training: screaming bloody murder

God's got a plan for me - well I'm gonna tell you one thing, I don't got the patience or the time.
What can I say? I'm no angel. I'm not forsaken, but I can bleed.

hollister crowe, district twelve male

…

After careful deliberation, Hollister Crowe has concluded that he may, in fact, have a broodmate.

When he first noticed the tells, he will admit they befuddled him; after all, he did not expect to find another of the blood within the Capitol, so vibrant and unprincipled as it is. Yet the longer Hollister has observed the tribute in question, the more certain he is of his deduction. He is not the only one of his kind in the world. There is, as unfathomable as it may seem, a second Child of the Night.

And they are sitting inside this very room.

The very thought of it makes Hollister's stomach churn. It was, perhaps, foolish of him to believe himself the only one of their kind to exist within this unfortunate world; the tales that true-mother told him always spoke of the Children, regardless of how much they focused on singularity. With such a connotation, 'tis only natural that he should have siblings, regardless of whether or not he desires them.

In a sense, Hollister supposes that this confirmation should bring him solace, imbue him with a sense of gladness for the kinship he has been introduced to. And yet Hollister does not feel glad at all - instead, he can feel only a growing tension coiled around his heart, a gnawing sense of betrayal festering inside his veins, made worse by the understanding that he is not the rarity true-mother claimed, he is not sovereign, he is not special.

He is, quite simply, an ordinary monster. Wretched, yes. Bestial, yes. But unique? No, that he is not.

Hollister sighs. 'Tis a sad fate to try and reconcile. But try he must. It would not do for him to be so… distracted… in light of the coming competition. He will need his wits about him if he wishes to trounce not only a multitude of humans, but a vampire as well; though the fabled lore is oft untrue, those of the Blood are not to be underestimated. They are predators, born with instincts that shape them to hunt, to kill and to feed, no matter the circumstances or cost. If his broodmate shares any of his own peculiarities, Hollister suspects he should be quite deadly.

Such a shame for us to be enemies, he thinks. I'm certain there is much we could teach one another, were there only more hours we could spare.

Although…

They do not necessarily have to be enemies, do they? Not at first.

His brow draw tight as he bites at the inside of his lip, acrid blood clogging his taste buds. Ugh. It has been so long since he last fed, and his present circumstance only serves to mock him for his weakness. There are a multitude of bodies that inhabit this space, a multitude of humans with perfect, delectable, untapped blood hiding just beneath their silken skins, and yet Hollister is denied the right to drink from any of them!

'Tis only until the time is right, he recalls his mentor saying, though Senn's words seemed a vicious mockery, even with their apparent wisdom. You don't want the Capitol to think you a savage beast, Holly. Do you?

'Twould be unwise to display such blatant disrespect, he recalls conceding. Compliance is a lesson that the Seam taught him well, if only for the fact that Seamborn were so frowned upon. It was a necessity for young Hollister to mind his tongue, his eyes and his manners, because the slightest of errors could have led him straight to the whipping post to repent for his misstep. The people who governed his home District were unfathomably cruel, keen to take a child's cries or sideways glances as a personal slight, regardless of genuine intent.

True-mother's fate had been proof of the Seam Rat's burden. So much suffering she'd endured on those frozen streets. Her life, even before Hollister's birth, had been one of misfortune: scavenging for scraps from amidst town trash heaps in order to keep herself fed, no home, no property, no clothes or trinkets to her name. Hollister supposes he ought to count himself lucky that he didn't share her fate of a beggar's death, frostbitten and left to rot in the desolate squalor of an alley. He'd been lucky to find a place with the Hargraves. He'd been lucky that Heather and Derrick had so readily taken him in, allowed him a chance to grow to adulthood despite his low birth and his… morbid oddities. If they hadn't…

But there's no use dwelling on that.

