"Fearless"
A/N: Here are the final two tributes, Talon and Lana!
~Tonight, the foxes hunt the hounds
It's all over now
Before it has begun
We've already won~
Talon Olympus, 18
1 Week ago.
"Welcome, Talon, take a seat." Head Trainer Durand ushered him into the office. She shoved aside the files and books that littered the desk as Talon sat opposite from her.
"Durand," he said casually. He popped his jacket, leaning back into his seat with an easy smirk.
"I'm here to discuss your progress in training," she hummed, distracting herself as she flipped through her drawers. "As you undoubtedly know."
"I have my ideas." He stuffed his hands into his pockets.
She pulled a file out and dropped it onto the desk. There were a few dozen pieces of paper, and she began skimming through them. It was a while before she spoke again. "According to all my trainers you're top of the class in just about every category. Swords, bows, leadership, manipulation, survival. You show a particular penchant for strategy."
"People do like to tell me how great I am." His expression hadn't changed since he entered the room, and neither had his tone. He seemed a cross between indifference and amusement, all while a casual smirk stayed locked in place.
"And what do you think of your capabilities?" She asked.
"That I'm the best in the academy." He shrugged, there was hardly much argument to be had there. "That I was the best last year too, and that if you sent me in, instead of Horatio, District Two would have a victor right now."
"Better than the man who got a twelve in training?" She raised her eyebrow at him, but hardly seemed surprised by the claim.
"Better than the man who got fourth place, and lost a sword fight to an untrained fifteen-year-old," Talon corrected her. "He was a brutish psychopath, I'd think by now the academy would figure out that sending man-children who can't control their rage is a poor idea. I mean, outside of Two, who was rooting for Horatio?"
Durand eyed him curiously. "Are you implying that us not receiving enough sponsors is the reason we've lost the last few years?"
"Naw, of course not," Talon said. "I'm implying that nobody ever wants us to win. Livia, Brick, Achilles, Garen, all of them were disappointing victors, because they were all a bunch of sadists that liked torturing kids."
"And yet all of them won."
"And when was the last time one of our volunteers won?" Talon had the question prepared. "A whole lot of psychopaths with impressive looking training scores keep getting killed in unlucky accidents."
It didn't take much to read between the lines of what Talon was suggesting. Durand pursed her lips. "What is it precisely you're trying to say."
Talon sighed, more out of boredom than anything else. "I'm saying you need someone who knows how to play the crowd. Somebody that can get the Capitol rooting for them. Someone the Gamemakers look at and decide would make a nice victor. Because, seriously. You can't look at me with a straight face and tell me that the Gamemakers didn't do everything in their power to try to make sure Prestige Freeman left that arena last year."
Durand leaned back into her chair. "And you think you can fill that role?"
"I like to think so."
"Because, what, you're just full of charisma and charm?" Durand's voice dripped with sarcasm.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "I have my moments."
Durand jotted a few notes down. She didn't even glance up at him as she asked her next question. "And why exactly is it that you want to volunteer, Mr. Olympus?"
Talon took his hands out of pockets and placed them on the desk, leaning forward for the first time. "What kind of answer are you looking for?" He asked amusedly. "Glory and honor? Fame? Or is that too prideful? Maybe something to do with preserving my family name. What if I said I just really liked killing children and this is the best way to do that? Would that make a difference?"
Durand met his gaze. "You're proving to be full of jokes and quips and empty of substance."
Talon didn't flinch. "Is substance what you really want? Because I think you want me to just check the boxes that you think make a good Career, regardless of whether that actually works or not." He leaned back into his chair. "I can sit here and tell you that I'm volunteering because I want to make my parents proud and do something purposeful if you want. I can tell you I'm going to take control of the Career pack, kill everyone in my path, and then win the honor duel at the end between the other Careers. Those are the answers you always get, I'm sure."
She leaned forward. "And what's the answer you'd be looking for?"
"Pliability, and purpose." The answer came instantly. "The Games aren't a place to find yourself. It's not a place for people who aren't sure of who they are and what they want, and it isn't a place where you can follow a carefully thought out plan. I know who I am, I know what I want, and I know what I'm willing to do in order to achieve my wants."
