Chapter Ten.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Caspian De Ponte
District Four, 18 Years Old
Caspian hummed to himself as he stabbed the dummy.
He impaled the dummy, tearing through the fabric, leaving it deep in its padding. Panting, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand; this was the first time during training where he actually exerted any amount of physical energy, and he was parched. There was a water fountain next to the trainer, but water wouldn't quench his thirst. He wanted something more flavorful, something stronger.
Caspian was scolded by his mentors earlier that morning; apparently, drinking before training was frowned upon, but he still considered pre-gaming to make it somehow more bearable.
"I'm thirsty," he hollered at the trainer. "What are my options?"
"There's water, sir."
"Anything else?'
"Just water, sir."
Caspian walked over to the water fountain, leaned over, and drank from the water fountain, letting the water run across his face. The trainer stared at him as he let the water trickle down his chin, dripping onto the floor, and Caspian chuckled. While he enjoyed training – more so the idea of training – in District Four, he felt confined in the Capitol training center. He felt like he was being watched, that he couldn't pick up a spear without a Capitol trainer scrutinizing him. He couldn't even drink water without the Capitol thinking Caspian was up to something.
"It's spilling, sir."
"I like the way it feels," Caspian replied. "Sir."
Caspian walked back over to the dummy, pulling out his spear, and looked back at the trainer. He continued chuckling at the trainer as he stared at Caspian, and Caspian twirled the spear around in a circle, and the trainer crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head.
"Shouldn't you be teaching me something?" Caspian taunted, holding the spear up in the air. "The Capitol doesn't pay you to just stand around."
"Who are you talking to?" Cleo said as she joined Caspian at the spear station. She grabbed a spear and prodded Caspian's leg with the end of the shaft.
"Him," Caspian said, nodding towards the trainer. "He's been staring at me all morning."
"You don't like to be watched?" Cleo jeered with a wink. A tingling sensation shot through Caspian's body. "That's a shame. I've heard Avoxes make the best audience."
Caspian scrunched his eyebrow, putting too much thought into the idea. He dabbled in voyeurism in District Four, but he preferred playing a more active role, not idly standing by. He'd rather put his bed-skills – he was the only one who referred to them as that – to better use. The sensation shot through the rest of his body, and he shook his head, ridding the inappropriate thoughts creeping into his mind.
This isn't the place nor the time for that.
Caspian watched Cleo wind up her arm, releasing the spear, watching it slice through the air into the dummy. Compared to the rest of his allies, who he felt ambivalent towards, Caspian liked Cleo; he wasn't sure what exactly he liked. It could've been her body. Or her personality. Or her face. Or that she paid the most attention to him out of all of the Careers. It was probably a combination of all that.
"Don't you get bored of training here?" Caspian asked, and Cleo had a confused look on her face. "The Career Districts should be excused from it, don't you think?"
"Why would we want that? How else would we show off?" Cleo asked, laughing. "We've trained for years to intimidate each other, and we're finally here."
"Yeah, you're right… and I've trained a lot, so...," he said matter-of-factly, as if he was trying to convince himself that he actually went to training. He was technically enrolled in the training academy in District Four, but that didn't mean he actually picked up a weapon; he was more interested in flirting with the trainees.
"And don't forget about them," Cleo said, pointing her finger at each corner of the training center. "The Gamemakers are always watching. It's all just a pissing contest."
A pissing contest? Maybe she's into…?
No. Caspian wouldn't let himself venture that far into the depths of his perverted mind.
"Speaking of pissing contests," Cleo said, looking around the training center. "Where are the others?"
On the opposite side of the training center, Georgia, Renour, Nereida, and Drachma approached the obstacle course where Beau and Denali were standing, and they waited for their turn, exchanging small-talk about what they ate for dinner the night before and what their mentors were like. After a few minutes, Georgia grew impatient.
"Ugh," Cleo said, sighing. "What is Georgia doing now?"
Cleo and Caspian watched the situation unfold from afar.
"All yours," Beau said, leaping off the elevated metal stepping stones, holding out his hand for Denali to help her down.
