Chapter Nine.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Everett Landry
District Three, 18 Years Old
Once the Head Trainer dismissed the tributes with a wave of his hand, Everett stepped away from the crowd of tributes, and immediately, he sensed someone following closely behind him. He stopped in his tracks and turned around, facing the tributes from District Five, Kit and Gunnar, and he smirked at the sight of them robotically standing side-by-side. It appeared that Kit had scripted yet another encounter between the three of them.
Everett was somewhat relieved to see them. To his surprise, and discomfort, there was a hint of excitement, too. It wasn't so much about Kit and Gunnar themselves, but rather, it was about the human interaction. Everett felt lonely on the first day of training and he wasn't looking forward to sitting hunched over a computer again, mumbling to himself. He liked to hear the sound of his own voice sometimes. Besides, they also seemed more bearable than his District partner, Cassia. She was too peppy. Too optimistic. Everett despised positive people.
"You again," Everett said. "Why are you so obsessed with me?"
"Didn't know he was so cocky," Kit murmured, turning her face towards Gunnar, and then looked back at Everett. He probably wasn't supposed to hear that, but he did, and he wondered if that was how he came off to the other tributes; he wasn't entirely discontent with the idea that tributes might think he's something that he's not. "You're incorrect. I'm not obsessed with you."
"It seems like it."
"Have you given any thought to my proposition?" Kit asked, ignoring Everett's small-talk.
"About allying?" Everett asked. "I thought about it. I even asked my mentors. They told me to say yes, but ah... I don't know."
"You need to think about it rationally," Kit replied. "Objectively speaking, on our own, we have about a four percent chance to survive and become the victor, but when you take into consideration those who trained, our chances decrease."
"So?"
"So," Kit continued. "We could counter that by teaming up."
"Do you believe that?" Everett asked, looking at Gunnar and pointing at Kit. "Is that why you're allies?"
"It makes sense," Gunnar replied, shrugging. "There is strength in numbers, you know?"
"That's what the rebels thought," Everett said, chuckling. "It didn't work out for them."
By that point, Everett was entertained. He wasn't completely opposed to the idea of allying with them, but he appreciated her commitment and wanted to hear more of her argument. It seemed like she had it all figured out, and clearly put more thought into a strategy than Everett. Everett wasn't entirely sure what his angle would be – if he planned on having any type of strategy at all. So far, he was winging it.
"That's a bold comparison," Kit replied. "We're talking about alliances, not overthrowing the government."
"The latter does sound more appealing," Everett said with a smirk. "Will you leave me alone if I say yes?"
"No, but I will consider giving you some personal space."
"Alright."
Everett nodded and Kit smiled from ear-to-ear, glancing at Gunnar besides her, who didn't seem as enthusiastic as Kit did. He knew later on he would question if he made the right choice or not – by not sticking to his gut and not allying with anyone, by telling Cassia that he didn't want to ally with her – but in that moment, as he stood there watching Kit beam with excitement, it felt right.
Kit and Gunnar seemed different. In District Three, people rarely managed to get through to Everett, to tear down his walls. To see through his hard exterior. Everett struggled to see the good in anyone; his natural defense to people was to be snarky, to speak his mind. People rarely made any effort to do so, and Everett commended Kit for being so persistent, because all Everett ever wanted was for someone to make an effort like they were. The irony was that Everett rarely ever made an effort in life, since to him, everything was bullshit – school, work, District Three, the Hunger Games – and although he would be the first one to complain about it all, he never made an effort to change anything. To do something about the things he complained about in his life.
Maybe the Hunger Games would be his wake-up call, that the gray cloud looming over his head, reminding him that in a few weeks, he could be dead, would ignite a sense of urgency.
"Have you ever stabbed someone?" Kit asked, snapping Everett out of his thoughts. "Maybe not someone, but something."
"I can't say I have, Kit."
"Me neither. Have you, Gunnar?"
"Nope."
"There's no time like the present!" Kit exclaimed, grabbing the hands of both of her allies, leading them towards one of the stations stocked with various types of knives. "How hard could it be? The Careers make it look easy."
