Last test of the day— and yes, it will count. When you get tired— when you think you can't go any longer— remind yourself the person next to you feels the exact same. Outlast them."

I stare at Mallen next to me. She stares back.

"Watch your shins," I warn, even as dread creeps through my veins, dark and viscous.

"I'm coming for your kneecaps, bitch."

"On your feet!" Urban calls. I stand shakily, relieved to see Mallen's doing the same, using the wall to prop herself up. "Arms stay up, legs at ninety degrees. If you fall lower or straighten your legs, you're done. If your hands drop to your knees, you're done. Into position— on my count."

I take a last deep breath, trying to quiet my mind, to start this squat with a clear head. My eyes burn and I blink quickly, trying to clear the dust. Last one. Just… hang on.

"Go," Urban says.

The quiet, again, is stifling. I look ahead, trying to simplify this. My stance— secure, unwavering. I relax my face, loosen my jaw. My arms rest on my head, tugging against the top of my ponytail. A stray long hair adheres to the sweat coating my arms and I try to ignore its peskiness. In front of us, the grasses sway with a hiss of a breeze that softens the sting of my warming legs, then coaxes the flames higher.

Just a bit longer, I assure myself. Thirty seconds.

And then what? You're going to give up as soon as the minute ends?

My jaw tightens, sore from gritting my teeth, holding tension I didn't even feel creeping up, but now it's inescapable. Then I outlast everyone.

At a certain point the pain threshold always plateaus. It's getting there that's the hard part, forcing yourself past that first time you tell yourself you can't. When you're convinced you're done, you're gone, you're not even halfway to your capacity. I know that. But I don't fully believe it, not when at fifty seconds I'm already trembling again, my neck tense from holding my head upright instead of letting myself collapse against myself, folding my chin on my throat. I won't be able to breathe like that, can't risk falling for even a second, because once I give in to a fraction of the pain it will have already begun to break me. My feet are already numb again. I link my fingers behind my head to open my lungs and convince myself that if I can breathe, I won't feel the pain.

Or maybe the pain is what you deserve.

Maybe it is, I practically spit. Then I'll stand here forever.

"One minute down," Urban says.

Instantly, a handful of cadets fall. Internally, I don't blame them, until I remind myself that this sort of forgiving thinking doesn't serve me well when I'm trying to win, that to someone like Akello, Kova, maybe even Urban— not like I know him well enough to judge— they are quitters. Weak. Not tough enough. Even if they made it through three long wall sits after two hours of training and tests, at some point you have to gauge yourself and realize that's the bare minimum. I try to loosen my toes, but my legs have gone numb and I nearly lose my balance. Come on. Stand up.

Can't.

Better than wasting your time with this shit. What are you trying to prove? You're good at leaning on a wall? Won't make the difference between making it to Seventeens and losing at the end of this year.

But it's a start.

Who cares? The Games aren't a fitness test. And even if they were, you're not strong enough. Your entire body is giving out on you.

It sure feels like it is, as my knees tremble, my legs ache with pain more intense by the second.

I want to stop. I want to stop. I want to stop.

I can't.

Mallen falls, cursing, sliding back along the brick. She lies back on the ground, gasping for air, as others trickle down the wall next to her.

"Ninety seconds."

"Fuck," Iona groans. One of the boys at the far end lets out a war cry. Despite myself, I join the others in laughing, even while I can hardly breathe. But quickly, the pain rushes back, worse than before. Unbearable.

I can't— I can't.

Iona falls. Martina tries to straighten up, and Urban calls her out. "Come on, Scout," I hear from next to me. I open my eyes, sparing a glance to my left side.

It's just Avari left. Avari and me.

You're going to lose, and she's going to love it.

I am. She is.

Look at you. You don't even care enough to try to fight this anymore. Give up.

I'm not giving up.

You know it's worthless. You know you'll never beat her. She's better than you in every way.

I look over. Her eyes are closed, face hardened against her own pain, her own demons.

Nice of you to make it easy on her. Take yourself out, then she doesn't have to.

The boys are still going, of course, a handful at the other end of the wall but I can't focus on them, can't see much of anything, the pain blurs my vision so much. Besides, I'm not competing with them. I'm competing with the girls. Competing with myself, most of all.

But I can't lose to Avari.

Avari, who knew me so well in Twelves and Thirteens, who even in Fourteens could be a willing friend, a kind support even as she began to become lost in herself. It's not her fault— of course, I don't blame her. It's just cruel that that's the way we fell, that I can't fix us, can't get us back.

Avari, always a step above me. She probably doesn't even feel this. Just like she doesn't feel a thing for me anymore. Best friend doesn't sound so important anymore with the word former pressed in front of it.

