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Trojan Geomantra, 18
Applicant #22
Vector always said he slept like the dead.
It's a good thing, too. He knows there's a reason Meliodas has been gone every morning, and the third day is no exception. He wakes up and Percy is always already fully-dressed and pestering Icarus about something or other. Soran looks like he's dressed but you can never tell, still safely hidden in his bed, flattening a pillow over his ears.
Nicator looks on. Looks at him and smiles too, but not the way he smiles at anyone else. This smile is nervous, unfamiliar. Like he's dipping his toes in not knowing if there's sharks.
He doesn't move an inch.
There's something to be said about how easy it is to make these people uncomfortable. Hell, no one's even spent much time talking to him. It's a good thing that's not what he was here for like the rest of these delusional idiots; walking around and conversing with each other like a free period at school, doing nothing at all of importance. If they're not going to pick up a weapon, the least they could do is learn.
He's gotten pretty good with arrows. Him and Soran are about at the same pace, hitting the bullseye every other time by the end of the day yesterday. A little bit of patience, a lot of time, and bam. You've hit home.
Percy still won't shut the hell up, although he's not surprised. Icarus looks out from over his pillow as Trojan gets to his feet, rifling through his bag for another set of clothes. At least they don't make them wear a training uniform.
"Where are you going?"
"Mess hall," he answers, with no real plans to go there. "You got a problem with that, Your Highness?"
Icarus gives him the finger. At least his voice isn't as grating as Percy's is, no matter how many minutes he complains about the state of their lumpy mattresses every night. That coupled with the fact that he never shuts his fucking hole for more than five seconds and you'd think someone would've killed him long before he ever got here, Hunger Games or not. It's a miracle Nicator can even put up with him; a miracle, or he's just too nice to tell him to fuck off.
He doesn't wait for any of them. None of them would come with him, anyway. He dresses and half-stuffs his feet into his shoes before he strides out the door, slamming it shut behind him. The noise finally, blissfully, makes Percy shut up for a second before he picks back up again.
"Someone's a little touchy this morning," Lincoln says, leaned up against the wall next to the door. "Eager to get started?"
"Eager to get away from them," he says instead, rubbing his eyes. He's used to not getting a ton of sleep; he's always lived with a lot of people. Just never any this damn talkative.
"They're just finishing up breakfast," Lincoln informs him. "Go, if you want. Wake-up call is in ten."
Wake-up call feels like it was hours ago. He nods and starts off down the hall all by his lonesome, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn't care for anyone here to be by his side. He never has.
Much to his surprise there's already someone in the mess hall. Kidava - not that he's spoken to her once, or even looked in her direction. She's sitting in the middle of the room, occupying the entirety of one by herself. She's listlessly poking at a bowl of yogurt and fruit with one hand and scrolling her finger over a book with another, looking like she couldn't care less about the food.
He wishes he felt that way.
He grabs a plate and piles on the fresh, piping-hot food. A heap of scrambled eggs and fresh vegetables, crispy fried potatoes and bacon. Even waffles. They haven't given them those yet.
He downs nearly his entire glass of orange juice before he even gets closer to her but sits down anyway with a thud. Her eyebrows raise but she doesn't look up.
"Impressive concentration," he notes. "I assume your roommates are also a plague on society?"
"I guess?" she says. "If by plague on society you mean absolutely worthless when it comes to the Games, sure."
He doesn't know what she means by that. He isn't sure she wants to. "Not what I meant at all, but cool. What's in the book?"
"Harper said it was a best-seller in the Capitol after the Fourth Quarter Quell. It's about the top ten strategies used in the Games. They have a whole collection of them so I'm trying to get through as many of them as I can."
Kidava doesn't really strike him as the bookworm type. Maybe just obsessive, then, and uncaring about it.
"You're what?" he asks. "Twelve, thirteen?"
"I'm fifteen," she quips back. "How old are you, eighty-five?"
"Probably old enough to kick your ass."
"You'd be surprised," she hums. She still hasn't looked up at him once. He doesn't really get the feeling that she's lying. He's read probably half a dozen books in his life, five of which were regulated by the school-board, and sure as shit doesn't know a lot about anything important. Kidava probably does, twelve or fifteen. You read that much, you begin to absorb it.
She's pretty small.
A lot of Victors were small, too. You tend to underestimate the obvious things.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, and she shrugs.
He doesn't want to know. He really doesn't.
But there's a small part of him that does, and it's creeping up alongside the worst parts of him.