Almost-mother and almost-father are dead now. 'Tis only Hollister who remains alive, left to make his way in a world that exists purely to spite him. Which shouldn't come as a surprise; forging relationships with humans has never worked in his favor. I mean, look at little Veronica! If it weren't for her, I never would have been imprisoned. Heather and Derrick might still be alive, and everyone's life could have continued as usual… mine included. Twelve was never the most cheery place, but the Hob made for a decent home. Of course, the Capitol puts it all to shame, but isn't that to be expected when you build a living by bleeding the country's impoverished? So much excess…

If I survive, perhaps I can relocate here. Capitolites are likely to have better blood than the humans from my neck of the woods. Not to mention they're probably cleaner.

A small grin springs to Hollister's lips, sitting like a harlequin smile atop his otherwise chilly visage. Is it possible that he could win this competition, this… blood tributary, even though 'twas intended to kill him? Surely, he has the skills necessary; he can hunt, he can scavenge and he can kill. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more Hollister starts to see himself as a premier contestant, possessing all the skills that are necessary for survival, not to mention a fearsome image. Really, the only obstacle that served to deter him from dashing toward victory was...

Twelve.

Hollister glowers. He knows Twelve will not take him back, regardless of whether he returns on foot or in a gravebox; their intent on putting his name forth for the reaping was utter dismissal, borne from the people's desire to be rid of their "bloodsucking bastard" once and for all. If he were to win, they would probably go into a state of mass hysteria. And while he finds such a prospect deeply amusing, the Capitol…

Hollister shakes the thought from his mind, returning his attention to the training chamber - and, more specifically, a particular someone. The Six boy seems to be a solitary creature, much like himself, but if Hollister's theory is correct, they might do well to forge an alliance. It's clear that his potential broodmate is a formidable adversary: swift, silent, and seemingly pragmatic, from what Hollister has been able to discern. He walks with the poise of a hunter and the presence of a murderer, keeping to the edges of the training floor, allowing his body to blend with the shadows that mar the walls and hang heavy inside the room's corners. Though he has not yet gotten close enough to the other tribute to better examine his comportment, Hollister will admit that he finds Six's bearing… impressive.

Vampire or not, it would be fortuitous to make the acquaintance of such a masterful creature. And…

And perhaps they could even do more than simply acquaint, if Hollister plays his cards properly. He does not, per se, need an alliance to bolster his chances - not like some of the insipid troglodytes here undoubtedly do - but it would be nice, wouldn't it, to find tolerable company after weeks of being trapped inside a jail cell? Hollister has grown tired of biding his time on metal benches, watching cracks spiral across filthy cement walls, with only the squealing of rats to fill the silence to which he was captive. He is not the sort to go about life with a smile on his lips, trying to make friends when he knows their camaraderie may not last the night, but now… now, with his own life possibly hanging in the balance, apt to be cut short with less than a moment's notice…

Perhaps it would be good for him to find a companion.

Hollister's eyes follow Six as he rises from amidst the plant station, his legs carrying him to the sparring mats, each of which is surrounded by an array of weapons racks. His back straightens as Six reaches for one of the knives, set on alert as he takes advantage of his first opportunity to watch his potential broodmate's skillset in action.

(Everything about his demeanor screams vampire - his pale complexion, his dark features, the way he so thoroughly avoids the light, his insistence on staying in the training room through yesterday's lunch hour… Hollister even caught him sizing up the girl from Four yesterday, when she cut her palm playing with a set of daggers, the wound large enough to leak blood out onto the mats (and oh, the scent was so divine, it had taken all of his willpower not to simply jump her and feast on sight). Hollister needs only to see his mouth to confirm whether or not his theory is true - if the boy has fangs, they are surely kin. And if he does not…)

(If he does not he is very adept for a human.)

A small snort emits from Hollister as he watches Six draw back his arm, throwing his knife toward the head of a dummy nearly thirty feet from his position.

Thwack. The blade makes contact with the red-tinged rubber, hard enough for it to spring back, wobbling on its stand like it's performing a gallows jig. Six reaches for another knife, draws his hand back and flicks his wrist, and as expected, there's another loud thwack! as the blade makes contact, hilted inside the dummy's chest, a mere few centimeters from the first.

Thwack. A headshot.

Thwack. A thigh.

Thwack, and the last knife sinks into the rubber of the dummy's belly, its position just above the doll's soft groin, a location that, on a human, would have ruptured its intestines.