Avari, who still knows more about me than I wish she did. Why did I ever confide in her? If I'd never said a thing about how worthless training made me feel some days, maybe we'd still be on even footing, but she knows she's better than me now. Knew it even before she heard what Akello said— Akello. No. My chest hitches, drops, and it's all I can do to stay standing. I've never told Mallen, still won't tell Cas, and somehow Avari knows that, too. And I fear, more than anything, that she'll use it against me. I don't trust her enough not to.

Like she has the energy to care about you.

Stop.

Not until you give up.

I can't. I can't keep going and I can't stop.

Tough break. This is what you're giving your life to. You'd think you'd be better at it.

"Come on, Scout," Mallen repeats. I don't have to look to expect Avari's glance. I can practically hear her grinding her teeth. I dig my nails into my arms, trying to center my mind on that pain instead of the searing burning in the top of my legs. A growl surfaces in the back of my throat, swallowing the mewls of pain I want so badly to make instead. My eyes narrow, tightening above my cheekbones.

But I can't control my expression for long, and it falls apart, decaying towards opacity, enough to reveal the pain that's splitting my legs, my chest. Dry sobs collapse in my throat. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. The small solace I can give myself is at least Akello's not here to see me crumble. He can't find a way to punish me for something he's not a witness to. But it's inevitable. My legs are slipping, my back sliding slowly down the wall, fraction by fraction.

I gasp again, unable to hold back the cry of pain in my throat. My hands are rigid; you could snap my fingers like sticks. It'd probably hurt less. Can't hurt more. Not when it's out of my control.

The only reason I'm able to even still stand is because I know I'm doing this to myself. And that makes it the slightest bit more bearable.

It's too much. Too much— too much—

Then how have I made it this long?

Too stupid to quit. At least if you gave up earlier you could have lived with that failure and convinced yourself, somewhere in that empty head of yours, that you would have gone a bit longer if only you tried harder. Now you've tried harder, and you know for a fact you can't do this.

I am doing this.

For what? What is this pain worth? Sometime or another you have to accept you're only going to disappoint yourself. Gonna make losing at the end of this year a little less bitter.

I'm not— I can't—

Give up. Give up. Give up.

My thoughts arrive in fragments now. All I know is pain. Pain, and disappointment, and exhaustion, and the stinging understanding that at the end of this all, it's not even going to be worth it.

Outlast them, Urban had said. It's not about me. It's about Avari, of course.

Beat her. Prove you can.

I don't want to.

But I do. I want to beat Avari more than I even want to beat myself.

I don't know how long I've been holding myself here. I don't think I'll ever break from this position, my eyes squeezed shut, face contorted in agony, but still unbreaking. Unbreaking even though Panem I want to break. I want to give in.

But I don't.

And Avari crumbles, collapsing against the pavement with a short gasp. My body slumps two seconds after hers and I push back against the wall with my hands, trying to stand, but my knees give out, too. My legs tremble, twitching the muscles cramping on top of my existing soreness. I lie back, legs splayed, gasping and choking out soft laughter and the dying coals of fractured sobs, my eyes stinging in the heat and the dust.

"You're a bad bitch," Mallen says, offering a hand down.

I wave it off, chest still shaking. I rest the backs of my hands against my forehead. "I can't— feel my legs—"

"Get up, stinky."

"Can't. Can't stand. I'm dying here." She pulls me up anyways, linking her hands around my wrists. I balance against the wall, my legs quivering in time with my drumming pulse, dizzy with exertion. "Seriously. My legs—"

"No one needs legs. Just ask Cavara."

I shoot her a look. "I said... no Cavara jokes—"

"You said no arm jokes—"

"How about she's off-limits, period. Ow." I turn, looking for Avari, maybe to offer a tap on the fist or a nod for lasting so long. She's not looking, though, her gaze turned downward as she hinges, pushing her fingers into her knees. Her ponytail dangles over her head like a tail between her legs.

Then Urban looks over, giving me a nod as he writes our final times. It's so subtle, it shouldn't matter. But even that affirmation settles my doubts, quells my fatigue. It's pride I've earned.

I can already understand its addictiveness.

"Results will be out tomorrow," Urban is saying, as the last boys sit, panting, on the ground. "Official training starts tomorrow as well. Make sure you're rested, stretched, fed… it'll be a tough year. Don't flame out early."

"We're done?" Pike asks.

"Done," Urban smiles.

Pike doesn't wait— he rushes away the instant Urban responds.

Avari is quick to follow. I think of trailing after her; I know she's crushed. She doesn't accept second place, no matter how well she did. But at some point, I have to realize I can't keep trying to chase after a relationship that's already set sail. If I jump in the water after it, I'm asking to drown.