Emmi Langlois, 17
Applicant #13
"You're pretty cute, you know that?"
She almost anticipates a blush rising on her cheeks - almost. It does, just the faintest bit, until she turns around and looks at Arwen, looking no short of amused.
She doesn't have the strength - or the amount of proper hands - to be using a two-handed broadsword. Just because Arwen is apparently that magnificent and can just do it, even if she doesn't look like she has the strength herself. There's something Career in this girl, she's sure of it.
"You know, I can never tell if you're lying," she says. "You always just have the sort of same look on your face."
"C'mon, that was a genuine compliment. You look cute when you're frustrated. Your nose sort of screws up and your eyebrows get all narrowed like you're really focusing."
So Arwen's staring. Staring in a way she didn't expect Arwen would ever stare at anyone, considering none of the general populace seems to be on the same level as her. Maybe that's because every shoe she's brought has just a little bit of a heel to it, ensuring that even if she's not the tallest in the room she's still trying to be.
Well, she's staring too. Sue her.
It's not like she's got anything better to do. Everyone else is apparently trying to start an imminently disastrous mass sword fight before they're called away for the situation in a few hours. Arwen wanted to join in. Of course she did. She wasn't going to stand to the side and watch just because she didn't have the proper form to be sword-fighting.
Myra and Jahaira are already over there and hell, even Jupiter is, looking slightly exhilarated and much, much too happy for someone on the receiving end of at least three very pointy weapons.
"Here," Arwen offers. "This one seems a lot lighter."
She grabs the sword from her hand and twirls it around a bit. It is a lot easier to use. It still sends her a little off-balance, but pretty much everything will.
"Why did you never consider getting a prosthetic?" Arwen asks. "I mean, I know it's not perfect but Jupiter seems to be faring well because of it."
Renette isn't far away, watching closely. All of the Instructors are lurking around today as well as the trainers, keeping an eye on them. She still has moments when she wonders that herself. It would probably make her life a lot easier. Sure, people would still stare. They would still ask questions. But at least it would be a pleasant conversation piece, possibly, instead of what it is now.
"I guess I just never thought it would help, not when I was little." She shrugs and looks at the ground. "You know kids in the Capitol, they're judgmental bitches—"
"As am I."
"But not about this," she insists, but she finds herself fighting off a smile at Arwen's words. "Not about something that was out of my control. My mom always told me to embrace who I was, to not let anyone push me around. And when she died I guess I just sort of... took that to heart. At that point nothing was going to change who I was. So I didn't let it."
"Well, ally, I guess I'll just have to protect you, then."
"Oh, so we're allies now?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. Arwen tucks the sword under her arm and takes her hand, dragging her off across the room towards the others. "You know I don't need protecting, right?"
"Of course I know," Arwen says dramatically. "But Good Saint Winnie likes helping the less fortunate. It's one of my many layers."
Anyone else would take that to heart, would hear less fortunate and get mad, pull away. She laughs, instead, and lets Arwen pull her across the room anyway. It feels right. She thinks people are afraid of Arwen, just a little bit, the same way they're nervous to look at the space where her forearm should be for too long. Maybe it's their hair. Reminders of the Capitol seem to set people off, and they're everywhere here.
"Winnie," she says slowly. "Who calls you that?"
"Only the people I deem worthy of it. A few close friends. My father. That's it."
She waits for something else, for Arwen to add on a quick so don't call me that, peasant because she can hear it perfectly already, like the words were made for Arwen's voice.
But she doesn't, pulling Emmi the last few feet along and she finds herself smiling stupidly even when Arwen looks away. There's a stupid, hysterical part of her that feels like a twelve year old schoolgirl again, like she was experiencing everything around her properly for the first time, standing tall and independent when she had finally vowed not to be a meek and shy person anymore.
"You're pretty cute too, Winnie," she says, and her voice doesn't falter in the slightest. She can't remember the last time it did. That Emmi Langlois is far in the past, the one that took everyone's words to heart and hid herself from the shame that she wasn't all the way perfect.
Maybe Arwen doesn't think she's perfect. Not when she thinks that about herself and only herself. But it feels pretty damn close, and in a world where that's one of the biggest rarities she's not going to let go of it.
Arwen turns around and smiles. She smiles back, and lets it hurt her cheeks.
She decides, right then and there, that the sword-fight doesn't matter.
Neither does the simulation.
The results are the furthest thing from her mind right now.