That settles it, Hollister decides. I must make my approach.

Yet no sooner does he take a step forward than a bell sounds throughout the chamber, as the Head Trainer makes her way to the center of the room to bellow a loud, "ATTENTION!"

Six turns away from his knives. Hollister settles back against the wall. Slowly, but surely, Reznor begins to speak, her voice a stiff monotone as she prepares to dismiss the crowd.

"Tributes, you may take your leave for lunch. I expect you all to return within the hour. If you don't? Well… it'd be a shame if I had to hunt you down." She smirks, the expression cold and colorless, before clapping her hands together. "Dismissed!"

Hollister returns his eyes to the melee mats, searching once more for his prospective companion.

Much to his dismay, they appear barren. And as the other tributes form a line and begin to file out the doors of the training room, the boy from Six is nowhere to be found.

cordura faux, district eight female

…

She's happy the Peacekeepers finally let her out.

Admittedly, it's not like Cordura minded the whole 'house arrest' routine when it came right down to it. After all, getting to sleep for an extended period of time in a cushy bed with an adjustable mattress and perfectly fluffed pillows, with room service practically at her beck and call, is a fate rather nice compared to most of what she's experienced back in Eight. She and Taffeta might have faked their class standards in order to get a taste of the good life, but her experiences as Spade Sinclair don't discount the depravity of her origins, raised in a ramshackle cabin in the barren depths of Knocktown, by a whore mom and a greedy bastard that was so fucked in the head he'd tried to wipe out his own bloodline.

Cordura hates to admit that she's a product of Challis Faux's vices. Even more, she hates to admit that she shares them, at least in part. She's a liar. A cheat. A gambler. An addict, albeit in different ways than the man who made her. And, just like Challis, she delights in making people miserable. She delights in seeing others fail, in watching them hurt and suffer and bleed as penance for their sins, if only for the fact that she'd been bled for those of others. Taffeta. Challis.

The entirety of fucking Casino Foulard.

She sighs. For as much as her brain likes to dwell on the past, what she should be doing is admiring the present. The costumes, the fanfare, the luxury, the food… is it bad of Cordura to admit the Capitol is truly everything she's ever wanted?

No. No, it's not bad. It's not wrong of me to admire the life I should have had - the life I deserve, Hunger Games be damned.

I'm good enough to fit the aesthetic of the Capitol. I belong here, even if Eight would rather claim otherwise.

… Eight.

Now there's an unpleasant thought.

Cordura moves through the throng of seats in the dining area, passing head after sorry head until she finds the familiar face of her District partner. Granted Ansel isn't her preferred company, but she'll take what she can get for the time being. He's been… amicable enough since they left the district, though Cordura doesn't expect their lukewarm camaraderie to last for much longer. Ansel's an asshole. Too proud and intransigent for her liking, though she supposes some would call her a hypocrite for saying that. She's not exactly approachable, herself.

But, Cordura thinks to herself, there's a reason for that. And at least I'm not condescending about my opinions. Usually.

… ugh.

"Those poor, pathetic fools," Ansel murmurs as Cordura sets her tray down, his gaze fixated on someone across the room. When Cordura glances over, she can make out the pair from Six and Nine, chattering away at the boys from One and Two. The look on the latter's face makes it clear that he'd rather be anywhere besides where he's currently at, a sentiment that Cordura finds she can relate with. Gods, how the fuck did she get here.

"How so?" She asks, bemused. Ansel turns back to her, letting a grim sigh slip from his mouth as the Two boy storms off (to absolutely nobody's surprise). Cordura watches him stomp off toward the cafeteria doors, throwing one open only to let it slam shut behind him.

"They're trying too hard," her District partner says, refocusing his attention on the food in front of him, instead of the conflict in their periphery. "Putting so much effort into pleasing others when your life is on the line is an idiot's gambit. You should understand that better than anyone."

"Excuse me?" Cordura responds, her mismatched eyes narrowing into near-slits. Ansel frowns slightly, taking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it out in a huff, as if she's somehow insulted him by being offended. Ridiculous, she thinks, though she doesn't say it aloud, simply keeps her mouth fixed in a firm line until he once again decides to speak.

