Javert holes them all up in what he calls the Training Center - tells them they have three days to learn how to live - and as much as Enjolras still despises the whole idea of the competition, he has to admit that the center is a thing to behold.
It's an enclosed room with different stations for learning various survival skills. Although Enjolras has never been tech-savvy, he's informed enough to that there was a technological boom in the last year that has produced a slew of never before seen machinery. He's able to disguise his bewilderment but the others are a little less discreet. "What the fuck." Courfeyrac whispers in absolute astonishment, gingerly touching a gadget that looks like a camera. The thing roars to life, and what seems like an apparition - a ghost? - spews from the lens, and everyone jumps back in surprise.
READY TO ENGAGE IN BATTLE. The blue apparition proclaims, producing a sword out of thin air. Enjolras surges forward to step ahead of Courfeyrac, who is stumbling to put as much distance from himself and the phantom. "That won't be necessary. Disengage." a cool voice says, and the illusion disappears. The voice belongs to a woman - lanky and dark-skinned, she introduces herself as Atala; their head trainer. "I see you've met our resident hologram, Tomas. He'll be available for sparring once training officially starts." Atala says sternly, shooting Courfeyrac a look. Never one for tact, Courfeyrac half-raises his hand to indicate that he wants to say something.
"You'll have to excuse my straightforwardness, but - what the actual fuck?" he repeats, and Enjolras isn't quite sure what he's referring to now - the sparring, or the 'hologram', or this woman, or the whole thing in general - but Atala takes this in stride. She tells them about the different stations available to their disposal; warns them that no combat is allowed with other tributes during the training - "You'll have plenty of time for that in the Arena." she says sourly. - and advises them that survival skills are just as important as fighting skills. "Don't ignore your survival skills," she tells them. "Exposure can kill as easily as a knife."
The moment after she says that, a pregnant pause hangs over the group, and Enjolras knows why. Kill. If they had no idea what they were going to do in the competition beforehand, they knew now - if they thought that they were ready for it earlier, they just then realized that they weren't. Atala, despite her dark eyes and pursed lips, softens enough to let them process the prospect of it all. Enjolras had been so ready to die in the revolution. What makes this any different? a small voice whispers in the back of his head.
Because it's not on my own terms.
Atala eventually sends them off with a quick blow of her whistle, and the tributes break apart from their groups. Enjolras isn't sure why, but he finds himself at the edible plants section - it's simply a large device similar to a television displaying different species of plants. He learns quickly that when he touches an edible plant, it lights up as yellow; those that are not glare red. It's some sort of memory game. Enjolras goes at it to pass time, trying to see how many edible plants he can identify in a row. He's on a streak - twenty plants - when someone taps his shoulder.
"Could I try?" Joly asks, hesitant. He still has jitters, but he's keeping them more in check. Enjolras nods and lets Joly take over the device. He's not sure if it's Joly's medical background, but the boy's able to identify all the edible plants in one go - it makes Enjolras shake his head. "God damn, Joly. Always overshadowing me." Enjolras jokes. Joly looks up at him anxiously, only to relax when he sees that Enjolras is kidding. "Sorry, Enjolras. I just haven't heard you joke... in a while, I guess." Joly says with a chuckle as he goes back to the device. For at least ten minutes, Joly rambles about the different plants on screen - Enjolras tries to commit them to memory, since it might help him in the arena, but it eventually becomes too boring for him so he lets Joly be.
A lot of the stations are already occupied. The Patron-Minette have stuck together, training at the gauntlets. It's a daunting obstacle course with ascending platforms that rise up to a landing - trainers also swing padded clubs at the tribute. The objective, Enjolras figures, is to do the thing in the fastest time possible. Babet, a scrawny little thing, misses a step and falls off the gauntlets, splitting his lip - this sends the other three men in to fits of laughter.
Grantaire seems to be enjoying his time at the camouflage section; with several paints at his convenience, Grantaire animatedly teaches Jehan and Azelma which color palettes will best resemble the ground. The rest of the boys are scattered in different weapon stations - Bossuet struggling with slingshots, Combeferre practicing archery, Courfeyrac dueling with 'Tomas' from earlier, and Bahorel sort of just dabbling in everything - with Marius as the only exception. Enjolras notes that he's alone at the fire-starting station, which is sort of exactly where he'd expect someone as soft as Marius to be; Enjolras figures he has nowhere better to head so he makes his way to the Pontmercy boy, trying to rack his brain why he'd disliked him so much.
"Oh, hey, Enjolras!" Marius greets him when he's near, awkwardly waving his box of matches at him. "I've been trying to light a fire with these and a couple of rocks, but I'm not really getting anywhere." Ah, that's why I didn't like him. He's a fucking idiot.
"You'll be needing some dried grass, Marius." Enjolras advises and tries to hide the exasperation in his tone. He can't really afford to make them hate him any more than they already probably do. "The rocks don't actually catch on fire. They're just there to light the spark." This information seems to process in Marius' head for a second, until he laughs nervously and reaches out for the mound of grass nearby. "I knew that." he mumbles, obviously abashed, and Enjolras feels sorry for him - just for a flash of a moment - because he's as helpless as a kitten with its head stuck in a box, and how is he going to get out of the arena alive, at that rate?