"A little too easy," Everett replied. The Careers made everything look too easy, from training to killing to winning.
For some reason, despite the Careers' seamless ability to do everything the Capitol expected of them, Kit still thought that she had a chance. It was less than a four percent chance, but there was still a glimmer of hope for her, and he figured that, if Kit was convinced that they could survive for a little bit longer by allying, he would play along and see what happens. It's not like he had any other pressing matters to attend to.
In that moment, the Hunger Games was his life, not District Three anymore, and whether or not there was any life beyond the Games was entirely up to him, but Everett wasn't one to focus on what could be. Instead, he focused on one thing at a time. Everett could only withstand so much bullshit at once, and although he still believed that alliances were bullshit, that this fleeting relationship with the pair from District Five was bullshit, he felt it was a different type of bullshit.
A good type of bullshit.
Beau Cairne
District Twelve, 17 Years Old
Beau's first day of training was lackluster.
He wasn't sure what exactly he expected, but it certainly wasn't what it turned out to be. A small part of him expected to be approached by the Careers – he was a victor's son, after all – or by anyone else, really. But, to his surprise, no one did. He scoffed at his ragamuffin District partner finding an ally before he did.
Beau tossed the spear from one hand to the other, weighing his options. He could – he wrinkled his nose at the thought – approach someone, or he could sit and wait for someone to approach him. Both sounded equally as dreadful; forcing a smile, pretending to laugh as they made some joke about how scary the Careers are. Beau couldn't comprehend why he didn't pique anyone's interest. He was guaranteed to be a fan favorite in the Capitol. He thought about the sponsor gifts that would come from it. He thought about the name recognition his potential ally would have; even if Beau died, they would be known as the ally-of-the-victor's-son. He was everything an ally was supposed to be and more.
Beau sluggishly – and dramatically – poked a dummy with his spear, pushing the tip of the spear into its chest, picturing one of the Career's faces on it. He was particularly offended that the Careers weren't paying attention to him. He blamed Marcella for everyone seemingly steering clear of him; he wasn't sure what she did, but it was somehow her fault.
"You don't have to be so nice to it," a girl said from behind him. Beau retracted the spear, turning to see who the voice came from; it was the girl from District Eight, Denali. "It's not real."
"Soon it will be," Beau replied, and they fell silent for a moment at the gravity of his response. "Who knows. It could even be Marcella."
"You're Ashra's son, right?" Denali said eagerly, changing the subject. Apparently, Denali wasn't interested in entertaining Beau's joke about killing his own District partner.
"Yep," Beau replied coolly, trying to play off his real excitement; he was dying for someone to ask him about it, for someone to recognize him for who he was. "The one and only."
"That is so cool!" Denali squealed, clasping her hands together. "I have so many questions!"
"Like what?"
"Where do I begin?" Denali asked. "Is it really that much money? Everyone always says that victors are set for life, but how much money are we talking about?"
"I'll put it this way," Beau replied in an inauthentic casual tone. "If I wanted to feed all of District Eleven for the rest of their lives, I could."
"Oh," Denali said, wincing, but Beau was too invested in his own visions of grandeur to notice how callous his words were. "That's a lot of money."
"What about you? What's Eight like?" Beau asked, redirecting the conversation. Ashra taught him to always ask a question in return, so that he doesn't hog the whole conversation. She tried to impart some social etiquette on him, but it fell on deaf ears; whenever Beau did ask someone a personal question, he ignored their response as he thought about what he would say next. Beau was genuinely disinterested in the lives of others, and he wasn't afraid to admit it. He never thought about what life was like in the other Districts and never gained any perspective besides his own.
"It has its moments," Denali replied, shrugging. "Once you get used to the smog that clogs your lungs and the smokestacks that riddle the skyline, it's a nice place."
"Do you get to wear any of the clothes Eight produces?" Beau blurted out off-hand. It was those types of inconsiderate, brusque questions that Beau would come up with when he actually paid attention to the conversation he was in.
"Surprisingly, yes," Denali replied sarcastically. "The Capitol is oh-so benevolent enough to let us enjoy the fruits of our labor."