"You two are precious," Georgia exclaimed, her voice carrying throughout the training center. There was a certain tone Georgia's voice would slip into whenever she was about to start something for no reason. "Adorable, really."
Beau and Denali looked at Georgia, taken back by her taunt.
"You remind me of… what were their names?" Georgia began, scrunching her face. "Katniss and Peeta! You're like the modern-day star-crossed lovers."
"Don't," Beau snapped. "Don't talk about them."
"You even share a similar fate. It's unfortunate that you're both going to die," Georgia said, snidely pushing out her bottom lip, pouting. "It brings a tear to my eye to think about your poor mother. To lose her best friend, Katniss, and now to lose her son."
"Shut up, Georgia" Beau repeated, visibly angry as he clenched his fists and held them up in front of him. "I'm warning you."
"What are you going to do?" Georgia whined. "Tell your mommy?"
Caspian groaned. His patience with her – with all of his allies – was starting to wear thin. Caspian wasn't one to concern himself with petty conflict, and he noticed that Georgia was seemingly the culprit of it all.
This was not what he signed up for when he volunteered.
Renour Malvigne
District Two, 18 Years Old
"Do you ever stop?" Renour mumbled under his breath, interrupting Georgia.
"Huh?" Georgia uttered and snapped her head around, redirecting her attention from Beau and Denali to Renour. "You… speak?"
"Do you ever stop?" Renour repeated, his hands shaking with frustration from listening to Georgia's incessant talking, her insults and her snarky comments. From being in her general presence. Renour reached his breaking point. It was only a matter of time.
"Excuse me?" Georgia snapped, shooting daggers at Renour. "What did you just say to me, you dimwit?"
"Leave them alone," Renour groaned, slamming the tip of the spear onto the ground. "Stop, Georgia. Just fucking stop."
"How dare you speak to me like that," Georgia barked. "That's strike one."
"Strike one!" Renour shouted mockingly, throwing his spear down to the ground. He approached Georgia, who copied his motion, their faces only a few inches from one another. He could feel her hot breath on his face.
"Strike two," she replied, pointing her finger in Renour's face. "Keep going and see where that gets you."
"No one is intimidated by your finger-wagging, Georgia."
"Strike three," Georgia said. "Do you know what that means?"
"Nope."
"It means you're out," Georgia snarled. "You're done."
Shocked gasps and expression rippled through the tributes' faces around the training center staring at them. Renour's eyes widened in shock, but he was almost expecting it; he already considered the possibility of venturing into the arena alone, away from Georgia, but he didn't think it would ever come to fruition. He exchanged glances with the other Careers, and Renour was hoping they felt the same way he did.
That Georgia was the problem. That he wasn't acting out of line.
"You don't mean that, Georgia," Nereida offered, desperately trying to mediate the situation, to alleviate the physical tension. Renour knew the Careers had a stake in him remaining in the alliance, but that wasn't enough for him to suffer through any more of Georgia's nonsense. "You need to calm down."
"Calm down?!" Georgia exclaimed, thrusting her arms forward, pushing Renour backwards. She approached Nereida and by then, Cleo and Caspian made their way over to the obstacle course to intervene. Nereida took a few steps back as Caspian stepped in between the two of them. "You can join him, Nereida. You're just as fucking useless."
"Alright, alright," Caspian said, extending both of his arms to block Georgia from getting near anyone else. "That's enough. We're causing a scene."
Drachma firmly grabbed Georgia's arm as she bared her teeth, tugging her in the opposite direction of Renour. He slowly pulled her away, and flustered, Georgia rolled her eyes and uttered her disgruntled insults to Drachma. Cleo, Caspian, Nereida, and Renour stood there, staring at each other.
"I'm out," Renour whispered.
"What?" Cleo asked, shaking her head. "Don't listen to her. You know how she gets."
"I'm out," Renour repeated, this time with a louder, more stern voice.
"Are you serious?" Caspian replied. "Dude, come on."
"What if–" Cleo began.
"No," Renour interrupted Cleo. "I don't want anything to do with her. She's your problem now."
