A/N: I worked hard this long weekend to get out a second chapter, and here it is, just for all of you! :D Here we have the final group for this Training Day 2, the first half of our six loners! Today I present to you: Fender Hopkins, Calico D'Amboise, and Luke Saturn! Enjoy your reading, and I hope it's a good one! :D
Trigger warnings: Sexual references and profanity
All I am is a man
I want the world in my hands
I hate the beach
But I stand
In California with my toes in the sand
Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let's have an adventure
Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered
Touch my neck and I'll touch yours
You in those little high-waisted shorts, oh
Fender Hopkins, 17
District Six Male
I scoop the last spoonful of macaroni and cheese that's on my tray into my mouth. There's nothing left except a few smears of leftover liquidy cheese and mashed potatoes caught in the grooves of the tray. That and one grisly piece of fat from the beef that I didn't want to put the effort into chewing to oblivion. I stand up from the table, where I've been sitting alone. The only other one who sat with me was Libby, who's also going solo it seems. She was talking with several other girls yesterday, but now she seems definitively on her own. She didn't even say a darn word to me, not that I minded. We sat on opposite ends of the table and ate and no one else came near us.
Sure, I'd like to have an ally or two, but it seems like all the good ones have already been taken. I didn't act fast enough or something, and now only the sloppy seconds, including myself, are left over. Hell, even the pipsqueak from Five and the pregnant girl from Twelve have allies, albeit in each other, but still. All I have left to choose from, well...let's just say they're not the type of kids you'd put on a showcase for best ally options.
You have the ex-addict from my District, Libby, who's bitter and haunted by voices and probably would ally with you just to kill you in your sleep. Then you have the Seven kid, named some weird name that is related to royalty. He was on death row and I don't even want to know what he did. The Eight kid is a puny brat that prattles off about how unfair this all is or sulks most of the time. He doesn't stand a crash dummy's chance of surviving a plunge in a car off of his own ego. The Nine boy seems like a good choice, until you try to talk like him like I did. Want to know his reply? ... You're waiting for me to say something? I was just telling you what the Nine guy said. Because I asked if he wanted to go to sickles with me, and he literally stared at me and walked away. How joyous. That left me with only one other option, the Ten dude. He seemed pretty nice, if a little weak and forgettable. But he didn't show up to training today, along with the girls from Five and Twelve. So I'm out of options, I guess, unless I want to try and worm my way to the bottom of the pecking order in whatever alliances have already solidified. I guess I'll probably be better off alone than trying to sneak into an alliance or make one with any of the other leftovers at this point.
After emptying the few scraps left on my tray into the trash bin, I set my dirty metal platter on top of the others by the doorway before reentering the Training Center. This is some of my last time, besides a couple of hours tomorrow, to work on any skills I might already have, and to learn new ones. I can't say that I've been terribly great at this so far. Yesterday I stayed in my comfort zone, working at weights and wrestling almost the entire day, only travelling to sickles for forty five minutes and edible insects for less than fifteen. Today I tried to add some variety, but I just found myself spending a lot of time at hand to hand combat. They're all good skills, these strength ones, but I'm better at them than most things. I need to try something else.
With my five hours, I decide to try out throwing knives, a relatively new and possibly essential skill to learn. There's only one other tribute there: the silent Seven boy, who throws several knives in quick succession and lands most of them on the target. The trainer applauds him as the boy goes to retrieve them from the board. As I approach, Seven gives me a cursory glance before taking his position at the line. He throws again, and his knife hits close to the center, his best throw yet. The trainer's attention turns to me as I arrive, standing next to him. I clear my throat, and he whirls towards me, laughing loudly.
"Wow, ya scared me there buddy!" he squeaks in a strange voice. It's equal parts raspy and high pitched, and it makes me feel off kilter. I blink my eyes several times and just will him not to speak another word. But of course, I know little about throwing knives. And to learn how to throw them, I'm going to have to listen to this man, named Liniciaeus, or "Lini" for short (he informs me of this as I wince, shaking his sweaty, loose hand).
"Sir, you can just lead me through the basics and then I'll figure it out myself," I tell him respectfully, bowing my head a little.
"Someone's quite polite! You a rich fancy shmancy drug lord or somethin? That's the only way people make nice money out in your little drug den of a District, ain't it?"
"I'm a mechanic's apprentice," I say through clenched teeth. "I don't sell drugs, nor have I even taken them."