"Fruits of your labor," Beau repeated, putting the words in air quotes and laughing. "You sound like the President."
"It's somewhat true," Denali said. "If you have the money, at least. My boyfriend's mother was one of the lucky few."
"Boyfriend?" Beau perked up. "That's cute."
"Some would say," Denali uttered, looking away as she rolled her eyes. "Long distance is hard, though, especially when there's no guarantee I'll return."
"Do you miss him?" Beau blurted out once again.
"Who?" Denali replied, her mind already drifting away from thinking about her boyfriend to thinking about his parents. Their house. Their wealth.
"Your boyfriend?" Beau said, raising an eyebrow.
"Sure," Denali replied, brushing him off. If anything, she missed his family, not him. "I miss a lot of things. Don't you?"
Beau shrugged. "Not really."
Beau didn't miss much about District Twelve. He did miss sitting across from Axel, sipping tea as he half-listened to him complaining about the obligations victors have in Panem. He missed going on morning strolls with Celosia, listening intently as she divulged all of the rumors of the other victors. None of that really mattered, though. Despite everything – all of the perks of living in the Victor's Village – there was a melancholic aura to it. It was dark and forlorn, and was most certainly not the best place to raise children. In a way, he felt as lonely in the training center as he did in the Victor's Village.
Beau cocked his head, looking upwards at the ceiling, thinking about how much he enjoyed his conversation with Denali. Beau finally felt noticed. He didn't feel so ignored, so lonely, anymore. Beau trusted his intuition that allying with her would be a mutually beneficial; Denali had striking similarities to Beau. She seemed confident. Educated and cultured. Well-connected in District Eight.
"Is your boyfriend the jealous type?" Beau teased. "As in, if we hypothetically allied, would he hate me?"
Denali let out a stifled laugh. "Nero's a lot of things, but he is definitely not jealous."
"Good to know," Beau replied. "So, hypothetically, would you be interested in a platonic alliance?"
"I'd have to ask my boyfriend first," Denali replied, winking, and Beau let out a hearty, genuine laugh. If only Beau knew that Denali wore the pants in her relationship. "It took you long enough to ask. I'm more than interested."
"So, ally," Beau said, handing Denali his spear and grabbing another one for himself. "What else do you want to know about my life?"
Above all else, Denali let Beau talk about himself.
And that's what mattered to him the most.
Cara Waycrest
District Eleven, 16 Years Old
Cara's eyes roamed the training center, attentively watching each tribute, noting what weapons each of them were training with or what stations they were at.
The Careers focused solely on weapons, which came as no surprise to her. She also noticed the pair from District Seven training with axes, but they handled the weapon more sloppily than the Careers. She paid close attention to the pair from District Ten who were at the same survival skills station they were as the day before. Cara wanted to understand who her competition was, to learn what types of people they were based on their weapon or skill preference. She needed the moment of silence, of repose, to collect herself, as she grappled with the overwhelming feelings of being in the Capitol.
"Who are you looking at?" Amias asked, lifting a sickle up and down. So much for that.
"Hm?" Cara mumbled, staring at the Careers. "They're fascinating."
"If fascinating means deranged, sure," Amias replied. "We should start thinking about an alliance. Kaeya and Cailen suggested we look for one or two others."
Cara sighed. More unsolicited advice.
"Before you say anything," Amias scrambled to speak before Cara did. "I know how you feel about the topic, so there's no pressure, but they did mention District Ten."
"Maybe," Cara replied, scanning the training center to find the pair from District Ten. They were hunched over the table, flipping through survival guides, with different sticks, rope, and plants spread out on the table. "Just let me think about it."
There were a lot of things Cara could, and should, have thought about. Long-term allies. The upcoming private sessions and the tribute meet-and-greet. The arena. Her life. Instead, she focused on what was happening in the present, and in that moment, she didn't want any more allies, and she wanted Amias to respect that.
It took enough self-convincing as is to see an alliance with her District partner as practical. Although she felt some loyalty to Amias – he reminded her of home, grounding her in the possibility of at least one of them returning back to District Eleven as a victor – she saw allying with anyone else a risk. Cara focused on outcomes and results, and a bigger alliance was a risk she wasn't willing to take – not yet, anyway.