"Caverley," Urban says, as the group thins out. He stands in the sun, unbothered by the heat. "May I talk to you?"

A shiver ignites down my body, akin to dread. Mallen punches my shoulder, leaving me alone with Urban. "Yeah. Sure."

He keeps his distance, a little awkward. Ironically he seems to be better at talking to a large group, less comfortable with one-on-ones, which I get. In front of a horde of cadets, you're an authority. In front of an individual, you're just one person. "I met with Valerius earlier," Urban says. "About Akello."

"Oh."

"Given the circumstances, Valerius didn't think it would be very beneficial to have Akello talk to you. And he didn't want to stress you out too much with an individual meeting with him."

I'd consider being upset that Akello couldn't talk to me himself, but I have no desire to talk to him again, ever. I only nod.

"Given that I'll be teaching you this year, I also wanted to clear this up personally. I just wanted to say— his behavior was way out of line. I don't support that at all— not the way he handled it, nor his opinions. I believe in fair chances. I don't want to base my judgments off of something another trainer said. I'd rather form them myself."

"Thank you," I say, unsure how else to respond.

"Anyone who wants to train should be able to," he says. "Obviously, we make cuts eventually, but that's based on merit, not on favoritism. If you're putting in the work, you deserve every chance to compete for that volunteer spot. It was unfair of him to suggest otherwise. Especially—" He motions towards the wall we've just been exercising on. "If you're clearly committed. You want this."

"I do," I say quickly, before he can suggest otherwise. "I do."

"Then I'm excited to see you work for it," he says. "Keep at it."

I don't know what to do with his optimism. I'm not expecting it, especially given my own fatigue and my judgments of my abilities. If he knew the way I talked to myself, maybe he wouldn't be that gentle. But I can pretend; it isn't like he knows any better. "I will," I say quietly, before I can try to downplay my performance.

Nervousness tenses in my stomach as he leaves, off to calculate our placements, no doubt. It doesn't matter yet, I remind myself. It's a baseline number. Nothing more.

There's a group of boys still lying on the concrete who appear to have decided that standing up is either beyond them, or simply not worth it. I sympathize. I fetch my water bottle then hesitate, unsure how to address them. "Are you guys okay?"

Az moans from on the ground. "I think I'm fucking dying."

"Wish you were," says Septimus from next to him. "Scout, you're actually standing… you are so brave."

"Do you need water or anything?"

Sep considers. "I need my legs to be removed from my body."

"Alright, I'm going inside." But they remind me how warm I still am, how fresh ice water would taste. I grab my bag from the main gym and head back down the familiar hallway towards Eliska's office.

Yet even in the heat, the training room carries a somatic chill. Elissa rests on her back on the nearest bench, her feet propped up the way mine had to be when Cavara sawed off her arm. She nods vaguely as I pass, too fatigued to do much else. Coldly, I realize my concern for her is far outweighed by relief— that that isn't me, instead.

I look for Cavara out of habit before I catch myself.

Our ice storage is low. I take a small scoop and fill my water halfway, sipping from the lip of my bottle until my throat is numb. I'd like to perch on one of the empty benches, but I don't know if Eliska will allow it. "May I…" I gesture to the bench. "Just for a minute?"

"A minute," she says. "But I'd like it empty in case anyone else comes in."

So I sit on the edge, taking tentative sips of my water, so cold it hurts. My legs dangle, weighed down from running and squatting and standing. I feel too tired to do much of anything, let alone eat, but I catch Eliska sparing me a critical glance between looking after Elissa and Denali and I know it's not my choice, that I'll end up in the cafeteria after this because I have to.

Yet I think about how different I was two years ago. I never finished Fourteens trials because my body gave out, and I was brought here, hardly able to move from the pain. Now Sixteens are starting, and for once, I have complete control.

The Atheneum is changing, and I'll adapt right with it. I have to believe that's for the better. I have no other choice.

agreatleap. weebly. com

Hi again! Couldn't write this for like a solid week and then I realized my favorite coffee shop is allowing indoor seating so I cranked out the last 3,000-ish words yesterday. Shoutout queen optimisms for beta-ing this on a plane even as she recovers from cockroach-induced trauma so I could post today like I promised. You are so brave.

I hope you enjoyed meeting a few new characters, unless you're Remus, in which case I hope we can still be friends post-Aspra. I miss her too, king. Sixteens will be fun though, guaranteed. I hope you're ready for things to pick back up again as the stakes get even higher.

As always, thank you for reading. See you next chapter!

Ciao for now,
Ali