Soran Faerber, 18
Applicant #8
If everyone gets out of this mass-hysteria induced sword-fight without so much as a scratch, he'll be shocked.
It's not that someone here is asking for an injury, if you exclude Percy from that lump-in. It's just that everyone seems particularly on the side of doing just enough stupid, reckless things that one day it's going to come to a head.
One day it's going to harm someone.
He knows all about what it takes to harm someone, no matter how many years ago he learnt it. It's been a long time, but that type of shit you never forget.
It's why his arrows found their home first. It's why Icarus is still mad about it.
But really, what isn't Icarus mad about?
"You better hurry up, or someone's gonna shank you in the back," Myra says casually. He settles on one of two swords and turns around. He severely doubts either of them, Jahaira especially, would have any luck shanking him in the back.
Hell, even Verity looks like she's considering a hand at trying, but she's probably not tall enough to get a good shot in-between his shoulder blades.
"As if you could."
"I'd let Icarus take the first shot anyway."
Icarus scowls from their left. "Sorry, I'm not going to waste time stabbing someone who looks like a homeless person."
"If he's a homeless person, than what am I?" Myra mutters, gesturing to her shorts and tank-top. He's wearing a t-shirt, jeans and a hat for crying out loud - how much more normal and average could he really get?
"Okay, fashion police," Jahaira quips.
"At least I'm not dressed for my first shift at the goddamn stables," he says. "What, do you train horses for a living?"
Jahaira snickers, and Myra nods, almost thoughtfully. He really does look like it. It's just a lot of vaguely off-white, khaki-looking things. As if Icarus has any right to talk about clothes and what he should or should not be wearing, especially in a situation like this. At least he fits the part of annoying, insufferable instructor who gets off on talking lowly to people even the slightest bit beneath him.
And Icarus has no idea just how low beneath him Soran really is.
"Come near me and I'll stab you."
"Good fucking luck with that," Icarus mutters, and turns around. It would be way, way too easy to plant a knife right in the soft spot of his neck. He has no idea how easy it would be.
"Stop real fighting," Meliodas says as he walks by, tapping Soran's sword with a shorter, much more narrow knife. "Only fake fighting allowed."
"Okay, Dad," he says flatly. "You're fake-dying first, then."
"Probably," he agrees. "Go easy on me in the simulation."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Meris rolls her eyes as she follows him through the crowd. He thought the two of them had deemed themselves above all of this nonsense, metaphorically speaking of course. Neither of them were quite on Icarus' level in that regard. Even Percy, who probably thinks he's on the same platform, is lurking around, although Nic looks like he's ready to grab his arm and pull him away if the time calls for it.
"I don't like that you're so good at twirling that around," Faye says, leaning around his shoulder, and he nearly elbows her in the forehead. "Like, suspiciously good."
"You can call it my forté, if you want."
Faye narrows her eyes, and attempts to spin her own, too-large sword. Has she not learned her lesson from yesterday? It looks like she's trying, but he can't really tell. The fine line between trying and trying way, way too hard has been wiped over, blurred, and completely obliterated by this girl. She's trying to make up for what she lacks in size compared to the rest of them and simply can't.
That's the sad thing about this entire group, if he's being honest. You can smile and chat and pretend you're friends with them, but it's hard to get out of the back of your mind that they're falling for it. He has nothing against them. Never has. Probably won't ever well.
You can act one way and think another. That's the lesson they all need to be taught, not any of this bullshit.
A sword won't save you if someone's well and truly playing you.
Icarus nudges him as he slides by, bumps their shoulders together, and at first he thought he was the one riling Icarus up, not the other way around. He turns the sword, jabbing him in the leg with the blunted edge.
"What's your problem?"
"Got a lot of problems. You could say it's my forté," Icarus mimics, and shoves the sword away.
"What kind of problems could you possibly have?" he asks, genuinely curious. "Daddy issues? I've got those too. You're not special."
Icarus actually snorts. It's the most human, ordinary sound he thinks he's heard come out of him. It doesn't even sound right coming out of his mouth. The mighty Icarus, having fallen down to their stupid, idiotic mortal plain. How tragic it must be for him.
At least he didn't die when he fell.
"I think I'm pretty special," Icarus says, reverting right back to the holier state.
"Yeah, that's a word for it," he says flatly. "Special."
Icarus actually leans back to try and elbow him, so he leaps away. He doesn't have time for this anyway.
They've got a sword-fight to start and finish.
They've got a simulation to get to.