"You're a gambler," he says simply. "That's all I meant, Cordura."

It better be.

She doesn't respond this time; honestly, as far as Cordura's concerned, their conversation might as well be over, for what poor impression Ansel's opinions have left on her. Not that she's especially concerned about what her District partner thinks; he's a C-tier at best, utterly unnoteworthy save the fact he was voted into the Hunger Games. Not to mention the fact he smells perpetually of dirt and rot, enough that she'd had to keep herself from barfing after they shook hands at the Reaping. It's disgusting, quite frankly.

She normally wouldn't dare to associate with somebody of his ilk, but her current circumstances have made her options rather… sparse. For all the other tributes she's encountered, there isn't one that presents as more than a B-tier, and even those kids are dissatisfying to observe.

And yes, most of them reek. Actually, pretty much all of them reek, barring the girls from One and Ten, the former of whom wanted nothing to do with her (thank fuck for that), and the latter of whom took a single look at her and skittered away like a scared mouse.

Sigh.

Cordura takes minute solace in the fact that Ansel, at least, has heard of a shower, and deigned to take one as soon as they'd set foot on the train. Some of these people seem averse to even doing that.

... ugh. If I think about it any longer, I'm going to lose my appetite.

(And that would be a genuine shame.)

Cordura glances down at her tray. The food that sits upon it is far more rich than anything she'd had the opportunity to eat back in Eight. Sure, the high-end restaurants usually did their best to keep good stock, but she'd always managed to find fault with some of their recipes. The same cannot be said for Capitol cuisine.

Warm, lightly breaded chicken. A fresh salad tossed with a light vinaigrette, with crumbled feta and kalamata olives. Mashed potatoes so smooth they practically melted in her mouth when she took a bite. And the mousse - rich without being overdone, perfectly whipped to perfection... it's almost enough to make her mouth water.

Absurd to think that such a decadent meal could come from an understaffed cafeteria in the tribute center. But Cordura supposes that's a testament to the wealth of the Capitol. How well off they must be to put forth good meals even for the lowest on their totem pole!

She won't deny that she feels a spot of envy, thinking about the privilege these people must grow up in. No poverty. No hardship.

"Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be better to pander," she muses aloud, cutting a small cube from the cutlet of chicken on her plate. Her eyes slip closed as she pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly to savor the taste.

(Taffeta would be so resentful if she knew of the amenities Cordura has experienced this week. With how dismal the past few months have been, it's not an understatement that getting reaped has been an absolute luxury.)

Honestly, the impending murder feels more like an unfortunate side effect than a spot of sheer dread, though a part of her smarts a bit to think of it so crudely. Murder is, after all, serious business - no matter how desensitized one becomes to it.

"It wouldn't be," Ansel says, and it takes her a moment to realize exactly what he's responding to. "Pandering won't get us back home."

(She regrets not keeping that thought to herself.)

"Who says I even want to go back home?" Cordura asks with a brazen laugh. "It's not like Eight's ever done anything for me."

Except get me reaped, that is. Except try to have me killed.

"Perhaps," Ansel replies with a shrug of his shoulder. "Nonetheless, you have a reason to return. Or at least as much of one as I do."

"Oh, I do now, do I?" She scoffs as she spears another piece of chicken. "I suppose you'll have to enlighten me as to what exactly that is."

Ansel cocks an eyebrow at her. "Taffeta Bengaline?"

... what?

"How do you know about Taffeta?" Cordura hisses, throwing her fork down on her tray and rising partway to her feet. Ansel doesn't so much as flinch at her sudden change of tone, simply folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head slightly to look up at her, prideful as fucking ever.

"Most of Eight knows about Taffeta. Just like most of Eight knows about Spade Sinclair. You had... an impressive reputation, if I'm being honest. Everyone who is anyone has heard the tale of the Gruesome Grifter."

"You've been talking to the Foulards," she snaps, smacking her fist against the metal tabletop, the impact of her flesh against it not drawing even a flinch.