Renour couldn't deal with her bullshit anymore. Georgia was insufferable, and while the other tributes were able to go back to their suites at night, far away from Georgia, Renour had to sleep in the room next to her. He had to listen to her waking up at the crack of dawn to cackle with their mentors. Her shrieking, high-pitched cackle that echoed throughout the apartment.
"Renour," Cleo whispered, inching closer to him. "We can take care of it, but we need you."
"No," Renour said firmly. "You can take care of it. I'm not getting involved."
For a brief moment, Renour considered the possibility of starting a new Career alliance. Of recruiting his ex-allies that felt the same way about Georgia – he assumed they all did – but he realized he didn't want that either. He didn't want anything to do with any of them, for that matter.
Renour knew Cleo had something up her sleeve that Nereida was warming up to. That Drachma was becoming Georgia's puppet. That he didn't get really along with Caspian. That whatever was left of their alliance was a ticking time bomb and it was only a matter of time before it was left in shambles.
Cleo was visibly flustered, but she swallowed her words, looping her arm around Caspian's and pulled him away. Nereida simply nodded, following behind them, and Renour was left standing there. He was confident that he would be better off on his own; it might not have seemed like it at the time, but he knew it was for the better. That he would survive longer if he absolved himself from the Careers.
"So…," Beau said, his words trailing off, coughing to clear his throat. Renour almost forgot that they were still standing behind him. "What happens now?"
"Georgia tries to kill me once the gong sounds," Renour replied. He found the whole interaction somewhat comical, although a small part of him was also worried for what Georgia would do to retaliate. "Besides that, not sure."
The Careers and Denali and Beau went their separate ways, and as Renour stood there, watching them disperse, he exhaled. It was a sigh of relief.
Renour knew that he was not intrinsically a Career; he didn't have the drive, the passion, the barbaric qualities in him that the others seemingly had. He was no longer a member of the Career alliance, and Renour wasn't too rattled by it. He always wanted to be different, after all. He wanted to break out of this box his family, his District, put him in.
This was an opportunity to be himself.
To be the Renour he wanted to be.
Gunnar Altman
District Five, 16 Years Old
Gunnar swatched the paint across his forearm.
He dipped the brush into the different cups of paint at the camouflage station, stroking the brush along his arm, the different shades of whites, grays, and blues blending together. He painted the mish-mosh of colors into designs onto his skin.
"Do you think the Gamemakers are actually helping us?" Everett asked. "Or are they just making us look stupid?"
"Hm?" Gunnar uttered, dipping the brush into the cup of white paint and stroking it from his wrist down to his inner-elbow.
"What will we be able to blend into with these colors?"
"Oh," Gunnar replied. "I think it has to do with the arena. I've noticed a few other hints at the other stations."
"Like what?"
"There's some books on surviving in the cold," Gunnar said, looking up at Everett. "And the fire-starting station is taking up a lot of space, even though no one's been going there."
"Now that you mentioned it," Everett said, looking around the training center. "There are some weird stations, like the one over there dedicated to only fishing."
"What's there?" Gunnar asked, considering the possibility of having to fish for food in the arena. Little-by-little, he was getting a better sense of what to expect in the arena, and he felt more prepared than he thought he would by this point.
"Fishing poles, hooks, nets, different types of fish bait. Stuff like that," Everett said. "Do you like fish?"
"I've never tried any." Gunnar shook his head. "Five's landlocked. You?"
"I've tried it before," Everett replied. "There's a sliver of Three that has access to water, but it's murky as shit, so the fish are probably radioactive."
Everett and Gunnar chuckled together, and Gunnar went back to coating his skin with the gray paint, painting zig-zag lines down his arm. He had no idea what he was doing, and he knew that what was on his arm wouldn't conceal him at all, but he found camouflaging his skin with paint soothing, giving him a moment to take everything in, to assess the situation. As he was doing it, he connected the details he gathered about what the arena could be, concluding that it would be something cold, maybe with snow or ice. Fish, too.
It didn't make sense to Gunnar yet, but in due time, it would. Everything would come together.