"You seem like a strong, attractive buck," Lini rasps. "So what have you done wrong?" He raises a suggestive eyebrow, and I ignore him. I grab a handful of throwing knives from the table before stalking over to the targets. I draw back my arm and hurl, watching as the knife spirals through the air and glances off of the side of the target, clattering to the floor.
"Not half bad," a definitely-not-the-voice-of-perverted-Lini voice says behind me. I turn around to see the tall Eleven boy behind me, his ally, the girl from Seven, behind him. His skin's a couple of shades darker than mine, and his small smile is kind. The Seven boy leaves the station without a word after trading a simple nod with his District partner, and the two tributes take knives of their own and start throwing alongside me.
Seven isn't that terrible, getting about half of her knives somewhere on the outer edges of the target. Then Eleven goes, and I'm shocked as I watch him hurl knife after knife at the target. They all hit it, almost all of them hitting the inner three of six rings. He grins, satisfied, and wipes his hands on his pants.
"Please teach me. Uncle Pervy there is being to enamored with the sweaty children around him to help," I plead. It's partially true. Lini has forgotten us, watching the One girl spiral around in an intricate dance with a spear and a trainer on the spear mat intently. Now, I don't know his intentions, but the silver haired man surely seems capable enough of being a pervert.
"Throw, and I'll give you some tips," the boy replies. "I'm Omri by the way."
"Fender," I huff before tossing several knives at the board. Three miss, while three of the other four hit the very outer ring. A lucky fourth one hits one of the inner rings.
"You have good natural aptitude," Omri notes. "Here, stand like this." He shifts his footing into the stance he used when he was throwing, and I copy it. He shows me how to hold the knife, how to pull back my arm and then how to throw. He's pretty generous and kind, doing this all. Within twenty minutes, most of my knives are hitting the target, and a quite a few of those are getting into some of the more inner rings of the target.
"Thanks so much," I mention as he and the girl, Ivy, are getting ready to move onto another station. Lini is still loopy; he hasn't come up to help me the entire time.
"Don't mention it," Omri grins. He opens his mouth to ask me something, and my heart swells. I can see it on his face. He likes me, and he wants to ally with me. But before he can say anything, Ivy tugs on his sleeve, and points to the edible plants station, which has just got two opened up spots. She dashes over, and Omri smiles sadly at me before following her.
The grin slips off of my face quickly, and I turn back to the target, throwing knife after knife after knife, watching them sink into the target. Damn that girl. I was so close into finding my way into that alliance. I guess it'll be all okay, though. The lone wolf remains the lone wolf. Alliances don't usually last long in the Games anyway. And, if I get lucky, maybe that Seven girl or one of Omri's other allies will die in the Bloodbath, and I can worm my way into their ranks or something. We'll just have to see. For now, I'm operating solo. I can deal with that.
I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own
I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listened as the crowd would sing
Now the old king is dead long live the king
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
Calico D'Amboise, 14
District Eight Male
I remember the playground back home at my preparatory school as I survey the complex Training Center around me. I was one of the crown jewels of Clasp Prep's higher social circles, ruling my clique with an iron fist and an unforgiving heart. I ran the place like I owned it (which I did, in part; Grandma Tammi had two percent of the school's stock. Why a school had stock was beyond me, the economy is unusual in a rundown place like Eight). The other popular kids laughed with me and ate with me and gossiped with me, and they rarely joked about my lacking in several vital areas, such as, let's count! one, athleticism, two, attractiveness, three, weight, and four, intelligence. Then there were the lessers. Some basically bowed to me, just hoping to get into my clique, while others rebelled and tried to dismantle the indestructible pillars of social structure. Those riotous ones were the worst, they were the ones that called me Fatty and other vulgar names referring to who I was, the dumb assholes. And then there the simple outcasts, who sat on the sideline, too lowly to even interact with the lessers. They sulked and harumphed and did things like actually read during their free recess period. Wow, did I think those kids were weird. I could never imagine being like them in a million years.