"I've been talking to nobody," Ansel dismisses, and how dare he, how dare he brush off her ire so readily? "I just know how to keep my ears open -"

"Oh yeah?" Cordura asks. "Well, so do I, Ansel Zilliah. And if we're airing secrets, why don't we start with the fact that you're a fucking necrophile!"

The chatter in the room seems to come to a halt. Ansel's eyes go wide as he stares into her face, before a crease settles over his brow, and he, too, sets his utensils down.

"Where did you hear that?" He asks, so calmly that it's almost unnerving. Cordura purses her lips, straightens her posture as she begins to reply.

"I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt," she tells him. "When I heard the mentors say you'd been voted in for robbing graves, I tried not to jump to conclusions. But I remember reading the story in the newspapers. I knew who you were when I saw you in front of the justice building. If your clothes hadn't said enough, your stench definitely did. My only question is why?"

"I'm not a necrophile," Ansel says slowly, all traces of warmth drained from his face. Cordura's lip curls.

"Then why'd they find you sleeping with a corpse inside a coffin?"

"Because they were my bloody lover!" Ansel yells, slamming both of his hands down on the table, the legs of the thing rattling from the force of the blow. "You have Taffeta, I have Xay! Two reasons to make it back to Eight, two reasons why I thought you could make it as my ally, because you know what it's like to get fucked over for trying to help someone you love!"

"Love? Is that what this is about, Ansel, fucking love?" Cordura pulls back, shaking her head, blood boiling inside of her veins. "Say what you will about romance and partnerships, but 'your Xay' is dead. I mean, stars, do you even realize how demented you sound?"

"You don't understand," he says, stepping backwards, stepping backwards. "You don't - they're not dead, okay? Not like you think. Sure, their body is shut down, but it doesn't mean that they -"

Ansel snaps his mouth shut and crosses his arms again. Cordura scoffs.

"'It doesn't mean'?" She asks. "It doesn't mean what? Dead is dead, Ansel Zilliah. Once somebody's gone you can't get them back."

Like my mother, she thinks. Like Muslin.

(Like me.)

Dead and gone and left to rot, all because of that son of a bitch she'd been made to call a father. But he wasn't a father, no, he never had been! Fathers don't cut out their daughter's eyeballs. They don't make their kids fight each other to survive, don't pick and choose which of their children is fit to live, and sentence the other to death just because they're fucking destitute. They don't gamble away their money or their family's lives, and they sure as hell don't shoot their wives in the head for not wanting to feed their selfish vices.

(The more she looks at Ansel, the more he reminds her of him. Selfish, secretive, playing with others' lives for no reason beyond the fact he can. And he has the audacity to judge her life, to judge anyone's life after the things he's been said to have done?)

Cordura can deal with murderers. What she can't deal with is self-righteous scumbags who deny accountability for the harm they perpetrate.

"I'm done," she says, nausea curdling the inside of her stomach. She turns without finishing her meal, preparing herself to exit the training center before their argument can escalate further. "Have a nice life, Ansel."

"Fuck you," Ansel hisses from behind her. "You're a self-righteous fool, Spade! Just like my damned brother!"

Don't talk to me, Cordura thinks.

Don't talk to me.

Don't talk to me.

Don't talk to me.

She opens the cafeteria door, and she doesn't look back.

pangaea o'shea, district ten female

…

Pangaea has just managed to finish her first gunner's knot when the door at her back bursts open.

"Fuck!" A girl's low-pitched voice snaps at the lock clicks shut again, her boots loud as they stomp across the training mats. Pangaea turns her head to catch a glimpse of the Eight girl, pacing across the floor just left of the rope station, one hand pressed tight against her shaved head. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! That little piece of -"

She stops abruptly, closing her mouth as she catches sight of Pangaea, sitting still with a short length of rope dangling from the tips of her fingers. Pangaea smiles and the Eight girl scowls right back, tilting her chin up and curling her lower lip, every inch of her body radiating an aura of distaste.