"Painting?" Kit asked from behind them. "I leave you guys alone for a few minutes and I come back to find you… painting."
"Gunnar might be onto something," Everett replied, nudging Gunnar with his elbow. "I thought you were supposed to be the observant one, Kit."
"I am," Kit replied shortly. "So, let's talk strategy."
"Again?" Everett groaned. "That's all we do."
"Yep," Kit replied, taking a seat across from Gunnar and Everett at the table. "So, the private training sessions are tomorrow. I think we should aim for fives."
"Why not higher?" Everett countered, while Gunnar agreed with Kit. She always seemed to have a plan for everything, and Gunnar generally trusted her, although he rarely voiced any opposition. In this case, Gunnar wondered if they would come across as average to Panem, but instead of speaking up like Everett, he let Kit talk and he just nodded his head. Gunnar knew that Kit just wanted to hear them agree with her; whether or not they actually listened, if they actually ended up with a training score of five, was out of Kit's hands.
"With a five, we'll fly under the radar of the other tributes," Kit explained. "We'll also seem competent enough to potential sponsors."
"Okay," Everett replied, but was clearly not convinced. "Whatever you say, boss."
Kit grabbed a paintbrush, dipped it into the cup of light blue paint, and held it in front of her eyes, staring at the bristles as the paint dripped down the handle onto the table. She placed the brush on her fingernail, dragging it down to her knuckle, and did the same for each finger. Everett gawked at her, laughing at whatever she was doing, and Kit glared at him.
Gunnar did like his allies. They made him feel safe, like he didn't have to worry about if they would stab him in the back. They provided a sense of stability that he wasn't familiar with back in District Five. His life there was the exact opposite, and for someone who craved stability so much, that was difficult for him to reconcile. A life full of so many questions – whether or not there would be food on the table, if his parents would return from work at all – did not sit well with a person who was so cautious.
In Gunnar's life, everything had to be right. Everything had to have a purpose.
The Hunger Games were the most organized, most structured, part of Gunnar's life, and he wanted the Games to remain concrete. He had allies. After that, he wanted a good training score, to make a memorable impression at the meet-and-greet. To survive.
Gunnar was still figuring out how to achieve the latter.
He was generally an optimistic person, despite District Five consistently knocking his spirits down, and he kept telling himself that everything was great. That the future was bright. He wasn't delusional enough to tell himself that everything would work for him in the Hunger Games, but he knew that if he tried, he could win.
That possibility was enough for Gunnar.
He clung onto that hope.
Cassia Roenisch
District Three, 15 Years Old
Cassia surveyed her options in the training center, looking at the weapons stations, the survival skills stations, the computer-based stations, the obstacle course, the –
Monkey bars?!
"Do you like to climb?" Cassia asked, bee-lining for the obstacle course before Marcella could reply. Earlier that day, Cassia and Marcella learned what it was like to carry a spear – it was, as she expected, not easy to do – so that only lasted for a few minutes. Although she considered how useful monkey bars were, she shrugged it off. She needed some time to herself.
The obstacle course was long, with different sections, including stepping stones, jumping walls, balancing bridges, and hurdles, but the monkey bars were what caught Cassia's attention. The monkey bars were divided into two rows, both of them winding with varying amounts of space between each bar, and the two rows convened at the same point a few feet down the mat. The boy from District Seven was already making his way down one of the rows, reaching his arm forward, grasping onto a bar, the rest of his body following. He looked over his shoulder as Marcella and Cassia approached the station.
"Can I join?" Cassia asked, the boy perking up at her voice. "I'll race you."
"You're on!"
The boy from Seven hopped down, meeting Cassia at the beginning of the monkey bars. He raised his hands in the air, tightly wrapping his fingers around the bar, and Cassia did the same.
"Three… two…," Cassia said with bated breath. "One!"
Cassia and the boy from District Seven were off, swinging their arms and bodies forward, their fingers slipping off of the bar as they rushed to the end. In that moment, Cassia was only focused on the monkey bars, and nothing else seemed to matter. She forgot about where she was, about why she was in the training center at all. Cassia was laughing. A real, deep laugh. But, as much as she enjoyed it, it felt wrong.