The social dynamics of Clasp Prep and the Training Center are in no way a simile, at least not for me. I've fallen from grace. I no longer am at the highest slot on the pecking order. Here, the Careers dominate all, laughing and grinning and fighting fiercely while the rest of us watch on, wetting our pants and gaping as they disembowel a mannequin in two swipes of an axe or impale a dummy's forehead cleanly with a spear from fifty feet away. They have fun and scare everyone else into submission and don't even need to really spend time here. Then there's the lessers. They're not the same as they are at school. They're the alliances, pretty much, kids "popular" enough in this Center to actually have some allies. I have terrible names for all of them. Fuckboy and His Newest Slut, then the Four Blind, Doomed Mice Who Couldn't Find A Fifth, as well as the Blowhards, the Asses Who Think Their Sarcasm Is Funny, and the Pompous Mouth Breathers. If you can guess which alliances are which, you get to be my ally! As you might be able to tell, I'm obviously desperate enough to ask an imaginary audience if they want to ally with me.
And then you have the outcasts. The people who sit alone at their stations, keeping their eyes to the ground and focusing on their work while the giggly lessers and hideously prideful populars stride around, owning the place. Yours truly has become akin to the boy with broken, smudged glasses, sitting on the jungle gym with a thick book about who-the-hell knows what. No one knows what it's about since, well, it's so damn long. But yeah. I'm alone. I can't really blame anyone. The only thing I have going for me is that I'll be getting a bunch of sponsors if I (miraculously) survive the Bloodbath due to my family's wealth. But I guess my outcast status is so offputting that no one wants to even entertain the possibility of allying with me, because no one has approached me about an alliance thus far, which I find utterly rude honestly. Even the most piteous group (The Four Blind, Doomed Mice Who Couldn't Find A Fifth) didn't bat their eyes at me. Why they can find a pregnant girl more appealing than myself in terms of allies is a mystery unto itself.
But I have to deal with it now. No one's going to come save me like I was banking on them doing. So I'm pretty much dead. Uriah flat out told me that I need to run straight away from the Bloodbath if I want to survive, and I know that he is right. But do I even want to try? That's the dilemma for me. Do I pick a quick death at the beginning of the Games, dying in the Bloodbath, or do I give myself the tiniest chance to survival? But through giving myself that most minuscule chance, I am damning myself to days of absolute starvation, dehydration, and loneliness, which has about a ninety nine point nine nine percent chance of ending in painful, bloody death. Is it better to just resign to my fate and let myself be cut down after the gong rings? Or do I get my act together and try and strive for the biggest miracle ever to happen in the Games: my improbable Victory?
Ick. All of this philosophical, deep thinking crap is grossing me out. Since when did I become a ponderer? Of course I'm going into the Bloodbath. I'd risk my life to get some food and water and comfort. No way that I'm sleeping on the lumpy ground without anything to keep me comfortable or my belly full. Eight boys do have lucky streaks, but I don't want to just be the dumb Eight boy who thinks, "Wow kids in my spot have a good track record! I'll just do some random shit and I'll win!" Trust me, there's been idiots like that before, and they're so thick that I want to kick them through the TV screen as they get slaughtered at the Bloodbath.
"Calico?" the trainer speaks up quietly. A short, wiry woman with electric blue hair and eyes and light blue skin, Cassiopeia is the camouflage instructor. She's working on a mural of sorts on the ground with a variety of naturally based paints and pastels. The girl from Eight, Gaia, part of the Blind Mice, is also at the station, painstakingly covering her arm in a coordinated, mottled mess of greens and browns that makes her arm look like a blurry reincarnation of a forest floor.
"Yeah?" I snap, turning to her. I knock over a pot of navy paint as I do so, and it splashes all over the bare cement floor. Cassiopeia gasps quietly and grabs a rag and a spray bottle to clean up the mess. Before she can clean it up, however, the hulking Four male sprints past, towards the trident station, grinning maliciously. He slips on the section of slick paint, and I can't say that I don't enjoy watching him pinwheel around for a moment before falling hard on his ass. He groans and staggers to his feet, locking his eyes with mine. He's seething, and I don't realize that I'm laughing until it's too late.
"You damn little pipsqueak-" the boy begins, lunging towards me. The diminutive Cassiopeia steps between us at the last moment, holding up her plastic spray bottle menacingly. Her thin arms shake as she shoos away the Career, her thin lips, coated in navy lacquer, pursed.
"It was an accident, I knocked it over," Cassiopeia mutters. "Move along."
The Career boy from Four grumbles angrily but stalks off, leaving a few dark blue footprints in his wake before the paint's rubbed off of the soles of his shoes. Cassiopeia breathes a sigh of relief before she gets on her knees and starts to scrub away the paint. I put down the pots of paint I've been using to paint a sloppy water-like pattern, and I tentatively stoop down to help the woman. That was pretty nice of her to do that, I guess.