"We don't have to."
"I didn't say no," Cara said bluntly. "I said that I wanted to think about it."
"It's already day two of training," Amias replied. He was clearly more keen on expanding their alliance than she was. "If you compare us to the other tributes, to the other alliances…"
"I'm not comparing us to anyone," Cara snapped, shaking her head. "Just because someone else is in a big alliance doesn't mean we have to."
"That's not what I meant," Amias mumbled, shying away. "I think we should at least consider what Kaeya and Cailen said."
"They had a lot of suggestions for us, but that doesn't mean we have to listen to all of them," Cara replied. "What do you want to do?"
"Go home," Amias quipped, chuckling as the tone in his voice became more jovial, and Cara didn't even crack a smile. "Sorry."
Amias went back to practicing with the sickle, slicing at the air, and Cara continued staring at the tributes around her, playing with the frayed edges of the plaited leather bracelet around her wrist. From across the training center, she saw the pair from District Ten get up from their station and walk towards her and Amias, and she looked away, hoping to avoid eye-contact, to avoid the inevitable of them introducing themselves, all thanks to her mentors.
"Hello!" Rhea exclaimed, as she was still far away from Cara and Amias. Cara felt a smile creeping across her face, but she bit her lip, suppressing it.
"Hi," Amias said, and Cara nodded. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm Donegan, and this is Rhea," Donegan said. "Our mentors mentioned that you might be interested in alliance."
Cara clenched her teeth. Her mentors had a way of assuming what she wanted, of what would be best for her, and it was usually the opposite of what was on Cara's mind.
"We'll think about it," Cara replied, and Donegan raised an eyebrow at her shortness.
"Think?" Donegan repeated. "There's no time to think."
Cara stared at Donegan, while Amias and Rhea looked away. "We'll let you know what we decide."
"Make it quick," Donegan replied. "Time is ticking and we'll be in the arena before we know it."
He was right. There was no time to think, to reflect, but Cara wouldn't let herself make such an impulsive decision. She had to think about it. She had to make sure it made sense, that it would work in her favor. That she would be able to withstand getting closer with more people, knowing that she had to keep her distance, even though that wasn't the type of person Cara was at her core.
In District Eleven, she loved people. She loved being in the company of other people, whether that was family or complete strangers. She missed spending time with her mother and her older brother, talking about their days as they cut up the vegetables that her mother was allowed to take home from the farm. She missed helping her brother with his homework – she was always the smarter one, never letting a day go by without making him admit it.
But, the Hunger Games were no place for that. There was no time to reminisce, to make friends, to connect with people on a deeper level. She had to keep it superficial. She liked Amias, but he wasn't her friend. He was her District partner and her ally, and allies were not friends.
She was there to survive, and as much as she hated to think it, that meant she had to put herself first. Not Amias. Not her mentors. Not any of the other tributes. If she wanted to survive, none of that had to matter, but that was only part of the challenge; she stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had it in her to kill. It was an inevitable part of the Games, and Cara was prepared to convince herself she was capable of that.
That she could kill.
Caris Layart
District Six, 14 Years Old
Caris imagined what it was like for her sister.
She ran her fingers along the blade of the swords on the rack, wondering what her sister did during training. She found comfort in thinking about her sister sitting at one of the stations, tying a knot or sorting through first aid supplies. She wondered if she met her allies during training that she saw her with during the recaps of her Games that Caris watched when she turned twelve-years-old. She wondered if she stood in the exact spot that Caris was standing.
Hardy's arm reached across the rack, bumping into Caris' face. He was significantly taller than her, and she looked up at him, furrowing her eyebrows.
"I can handle a sword," Hardy said, nodding to himself, and Caris remained quiet. After his emotional outburst during the Chariot Rides, Caris felt nervous around Hardy. She was not only intimidated by his physical size, but also by how quickly his emotions changed. "It's just a hunk of metal."
"Otto said to be careful because –" Caris began, but Hardy cut her off, quickly turning his shoulder and grabbing the largest sword off the rack. Caris watched him as he rushed over to one of the dummies and from behind her, she overheard a few of the Careers behind her discussing what type of sword they preferred. She tensed up as they got closer.