"What are you looking at?" Eight hisses, and Pangaea has to actively stifle her urge to flinch as the absolute tank of a girl stomps closer, metaphorical clouds following along right behind her. She keeps her shoulders squared as she tilts her head up, looking Eight straight in the face with the most neutral expression she can muster.

She's intimidating. A whole heck of a lot bigger, too. Pangaea bites back her more snappish retort as Eight leans in, parting her lips to give a simple:

"Sorry."

There's a pause.

Eight's eyes narrow as she sizes her up, and Pangaea does her best to hide the mounting tension in her posture, her ramrod-straight back and the bow of her shoulders, weighed down by the pressure of an impending conflict. Eventually, the other girl pulls back and she finds that she's able to breathe again, oxygen entering her lungs in tiny spurts as her heart picks up pace… then drops again once the immediate danger has passed her.

"Whatever," the Eight girl says, eyes not leave Pangaea until she's backtracked to the edge of the mat to stand with her arms crossed, still as an overbearing statue. "Just leave me alone."

"If you don't want people to stare at you, maybe you shouldn't barge in throwing a tantrum," Pangaea retorts before she can stop herself. Eight's left hand clenches into a fist and she instinctively closes her eyes, readying herself for the punch she's certain is going to come, but the room around her is silent. When she blinks one lid open, Eight starts to laugh, chaotic and raucous in the overwhelming silence.

"You've got spirit, girlie," she says, a mocking lilt to her bemused words. "I like it."

"I'm... glad?" Pangaea says, though it comes out as more of a question than a statement. "I'd hate to disappoint you."

"More than you know," Eight mutters, her lips tugging into a smirk. Pangaea watches her for a moment longer, then turns back to her finished knot, unwilling to ask exactly what the girl meant by that. The more she thinks about it, she's pretty sure she doesn't want to know the answer.

She waits until she hears Eight's boots turn, the soles squealing against the linoleum and tile before they plot off in the opposite direction. The rope clutched between her fingers slips free of her hand as the room returns to silence, every inch of the training area barren save the place where she presently sits, cross-legged and alone, just as she's been since leaving Ten.

When the noise fades away entirely, Pangaea finds herself wishing the other girl had stayed.

Even being threatened is better than being alone right now. Sure, she grew up spending plenty of time on her own, more than enough to grow accustomed to the feeling of solitude, but here in the Capitol, her loneliness feels crushing. She doesn't know what to do with herself.

She doesn't know what to do at all.

It's blatantly obvious she isn't cut out to be here. Not just because of the looks the others have given her (dark, predacious, territorial in a way that she typically likens to animals more than people), but because of her own horribly lacking range of skills.

She can't manage a weapon, not a bow, not a polearm, not even a knife when it comes right down to it, the blades shaking whenever she grips them in her palms, seeing shades of crimson in places blood has never been. She's not as tall or as strong as most of her competitors, although she's well-muscled enough she can't simply be pushed over like the girls from Five and Six (for what little consolation that truly is). She can make a decent trap and tie a solid knot, but she doesn't know the first thing about surviving in the woods, or weathering an unfamiliar climate with only the lightest of equipment. She doesn't know how to hunt, how to forage, how to build a suitable shelter… because quite frankly, she's never had to do it.

And because of that, Pangaea knows that she's fucked. She's got no chance at surviving the Hunger Games. She's got no chance at surviving, period. The skills she possesses are those of an aristocratic world, one where she was raised with security and shelter, never having to question what role she would need to play, or whether she'd die before she reached adulthood. Everything she needed, her parents had given her.

She didn't realize just how lucky she'd been.

(She didn't realize how ill-prepared she was for the trials of life. She didn't realize how lucky she was, not until she got here, and stood in the training room alongside twenty-three kids who had been orphaned, who had killed, who had lost their lives to drugs, ran away from home, sold their bodies for the smallest amounts of money and watched their siblings die before their very eyes.)

Where does Pangaea fit into this mess of pariahs, of unfortunate and bitter children, sent to die for their own crimes, their own autonomous actions? What is her role to be in a place where misdeeds are seen as bragging rights, and rules are constantly being broken? What is her purpose? Why is she here?

… she…

… she doesn't know.