"Need...help?" I inquire, my voice wavering.
"Yeah, there's another rag up there," the trainer replies. I hesitantly pick up the damp, mucky rag from where it sits on the metal cart that holds most of the supplies. The camouflage station is pretty cool. The cart and the painting area sits right outside of a pretty big multi-biome quadrant, where dozens of different environments are shown so one can compare their camouflage to real surroundings to see if it blends in well.
I'm so mesmerized in that moment that by the time I snap out of it, Cassiopeia is almost done cleaning up the mess. I gingerly lower myself onto the cool cement floor before swiping up about three square inches of the remaining paint. Cassiopeia smiles weakly at me, and she sighs as she stands and dusts off her stretchy black pants. I narrow my eyes at her; it was an accident. Is she seriously frustrated with me over an accident?!
I use the wet rag in my hands to rub away the murky swirls of blue and green and brown on my arm. It looks like total shit, and why am I even wasting my time trying to become a world class artist? This station is a total time whore. I stalk off without another word after the paint's off of my arm. Cassiopeia calls out my name, confused, but I ignore the snobby little bitch. Doesn't she know not to tick off a kid who's going to die within a week?!
I can feel the lump hardening in my throat. No fucking way. I am not going to cry in front of these damn losers. I splutter and try to hold back the tears that are leaping into my eyes. I'm just a dumb, ticked off kid who's going to die no matter what he does. I make a mad dash for the bathrooms on the other side of the Center. I'm panting heavily from my run (if you can call it that), and I'm also holding back sobs when I get there. I stumble into the boy's restroom and lock myself in a stall.
I sit on top of one of the smooth white toilets, the seat and lid down. I pull my knees to my chest, clutching my chicken legs close to my heart, and I release it all. The sobs come out slowly at first, quietly, fat tears rolling down my face in slow succession. Soon they're coming faster, and I'm hiccuping and then warbling incoherently. I start spasming, slamming my feet against the tile and then my fists against the door of the stall as the tears flow thick and fast. One punch slams into one of the hinges of the stall, and I yelp, wincing. I draw back my hand, falling still, my tears falling still. Blood trickles from the small gash in my knuckles.
I stagger out of the stall to see a confused looking Twelve boy standing at the urinal. He stuffs himself back in his pants and then runs to the sink, quickly washing his hands before dashing out. I bite my bottom lip, striding to the sink slowly. I bet he heard the entire thing will he took a piss. How lovely.
I turn on the water and I rinse out my cut, swearing profusely as the warm water washes away the blood. The translucent, pinkish water gets sucked down the drain, and soon no more blood is flowing from the little wound. I press some paper towels against the cut for a moment, and draw them back; just water. The blood flow seems to have stopped. I toss the wadded up bundle of paper towels in the direction of the trash can, but of course I miss terribly. I kick the garbage bin to the ground, ignoring the pain in my right foot as I stomp out of the bathroom. I've resolved one thing.
I'm going to die; I'm going to have to live with that for the few last days that I'll have to. And while I'm still kicking, I'm going to give everyone, and I mean everyone, absolute hell on Earth.
I'll never forget that feeling
When I watched you disappear
When you made me stop believing
I could fight away the fear
Now the smoke has cleared
And the end is near
It was my illusion
Like a broken dream I was incomplete
I feel like I am breathing again
I feel like I am seeing again
I got it under control oh oh
Luke Saturn, 17
District Nine Male
The grimace on my face and the starkness in my eyes are intentional. I don't feel as emotionless or distant as I once did; that train ride, coupled with the glory of being one of the best dressed at the Tribute Parade, have reawakened something deep inside of me. I'm not leaping around in joy, high fiving everyone and chuckling obnoxiously, but my spirits have lifted somewhat. It's almost like my vision is sharpened or something; I'm more perceptive now, and I'm relishing more things around me. Colors, sounds, words, faces. They're not the sodden, unimportant blur that they were back in Ropin.
That doesn't mean I'm living a fairy tale, however, enamored with the oh-so-sweet world around me. I know I'm heading into a death match by the end of this week, and I'm already on alert. My strategy is to remain solo. I've always operated best alone, and not having to pull anyone else's weight or worry about betrayal, etc. will help me remain more focused on exploring the arena and figuring out how I'm going to handle the Games and the environment they're in this year. You get more food and water, and you fade more into the background because you don't have constant conversation going on that keeps the Capitol interested. And that's something I'm going for: fading somewhat into the background after the Games start. Blend in until the Top 8, and then bear my fangs and go in for the kills. If you go swinging hard from the start, you're going to strike out. You need to wait for the right pitch to come to you before you can hit a grand slam all the way back to the Victor's Village of District Nine.