"And what are you willing to do?"
Talon's smile dropped for a brief moment. "Anything."
"And failure doesn't scare you?"
"Not in the least," he said, and it was immediately clear that wasn't a lie.
Durand neatly set down her pen. "For all your speeches and tangents, you still haven't answered what exactly it is you want out of the Games, Mr. Olympus."
"The greater good," he said assuredly. "Does it have to be more complicated than that? There's five victors left in the whole country and every last one of them are shell-shocked recluses. Victors have some of the most power of anybody in Panem, but none of them ever do any good with it. Every year it's the same thing. Either a psychopathic, selfish sadist who doesn't care about anyone else, or a damaged kid who wastes their life in addiction."
"So, you want to volunteer. . . to make the world a better place?" Durand eyed him up oddly.
"Is that too much to ask for?"
"Too much to believe in, maybe."
Talon nearly laughed at that. He leaned back even further into his seat and shrugged. "What do you think I want then?"
Durand paused. "I don't know," she admitted. "And I don't like that. A decade of paperwork, training results, interviews with instructors, conversations with peers, and none of it seems to crack your surface. I would be impressed if I weren't so frustrated."
"I'm an open book." Talon threw his arms behind the back of his head. "There isn't always an ulterior."
She looked him over wearily, then nodded, flipping to a new page. "Tell me about some of your training partners. You're rather insulated in your training, only working with a small group of people. Enlighten me on why you've chosen these particular. . . five people to work with."
"My parents are the best trainers at the academy," he answered. "It'd be a waste of time to work under any other trainers."
"I don't doubt the claim. And they're knowledgeable of your strengths and weaknesses. I don't question those two's inclusions. I was more interested in your peers you've chosen to align with. Quite an odd group. Let's start with Winter Pilonus, shall we?"
Talon pondered on that. Winter was a behemoth, standing at just under six-and-a-half feet and weighing in somewhere close to two-hundred-fifty pounds. The two had been rivals for as long as Talon could remember, the pair standing far above anyone else in their class.
"Winter's the best fighter in the academy now that Horatio is gone," Talon stated. "His greatest strengths are my biggest weaknesses, and vice-versa."
Durand nodded. "How about Riven Leicester, then? Certainly wouldn't call her an exceptional fighter. In fact, she doesn't seem to stand out in any way. She's thoroughly average, perfectly located in the middle of the sixteen age group. What are you gaining from training with her?"
Talon shrugged. "Not much of anything."
"And yet you train with her anyways," Durand hummed.
"I have my reasons."
"For an open book, you can be awful difficult to read, Mr. Olympus," Durand said in a low voice.
Talon paused for a moment in thought. He sat up in his seat. "Two years from now she'll be sitting in this chair, and you'll be interviewing her. It won't take long for you to see her as the only logical choice for the chosen volunteer."
"Then I suppose I should look forward to that conversation with great anticipation." Durand flipped onto a new page. "And I suppose you train with your eleven-year-old sister, Irelia Olympus, in order to pass on your skills?"
"She doesn't need any help with that." Talon leaned back into his seat, looking removed from the conversation. "She'll be a far better fighter than I ever was within a few years."
"So why do you spend precious time training with her then?"
He glanced at her and fell quiet for a moment. "Remember our discussion about District Two volunteers? Of. . . the typical victor? That's why."
"Most enlightening." She smiled. "Now, Mr. Olympus, just one final question for you."
"Shoot."
Durand took her glasses off, squinting at Talon intently, studying him over. "If Winter, Riven, and Irelia were in the Games with you, how would you assess them as threats, and what would you do to ensure your victory."
Durand seemed pleased with herself, but Talon was unfazed, his trademark smirk still in place as he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "Winter is a better fighter than me, but lacks a killer instinct and analytical, distrustful eye. I would befriend him, use his fighting prowess to ensure the two of us avoided getting defeated by any larger groups, and then play on his empathy and compassion to throw him off in our inevitable honor dual. He would be unwilling to kill me, and I would use that to my advantage.