They reached the end, and the boy from District Seven flipped around on the monkey bars, facing Cassia. He kicked up his feet, hooking them around a bar, and Cassia followed suit.
"I'm Cassia," she said, tilting her head back, looking at him upside-down, her hair hanging in front of her face. "Nice to meet you under these peculiar circumstances."
"Orion," he said, tilting his head back, his curly black hair dangling. "Nice to meet you."
Still, something felt wrong, and Cassia's mood suddenly turned somber. Was this really the place to act so cordial? To let herself act so immature, so care-free?
She was having fun – given the circumstances, that is. She was having as much fun one could have in a training center surrounded by weapons and tributes who would kill her, and she knew better than to seek out friendships in the Capitol. Sure, Orion was friendly, and sure, Marcella was pleasant enough to talk to, but that didn't mean that they wouldn't kill her if it meant that they would return back to their District. Everett proved to her that, even though everyone is scared shitless, not everyone was nice. Not like in District Three.
No one was to be trusted, and that was hard for her to understand.
Her smile faltered, her laughter gradually getting quieter.
"Cassia," Marcella called out, waving her arm. "Maybe we should try something else."
Cassia knew Marcella was right, so she released her grip, planting her two feet back on the mat below. Orion remained hanging on the monkey bars, looking down at Cassia and Marcella, and gave her a friendly smirk. He went back to climbing, reaching out his hand to the next bar, and as they walked away, Cassia glanced over her shoulder.
This is the Hunger Games, she reminded herself, although she wished it wasn't. She wished she was back in District Three, hanging out with her friends, roaming the streets. To her surprise, she found herself missing her sister too. Her bully-like sister. She would've never thought she would genuinely miss the girl she spent hours bickering with.
If she wanted to experience any of that ever again, she had to survive. She had to win the Hunger Games. It was easier said than done, though. Everyone in that training center wanted to win. She looked around, watching what the other tributes were doing, and she wanted to be like them, too.
"Let's train," Cassia said.
"What do you mean?" Marcella asked. "We're already training."
"Like, let's really train," Cassia replied. "With weapons and stuff. Not monkey bars or tying knots."
Marcella chuckled. "Okay."
Cassia and Marcella shifted their direction to one of the weaponry stations that was preoccupied by the boy from District Eight. As they approached the station, Cassia tried her hardest to keep her lips shut, resisting the urge to introduce herself. The boy threw his hands up in the air in frustration, letting go of the knife in his hand, and he kicked it across the metal floor as he mumbled to himself.
Cassia wanted to say something. To make a joke – what did the knife ever do to you? – but, she didn't. She walked passed the boy, Marcella by her side, and grabbed a knife off of the rack for each of them. The boy behind her was still in disarray, whining about how the knife isn't working, how he wants to go home, and instead of consoling him, Cassia turned her shoulder. It was very unlike her. But, if she wanted to survive, she couldn't be herself, and although that gut-wrenching realization didn't come easy to Cassia, she knew it was what she had to do.
She had to be the exact type of person she didn't get along with. The type of person that won the Hunger Games. Cassia was unsure if she was capable of being that person, but she would try. She would do anything it took to return to District Three.
Cassia wasn't sure what anything meant, but she was ready.
Or she would be… eventually, she hoped.
Author's Note:
Yo, yo, yo.
Training Day Two is over! You've officially met all of the tributes, and while some have already had their two POVs, there are still more to go. Just so we're on the same page, there will be four more chapters until the arena: two more chapters on training, one chapter on the 'tribute meet-and-greet' (similar to the Chariot Rides… I'm changing the interviews up), and then one chapter on the launch day.
Hope everyone's doing well! It's been a little over two months of being stuck in my apartment and I desperately need a haircut. That's where I'm at. And summer classes start this week, so I'm going through a lot rn
What do you think of these four tributes?
And random question: Given the circumstances, does anyone have any summer plans they're looking forward to?