So I'm assuming my natural grouchy aura, letting people feel at ease to not even consider me as an ally despite my array of skills, which is bigger than most of the other Outliers. My bored, snarky expression, my good posture, and intent focus on training are like poison; no one wants to even come near me. That's good, because without allies, there are no distractions for me in the Training Center. I can focus as much as I want on the task I'm practicing and not have to worry about useless chit chat or going to the stations that my allies demand we go to that I have no interest in.
Currently, I'm at the scythe station. In the Midlands, we usually use sickles in the fields where I work. They're cheaper and more efficient for the crops were usually harvest in that area of the country. I have handled a scythe before, however, so I'm sort of familiar with it. I spent a lot of time with sickles so far, and all I've really tried are sickles, edible insects, and weight lifting. Tomorrow I plan on touching on the water station and firemaking if I can, but for the last thirty minutes or however long we have left in this second training day, I'm going to keep utilizing the scythe.
The trainer is a talkative woman named Oraella. She has pearly whitish hair with an incandescent gleam, as well as pale skin dusted with white powder and stunning ruby red eyes, her pupils more indigo than black. Her arms are covered in shiny metallic tattoos of seashells, coral, bubbles, and dolphins, and she wears lots of silvery jewelry. She's rather pretty, I must admit, if rather gaudy and overdone. She has a slender figure and is about average height, and she actually knows how to wield a scythe well. I was expecting these Capitol bimbos to not have a clue of how to instruct weaponry since they do nothing but laze around, but I've learned that being a trainer is a coveted job here. Hundreds of Capitolites train their darnedest to try and become one. Only the best, like Oraella, get to teach.
"Let's go through the cycle again," Oraella tells me. We both get in our stances on opposite sides of the mat.
"One step," Oraella half sings as we both step one stride to our right. "Two step, three step, four step, five step." We revolve around the circle as she counts off the steps, one by one. When we reach ten, we're back at our starting places, and then Oraella throatily calls out, "LUNGE!"
We both step forward quickly, slashing before stepping back. Both of our swings miss, but hers almost scrapes my chin, while mine just misses her left knee. She smirks and I count along with her, doing the ten steps before dancing forward. We repeat the process over and over, at least a dozen times, until I get lucky. I dart forward, maneuvering my scythe towards her face. She leans back, and I slash down, smacking the blade of the scythe across her right thigh. She topples, falling right on her butt, and she huffs, dropping her scythe. I haul her back onto her feet, and she grins at me.
"Luke has learned," she giggles. "Want to go again?"'
"Sure," I murmur, resisting the urge to smile, as the Six boy is watching me with interest from the nearby throwing knives station. I narrow my eyes at Oraella, tightening my muscles, ready to pounce, as we prepare to start another exercise. A quick glance back at the Six boy, and he's not looking at me anymore. Good. His attention's moved on, which is good news; I don't have to deal with anyone shilling for allies for my last several minutes.
The next exercise is more complicated. There isn't a coherent shape of steps; Oraella calls out the first direction, then I call out the second, she calls the third, I call the fourth, and so on. We both have to adapt to whatever the other person says. Oraella usually makes us do some sort of complicated step or a twirl of our weapons, while I either just say "step right" or "LUNGE!" I enjoy this station, and half of the time I manage to outwit Oraella, sometimes getting the blade of my scythe to skid across her clothes or getting her to lose her balance and fall. The other half of the time, she's like a violent whirlwind, sending me sprawling and my head tilting with dizziness. After a particularly rough plunge to the sweaty mat, Oraella helps me to my feet.
"Keep using your scythe and sickle like that, and you're golden," Oraella grins. She leans in close to whisper something in my ear. I almost jerk away out of reflex, but I listen, trying to force myself to not flinch away like I want to. "I'd put my money on Nine getting their first male Victor this year." She draws back, smiling a little, and I flash her the tiniest of grins before suggesting that we try one more exercise.
"Nope," Oraella says, pointing to the clock mounted on the wall above the exit doors to the elevator. After lunch, there was five hours on the digital clock; now there's only a minute and a half. "Here's a towel; wipe away that sweat that's all over your face. I'll take your scythe. It's time for you guys to go."