All she knows is that she needs help.

She's tried speaking to her mentor; she's tried talking to the trainers, to the other tributes, even to the Peacekeepers patrolling the halls, desperate to get as much advice as she possibly can before she sets foot inside the launch tube. But none of them can give her anything concrete. Trust your instincts, they say, learn to cook, learn to fight, harden yourself to protect your emotions if you don't have a conscience that can deal with killing. Practice first aid. Cycle through the stations, learn your knots and your stones and your plants as well as you possibly can. Find some allies, because there's strength in numbers.

Strength in numbers.

Pangaea sighs.

The door from the dining area swings open once more and multiple bodies begin to shuffle in, chatting amongst themselves just out of Pangaea's earshot, passing her one by one by one until they've all run off.

She remains alone, like she always has.

(Maybe the problem really is her.)

Pangaea's never thought she was… unfriendly, per se. She's always tried to be attentive, openly hospitable and gregarious, because her Mama always told her that it paid to stay winsome. Sure, she might get a little… abrasive… every now and then, but who doesn't? People are fickle, Pangaea included. She's prone to frustration and sadness and angry mood swings just as much as anyone else, regardless of how much or little she shows them. And everyone here is pissed off, anyway. So what if she can be a little rude? At least she isn't going around getting up in people's faces and trying to start something, like the girl from Eight, or her own asshole District partner!

Pangaea stands to her feet, abandoning her array of perfectly-tied knots beside the wooden work bench. She gives a nod to the station trainer, says "Good day," in as polite a tone as she possibly can, and walks away while trying to hide the fact that she's dying inside.

Just a typical day, she tells herself. Taking the brunt of everyone's jokes, letting myself be snapped at and spoken over, just because I'm too polite to say anything. Or because saying something always ends in a lecture. 'Oh, Pangaea, you can't upset the social order! You know the Wingraves are old friends, why would you be so rude to Malia like that? And the Youssefs, oh, they're old money, the least you could do is pretend to be interested in the discussions about their company.'

Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everything.

She wanders around the room, not paying any particular attention to the movements of her feet, or the liminal space beyond her body. Sometimes it's so pleasant just to drift, walk along the walls of an open room and imagine she's running away, from her parents, her peers, all the expectations on her shoulders and the labels that have been set on her. Rich bitch. Spoiled brat. Backstabber. Bottomfeeder. Sycophant. Capitol pig. Idiot lapdog.

(They'd said worse about her father. Even when she went about the neighborhood, she heard people talk; about how lucky it was that Donovan O'Shea was around to keep baiting the rebels, how smart old Mayor Hamill had been to let him draw up those deals, let him put his name on the sheets, over and over and over again. When the quell came, the chatter only got more vicious.)

(They're going to vote for the O'Shea girl. There's no doubt about it.

Everyone wants her father dead.

What does Ten need her for anyway? She's worthless. A spoiled socialite like any other, and one that doesn't have half as much potential as most of this Sector.

We should vote for her, too - better O'Shea's kid than one of ours.

Nobody likes her, anyway.

Nobody wants her here. Nobody needs her.

Not even her parents and brothers.)

(Pangaea O'Shea is fucking useless. Everyone knows it. Everyone's said it.)

(Everyone. Including her.)

She closes her eyes. Inhales sharply. She's not the sort to simply lie down and give up, but it's getting hard not to feel completely pessimistic with the atmosphere that surrounds her. Anger. Bitterness. Bad memories. It's not as if she's the only one dealing with them, but right now it feels… she feels like…

All of a sudden, something heavy smacks into the front of her shoulder. Pangaea stumbles sideways, pressing her back to the wall as her heart rate spikes once more, her cheeks flushing as she looks up with a scowl. Lying on the ground in front of her is a boy, clutching his own arm with a glare almost more fierce than the girl from Eight, but this time Pangaea doesn't recoil.

"Would it kill you to watch where you're going?" She snaps, and then, as the boy begins to straighten up, starts to backtrack as her eyes go wide, her empathy finally kicking in.

"I - I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," she says, moving forward and leaning down to offer the guy a hand. "Here, let me help you."