Topher Westmoreland, 12
Applicant #24
Noelani can't stop him from doing everything.
She never could decide things quick enough, not back home and not here. She didn't want to get involved in everyone's play-fighting, so she stays away. He even lures Tarquin over, who must have some experience tossing wooden swords around.
Not that it helped anyway.
He doesn't think he'd be a bad swordsman, if you gave him ten years and twenty hours a day of practice. It doesn't look that tricky to get a hang of, if you're someone taller, stronger, and more coordinated. All of the things he's not. While he'd like to pretend that he's someone he's not, it doesn't always work that way. You can act a certain way only for so long, if your actions don't match up to it.
They break for lunch. Dinner, whatever it is. There's not so much a concept of time in here as there is a gut feeling when they'll be allowed out of the room, and this is one of them. He sits down across the table from Noelani even though something tells him to go off and sit with someone else. Anyone else. He should have spent more time on his own here; God knows he spends enough time with her at home.
It's why when Nyko and Renette enter the mess hall he's one of the first ones on his feet. Only Verity beats him, which makes it all too easy to follow along behind her to end up second in the line to... wherever they're going, really.
The fact that they all seem excited about this, for the most part, must be a little morbid. Renette doesn't necessarily look excited. More thoughtful, as she watches them all cluster up near the doors to be led out. She watched so many kids from her District die - they all died, and here she is watching twenty-four of them line up to fake it like it's a party.
"So what exactly are we going to do?" Verity asks, wedging herself out the door after Nyko like she's ever going to lose sight of him. She's quick enough that that would never happen. "Are you just going to give us all weapons and let us go at it?"
"Not exactly." Nyko laughs. "Like we've been saying, it's a simulation. A virtual reality experience. A few colleagues and myself have been working on it for years. The technology was always developed enough to see and hear what was going on if you were provided with the right equipment, but we didn't exactly want to put you all in twenty-four separate rooms and let you stumble into the walls trying to hit each other."
"What Nyko's saying is that it reads the patterns of your brain. Interprets your actions and thoughts in real life and transfers them to a virtual world," Renette explains. "If you see something that you want to pick up, the you that exists in the simulation will pick it up, and you'll be walking around as if it's really in your hand."
"And that's safe?" he asks. Not that he particularly cares - it sounds fun either way.
"As safe as we could have possibly made it," Nyko assures. "The technology can register injures and critical hits, but you won't feel a thing. Once your personal simulation ends, that means your theoretical death is confirmed. We'll get you out of the headset, if you want to call it that, and share the results."
"Oh, so what kind of arena is it, then?" Verity asks, practically bouncing on her feet. "Something outdoors, like the mountains? Or, snow, I love the snow."
"You'll see," Renette says. "It's only roughly the size of the gymnasium, maybe slightly larger. We don't want this to last very long."
Of course not. Because this is where they end the realism; leaving them in there for several days or even several weeks. They've already put them through the most real motion they can, why not extend it to that?
"Alright, everyone choose a seat. It doesn't matter where."
Nyko opens the door. Verity practically bolts to the front row of seats, although it doesn't really look like it matters. There's a little monitor in front of every chair, and some sort of weird looking headgear lying beneath it. There's an even larger screen at the front of the room, he guesses, so that the Instructors can see what's going on.
He almost heads for Verity, but Noelani nudges him into a row and he has no choice but to pick a seat with her next to him. At the same second Jay busts into the row next to them, looking down.
"Can you move over, Toph?"
Toph, like he knows him. And he wants Topher to move over, leaving a seat between him and Noelani, so that Jay can sit next to her? Fat chance.
"That seats empty," he says flatly, gesturing to the one in the aisle. It's a few over from Noelani, and he doesn't look the least bit impressed with it. But Noelani doesn't move, and neither does he, so eventually Jay lets out a huff and heads back down the aisle, sitting down with a very sad-looking thump.
"What a loser," he mutters.
"Topher," Noelani chastises. "C'mon."
"What? He is."
Noelani doesn't agree. Noelani doesn't think that the guy with a wicked bad crush on her is a bit of a loser, for following her around like he thinks he has the slightest chance. It's gross. He doesn't get relationships.
He settles back in the seat, sinking into it. Nyko's already headed around the room, moving from person to person.
Soon, it'll be his turn. Then they can get this over with.
Whatever this even turns out to be.
I'll be honest I just want to get to the Games-Games. Also I nearly forgot to upload this.
Let me know what you thought!
Until next time.