By the time I'm done drying off my face and I've helped Oraella clean up most of her station, the chimes, ending with the unwieldy clang of a church bell gone rogue, tinkle through the Training Center. Head Trainer Tautulus Cragmyre strides over to the very center of the Training Center, which is one of the only spaces in the room that is clear of trainers, tributes, and stations. Just like yesterday, in his booming voice, he informs us that training is over for today. However, he adds something new. "Tomorrow, you will only have until lunch to train due to Private Sessions happening after the first part of training. Therefore, you will only have five hours tomorrow, as opposed to the customary ten. Have a good evening, tributes."
Trainers start to clean up their stations, and tributes flock to the elevator. I find myself walking alone until Sage sidles up to me. She's gotten herself a pretty weak alliance, but an alliance nonetheless. Two of the girls didn't even come today, that's how hopeless they are, and the only other one of any worth, the Eight girl, is already gone, in the elevator, so she comes to me. Sage isn't half bad at all, but I'd rather not talk to her.
"How's it going?" she murmurs as we near the elevator. We fall into line, waiting to get on, before I even think to answer. Once we're boarding the elevator, I finally open my mouth.
"Pretty good," is my only reply. Sage nods slowly and then starts to talk to the girl from Eleven, who is also on this elevator trip along with her ally, the Twelve boy, as well as the short female Career from Four. No one speaks besides Sage and Eleven, and the Career walks off when we reach her floor, not saying a word or looking at us. She doesn't seem very menacing at all, at least for a Career. Soon enough we reach our floor. I stalk off the moment the doors open, while Sage and the Eleven girl part after some useless goodbye chatter. At least she's making friends; maybe they'll help her get through the Bloodbath.
"Training?" Unity inquires from the dining room table when I walk past. She and Patrisa are talking about something, and they have a holographic screen filled with numbers and Capitolite sounding names on them floating in front of their faces. Something to do with sponsorship, probably.
"Good," I mumble in reply. I snag a few slices of raisin bread from the table before walking out onto the terrace to eat in peace. I slide open the huge glass doors and close them slowly as I hear the scrape of Sage pulling back a chair at the dining table. I watch her talk animatedly to Patrisa and Unity, and I just shake my head as I lean back in one of the reclining pool chairs out on the balcony. I snack on the raisin bread as I watch the sun set. It paints the glittering skyline of the Capitol in dozens of mesmerizing colors, and as it falls dark, thousands of glowing neon lights in varieties of shapes, sizes, and colors burst to life. Even at night, the Capitol is fully alive, like a never sleeping beast. Despite the horrendous light pollution, when I tilt my head back to the sky, I can still see hundreds of stars painting the night sky's hollow black canvas. I marvel at the world around me as I eat my raisin bread, filling my stomach. If only my parents could see me here now. I have a feeling that they'd be so proud. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I lay there, crying quietly for the first time in ages as I remember my parents. I let the tears come, and even though I don't feel especially sad, my body is weeping like I've just lost everything I've ever known and loved in life. I'm finally learning to let go, and to feel everything as it comes my way, and it's frightening.
The doors slide open, and I quickly force myself to stop crying. I wipe away the tears with a pillow before Unity can see them, and thankfully it's too dark for her to see my tear soaked face and my bloodshot eyes. Unity smiles at me, and I can barely make out her dark skinned face in the night. Only the glow of nearby building signs and the pulse of the lights from the clubs illuminate us feebly.
"Define good for me," Unity says, crossing her arms, pulling her chair close to mine.
"Really good," I answer shortly, and I muster a thin, quavering smile onto my face. Unity beams.
"Good," she chuckles, and I can't think of anything else to say.
A/N: Yay! We're already done with the Second Day of Training! We still have quite a ways to go before we hit the Games, but we've made some progress, and we've really gotten to explore all of these characters well so far. I hope you've enjoyed what you've seen of these tributes so far. They were all a blast to write like all of these tributes are! :D
Who was your favorite of these three? Who was your least favorite? If you had to guess, who would you think will be in the Top 8? (This is just for my curiosity to be sated XD)
Please review, and thanks to all of you for sticking with this! :D
Trivia:
Fender (1 pt.): What is the throwing knife trainer's name? (Nickname is good)
Calico (1 pt.): Who slips on Calico's spilled paint?
Luke (1 pt.): How many steps do Oraella and Luke take in the first exercise?
Until Next Time,
Tracee