"Riven is loud and confident, but lacks conviction and confidence. Befriend her, poke and prod at her self-esteem and make her doubt her own abilities. She would fall apart and die long before the finale, and even if she did last that long her fighting abilities wouldn't hold up to mine.
"Irelia, assuming for a moment she's older in this scenario and fully realized, is a greater threat. A far better fighter than me, unpredictable, her only weakness would be her own self-assured confidence. She would be too confident to betray an ally early. I would hope that she somehow gets taken out by a competitor, but barring that would take the necessary steps to ensure an honor duel between the two of us doesn't take place. Dishonor is preferable to death."
There was a long pause as Durand stared Talon down. He seemed unfazed, not cracking the least bit, his easy smirk locked in place.
Durand finally sighed. "You're a fortunate young man," she said reluctantly. "I didn't even want to consider you as a candidate at first, and gladly would have passed up on you for a weaker volunteer if given the opportunity. As it stands, however, recent events have resulted in a decrease of willing volunteers. The only suitable candidate to replace you was one Mr. Winter. However, he declined an interview with me. He seems to think quite highly of you."
"Winter is a good man." Talon nodded. "The Hunger Games wouldn't suit him."
"That much we can agree on." She said quietly. She stuffed the paperwork back into her desk. Hesitantly, she extended a hand across the table. "Well, Mr. Olympus, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your selection as the chosen male volunteer for the one-hundred and second Hunger Games.
"May the odds be ever in your favor."
Lana Birkhead, 12
2 Weeks ago.
She sat cross-legged in the pitch black room. An acute buzzing noise filled the room with static. Her eyes were bloodshot, wide open as she attempted to adjust to the newfound darkness. Fatigue fought with her, attempting to pull her into sleep, but she resisted. The moment she let her eyes slip closed, the blinding lights would flash back on. She hated the lights. They made her head pound and her eyes burn. If she was still enough, her entire body seemed to enter a restful state. That was close enough to sleep for her.
She didn't want to sleep, anyways. Her number one priority was to stay alert. At any moment something could stir in the dark, silent room. A threat could enter through the door. Whatever was coming, she had to be ready. Being caught off guard meant failure. Failure wasn't an option.
The door creaked open. She remained quiet, but began to ready herself mentally. There were multiple footsteps, if she concentrated hard enough she could imagine their outlines in the dark void. As long as she didn't move, that advantage was hers to take advantage of.
The lights flashed on. She instinctively covered her eyes and scurried backwards. Two guards, armed with tranquilizer rifles and wearing face masks, were standing in the middle of the room. Between them, held up by each of his arms, was a frail, malnourished man. He had a scraggly beard, was covered in dark bruises, and had downcast eyes that watered with fear.
A fourth man entered the room. Lana quickly hopped to her feet, her arms at her side and her head held steady, facing forward. She avoided his eyes as he scanned over her thoughtfully. One of her hands began to shake and she dug her nails into her palm, steadying herself. She struggled to keep her balance, wobbling ever so lightly as she drew blood. Her eyes stayed wide as she fought to avoid showing signs of fatigue. Weakness meant failure. Failure wasn't an option.
The man in the charcoal suit set a briefcase on the lone, colorless table that stood in the otherwise empty room. From the suitcase, he drew out a long, intricately carved dagger. A firm black grip stood on top of stainless silver steel. The blade curved at the end into a wicked edge. The man ran his finger delicately along the sharp edge.
He walked over to her with purpose, and she tensed up, holding her body rigidly still and keeping her eyes at an even level. She barely held in a flinch as he stopped just in front of her. The man took hold of the blade of the dagger, and extended the handle towards her.
"Take it."
She didn't hesitate, taking hold of the handle. It was cool to the touch, and she was unable to stifle the shiver that ran through her bones as he let go and the weight fell into her hands. The man looked over her, circling her with interest, a hand held up to his chin. He turned from her and nodded to the guards.
They threw the scraggly man to the ground, and he hardly resisted. She decided he was most likely under the effects of a sedative. His body was still, hardly any reaction at all as he was thrown roughly to his knees. The drug didn't keep the fear out of his eyes though.