"Move," the girl said, the irritation in her voice startling Caris. "Before I do it for you."
"Sorry," Caris whispered, stepping out of the way, staring down at her feet, seeing that it was Georgia and Drachma. She gulped, her hands lightly trembling as they towered over her. She stood there, watching Hardy out of the corner of her eye as he berserkly swung the sword.
"You're still in the way," Georgia said, shaking her head as she stared at Caris. "Shoo."
"Sorry," Caris repeated, taking a large step to the side, her head rattled with clashing thoughts. She was scared of Georgia, she was scared of all of the Careers, but she also despised them. They killed her sister. They could kill her, too. "I…"
"Did you say something?" Georgia said, reaching for one of the smaller swords. "If so, think again. Don't waste my time."
Georgia and Drachma resumed their conversation, each of them grabbing a sword off of the rack. They stepped onto the mat near the station, standing a few feet apart from each another, and held their swords out in front of them. Drachma made the first move, and as Georgia took a step backwards, she raised her hand and pointed at Hardy. She gawked at him as sweat was dripping down his face, grunting with every movement. It was clear he was trying to prove something to someone.
Caris had a feeling he was trying to impress the Careers; they were all he talked about at dinner the night before, and although their mentors advised against it, he said he would find a way into their alliance. Caris realized he was serious and it intimidated her even more. He purposely wanted to surround himself with the tributes who actively wanted to kill. The exact tributes that Caris hated.
"You're going to hurt yourself," Georgia berated Hardy, looking at Drachma with a mocking face. "You'd think that by now training would be more common. It's such a simple concept."
"Ouch," Drachma replied as they sparred, their swords barely grazing one another. "Entitled, much?"
"Excuse me?"
"Training is a privilege, isn't it?" Drachma asked, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Most of the Districts don't have the free time to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. They have to actually work, for, like, food and stuff."
"I work," Georgia replied, and Drachma chuckled, jumping forward with his sword held out in front of him, and reactively, Georgia jumped backwards. "Sort of."
"I doubt it."
"Do you have a job in One, then?" Georgia asked defensively, lowering her arm.
"Well, no," Drachma replied, and Georgia rolled her eyes. "Training was my job. I started when I was six."
"That doesn't count, you hypocrite."
Caris caught herself staring at the Careers as they continued to banter with each other. She stood there, her conflicted thoughts and emotions evident from the look on her face. She bit her lip, playing with the sleeves of her shirt, her eyes darting from one tribute to another around the training center. She took a step to the side, and then stepped back, mumbling to herself.
A part of her wanted to run. To cower. The Careers terrified her. They reminded her of her sister, reminding her that she could die by their hands like she did. But, the other part of her wanted to prove to them that she wasn't a coward. That she wasn't going to let them scare her. That she shouldn't be overlooked by the Careers or anyone else.
I am not weak, she reminded herself.
Caris glanced at Georgia and Drachma who continued to swing their swords at each other with their swords, and impulsively, she grabbed a sword. She hesitantly walked towards the two Careers, standing at the dummy next to them. They looked at her, but Caris was too consumed by her own thoughts that she didn't hear Georgia's remarks.
I am not weak.
Caris poked the dummy with her sword. And then she poked it again. And again. Every time she poked it, she gripped her hand tighter around the hilt, putting more force into it. Caris couldn't let anyone see her as weak, as useless. Caris was strong. She had it in her to win. To be as bold as the Careers.
I am not weak.
And no one would make her feel otherwise.
Author's Note:
Aaaaand Training Day Two begins! How fun. You've almost met all of the tributes (this was Cara and Everett's first POV, and Gunnar will have a POV in the next chapter, and then that's all of them).
What do you think of these four tributes?
I pre-ordered Suzanne Collins' new book and it's arriving next Tuesday and I'm… conflicted. I'm mostly disappointed that it's not a book about Gloss and Cashmere's Games :/ :(
Also, please submit to The 13 Games: Stoneheart by Jakey121. Submissions close on May 30th, so y'all got time!