The boy lifts an eyebrow, his dark eyes roaming over her with evident disbelief. Still, he's clearly not the sort to turn down assistance, as he reaches up and links their fingers together, allowing Pangaea to haul him up from the ground and back to his feet, with only a bit of exertion.

"You're stronger than you look," the boy compliments. Pangaea can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks as she averts her eyes, running a hand through her hair as she glances away.

"Yeah… I get that a lot," she says, with an awkward chuckle. She looks back to the boy, taking in his lithe, skinny build, the silvery 3 stitched into the fabric of his jumpsuit, and then sticks her hand out again, doing her best to force a smile. "Pangaea O'Shea, District Ten. I apologize for running into you. Honestly, my mind was sort of…"

"Elsewhere?" Three asks, and Pangaea's smile turns sheepish. She withdraws her hand when it becomes apparent he's not going to take it, then crosses her arms over her chest, half hugging herself to try and stave off her unyielding melancholy.

"Is it that obvious?" She asks. Three casually shrugs one shoulder, arm reaching across his body to take hold of his alternate forearm, his stance nearly as uncomfortable as Pangaea's own. Still, his gaze stays fixed on her, holding eye contact even when she's not sure she wants him to. He takes a deep breath in.

"It is," he says finally. "Word of advice? Try and keep a level head. Distraction's something that can get you killed around here."

"You didn't kill me," Pangaea observes, and Three laughs, shaking his head at her (admittedly serious) response.

"That's because I'm nice. Just think what would've happened if you'd run into that Twelve boy. Or the girl from One."

"You… have a point," Pangaea admits. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Three says, and without even giving his name, turns his back to begin walking away.

"Wait!" Pangaea says, stepping forward, some unidentifiable feeling fluttering inside of her chest. Three doesn't seem like… much of a talker, maybe… but he was kind enough to check in on her, and he didn't seem all too annoyed about her mishap before. Maybe this is the opportunity she's been waiting for.

(Maybe she won't have to go through the Games alone, after all.)

"This… might be a rather sudden question," Pangaea begins. "But… would you like to train with me? It doesn't have to be an alliance yet, and if you don't care to spend time with me, you can leave whenever you want, I just…"

Her eyes feel like they're burning as she forces the next words from her lips.

"I'm just so tired of being alone."

Three turns his head to look at her again. He sighs softly, giving her a glance that's tinged more by pity than anything else, sympathy and weariness alike warring in the depths of his dark gaze.

"I hate to say this… but maybe you're better off alone. Less things to worry about, and all."

"Does that mean…?"

"I'm sorry," Three affirms. "I'm not looking for an alliance. It's nothing personal."

"I… I understand," Pangaea says, forcing another smile even as her facade of composure begins to erode entirely. A tear slips from her eye as she gives him a wave. "Well… best of luck to you."

She turns around, her body drawing in on itself, wishing not for the first time that she had never existed, that she could simply vanish from amidst her surroundings, disappear from the world entirely. No more judgment, no more scorn. No more lies or prying eyes. No more disappointment from living in a world where she's bound to be alone, from dawn to dusk, every day for the rest of her life.

"Pangaea," Three's voice calls, but she doesn't turn, can't turn, not when she feels so weak. "I really am sorry."

She can hear his boots as he walks away.

And thus, the cycle continues.

(Abandoned by her peers, her District, her family and now all of the other tributes. What a sorry sight she must be.)

Pangaea O'Shea is entirely on her own.

For better or for worse, it's time she starts to accept that.

A/N: Screaming Bloody Murder by Sum41.

What's this? Another update, within the same week as the last? It can't be!

All jokes aside, I was gonna hold off on posting this for a bit, but my buddy thornehub (shameless plug go check out his syot Red Silence it is fire) and I decided it'd be cute if we updated our stories at the same time, so say hello to an early Hallow's Eve update! Hopefully it finds you all well. I suspect the next two training updates will also be dropping... quite soon... whether that's a testament to how good the characters are or how much I hate training, I'll let you decide.

See y'all soon, and have a great final week of October!