"How's your girl?" Enjolras asks for the sake of asking, and Marius tenses. "Safe." he says indecisively. "You know - which is more than any of us can ask for." Marius' statement is far from accusing, but it strikes Enjolras dumb nonetheless. Marius looks as if he's going to say something more - as if he's going to ask Enjolras for something - only to recoil as the rocks he'd been striking causes a flare. Enjolras takes Marius' excitement as an exit route; Enjolras isn't in the business of making promises he can't keep.
He jumps from station to station, letting each boy teach him what they'd learned until he's tired of dueling with Bahorel and he needs to take a break. It's only then that he spots Éponine, Madame Houcheloup, Matelote and Gibelote at the knot-tying section. Enjolras debates for a moment if it's safe to approach them, eventually giving in; he hasn't even said 'hi' when Gibelote stands abruptly and stalks over to the hammock making section.
"You'll have to forgive her, dear." Madame Houcheloup says tenderly. Madame Houcheloup had always admitted to having a soft spot for the Les Amis - she had acted as their honorary mother all throughout the time they'd taken over her Musain. Enjolras remembered the day of the revolution, how he'd kissed the back of her hand - how Joly had left a peck on her cheek and how Grantaire had swept of her feet. "She hasn't quite forgiven the - ah - circumstances we're in."
It was the first time anyone openly admitted to feeling resentment towards Enjolras, and it's sort of liberating - it doesn't sting as much. He nods and kneels to their level, trying to make sense of what they're doing. He's a little surprised to find that Éponine is the one instructing them. "If you don't have milkweed, dogbane or cattail is a good alternative," she rasps. "Anything that's stringy tree bark or plant fibers should work. You'll have to carve a hook and a mouth; usually with two sticks - here's a knife, Madame - Matelote -" Éponine doesn't offer a carving knife to Enjolras, and he takes no offense. He watches as Madame Houcheloup wheedles away at a twig and Matelote test the durability of her cord. Éponine is far quicker, though, assembling her trap and setting it up in a nearby 'tree'.
"You're quite good at that." Enjolras comments, but Éponine doesn't respond. She busies herself tugging at her cord to test its durability. He's racking his brain, trying to figure out how he could've offended her so much, but nothing comes to mind. He's tempted to bring it up - that is, until a loud bang resounds around the center, and everyone turns to see Montparnasse narrowly miss hitting Bahorel in the head with a club. "I told you already - I didn't take your damn knife!" Bahorel roars, throwing a punch that swings dangerously near Montparnasse's jaw. Atala is already blowing her whistle, and Éponine makes her way to the two to break it up. Enjolras hears a quiet giggle and looks up to find Gavroche hanging over him, clinging to the ropes course overhead - a flash of silver glistens in the boy's belt and Enjolras watches incredulously as Gavroche nimbly crawls past the arguing tributes with Montparnasse's knife.
No one else pays attention to him except for Éponine, whose head jerks upward when her brother is directly above her. She's sitting right next to a ranting Montparnasse, but her gaze flicks over to Enjolras - the only other person who knows - and the ghost of a smile seems to play on her lips before she turns back to her friend and tells him to suck it up.
/
Lunch comes, bringing forth an image of high school cliques much like Enjolras remembered them. The staff of the Musain stick together; the Thénardiers dine with the same table as the Patron-Minette, although they interact mostly among themselves. Montparnasse spares no expense while glaring at Bahorel, who is seated with Feuilly and Jehan. The Les Amis are all together, but grouped among themselves nonetheless - Combeferre and Courfeyrac have their heads bowed as they speak to each other; Joly and Bossuet compete in one corner on who can finish their food the fastest; Marius, Jehan and Grantaire are clumped together, distastefully judging everyone else. Enjolras chooses to sit with Grantaire, earning him a few taunts from his friend. ("Alas, have I wandered in to the Richest of France club? Or is this the Permanently Disowned Association?")
The food is bland, but Enjolras wolfs it down anyway. The meals they fed him at his 'apartment' was far better - the tributes, seemingly, had been assigned apartments in one section of the Training Center. The apartments were merely small flats, compensated in size by the stellar service; each of them were given warm accommodations and the best meals. Tributes could choose to live with another tribute - like how the Thénardiers all stayed in one room - but Enjolras had turned out all the invites the Les Amis extended to him. He didn't mind being alone. The pampering reminded him much like how one fattened a pig before killing it - which, of course, he didn't bring up to anyone, in light of the others being comfortable in the service.
Enjolras is jolted by Grantaire's elbow in his rib. "What?" the former hisses. "Are you going to eat your peas?" Grantaire asks, bored, and Enjolras pushes his plate towards him. This garners him a toothy grin as Grantaire takes the vegetables. "Eat while you can, Apollo." Grantaire taunts. He looks up briefly at Enjolras, and Enjolras catches the slightest of twitches in Grantaire's eye - withdrawal from alcohol, perhaps. "Who knows if we'll find something safe in that shithole." Grantaire sighs before taking a bite. "Knowing Javert, everything in there is designed to kill us."