The man stood beside her, his arms crossed as he looked at the scraggly man. "Kill him," he said.
She was still. Her muscles tensed up as she looked down at the dagger in her hands. She looked over to the scraggly man on the ground. Tears were in his eyes. His mouth moved, slowly morphing open and closed. No noise came out. The room was silent aside from the beating of her heart in her ears.
"Defiance means failure," the man reminded her sternly.
"Failure is never an option," she said robotically. She placed a hand to her chest, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
She moved forward, dagger held firmly in her hand. She didn't allow herself the luxury of thought as she buried the dagger into the scraggly man's stomach. His mouth formed on 'o' as he exhaled. Pain shined in his eyes.
She pulled the dagger out of him and stuck it in him again. And again. And again. His flesh squished as she stabbed into him. Her teeth grinded against one another and her breath became unsteady, her heart beating uncontrollably. The sound of flesh being torn into faded away as the sound of her heartbeat filled her ears.
By the time she stopped, her arms were dipped in red. She felt a trickle of blood running down her cheek. When she brought up a hand to wipe it away she only succeeded in leaving a red handprint on her face. Her heartbeat was still in her ears.
"Good riddance." One of the guards spat on the scraggly man. The other one chuckled softly.
She saw red.
Her arms moved without command. Instinct and training took over. She slashed out at the guard who had spat. He screamed as his cheek sliced open. The guard who had chuckled reached for his rifle. His scream was silent as his throat spilt open. She turned back to the other guard and stabbed forwards, the dagger planting itself into his heart. They both fell to their knees, the chuckling guard scratching at his neck while the spitting guard grasped at his chest.
"Stop! Stop it right now! Drop that dagger, that is an order!"
The dagger dropped from her hands. She didn't dare turn to face the man as he exploded with anger. She forced air through gritted teeth. Her hands clenched into fists.
The man murmured to himself for a while, something incomprehensible. It seemed to take him a minute to remember she was still standing there. "You've started this, now finish the job!" He hissed at her. She turned to face the man and saw disgust written across his features. "Pick up the dagger and slit their throats already!"
She did as he said. The dagger felt heavy in her hands. She dropped it back to the ground once the deed was done. She was glad the eyes were covered by their masks. She didn't want to see their eyes.
The man paced back and forth. "Stay there, and be quiet!" He commanded. He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number. His voice bordered on frantic as he began to speak. She couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.
"We have a problem. Yes. No, worse. Worse. She killed the guards. Yes I know you had worries, but this was a critical- no, yes. We had to observe her reaction, we couldn't send her in with no experience. Desensitization was the mission. Well, no, I don't think this is a sign of failure. There are other variables at play- I know. Well, the investors knew this would be a risky project from the start. Yes, I agree we have to do something drastic- no, I'll stall, but it won't be too long before our work here is leaked. We have to push the timetable forward- yes, I know age seventeen was agreed upon, but things have changed- she is more than ready, this is a minor hiccup. I can pull some strings, come meet me in my office as soon as possible, we'll discuss the details- no, yes, I know the investors will want answers, so do your job and give them some!" The man slammed the phone shut and ran a hand through his hair.
The man pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to her. "I have an important task for you. The most important thing I have asked of you. Failure will not be an option. Is that something you can handle?"
She held herself rigid and clamped her hands shut. Her voice sounded like someone else's echo. "Failure is never an option."
A/N: This is one of my favorite intros I've done in a while, so hopefully y'all liked it!
Anyways: Omg the intros are done. Finally. Next chapter will come out next week because the goodbyes are pretty short, and then after that we're onto the pre-games. I might start posting some deleted scenes on the blog soon too, now that we're headed into the pre-games. I have like 6 chapters finished and stockpiled, so I'm gonna start speeding up the updates. See y'all soon!
Trivia(1 point): I put up a new poll on my profile that y'all can go vote on! I'll assume that you did if you leave a review and give you a freebie.
Trivia(1 point): Now that we've seen (almost) all of the tributes, which one(s) are you most excited to see more of?