Alright, movin' right along to the next chapter! The aforementioned twists don't happen here, yet. But there's a lovely little patch or two of banter, if I say so myself dusting off shoulders.
Also, this has officially been edited and bettered! Hurrah! Nothing significant, just some touch ups. And thank you to the mysterious, anonymous reviewer! I can't respond to you, but I just want to say thank you SOOO much. The first review is always particularly special! sniffles I feel like my life has meaning now, guys...
Anyway, I hope I'm not uploading too fast for you...if there is such a thing. I just tend to write in big sits (that's what I call them, I guess...?) you know, where you just sit and write for a good hour, and by the end of it you've got a couple chapters worth of material. So I split it up, and that's why you guys end up with a couple updates in a day, and then none for a while. Sorry-if the pattern annoys you, let me know!
But I'm sure you couldn't care less about my writing habits...On to the show then, ladies and gentlemen!
Blye wakes us early the next morning—earlier than necessary. I shouldn't be surprised that she's an early riser, I think begrudgingly as I roll out of bed. My whole body tingles from two days of being poked and prodded, walking around in heels…covered in sequins. And my chest feels heavy, as usual. I stumble to the bathroom, take a hot shower. When I get out, I spend a solid minute just staring into the mirror.
My face has grown even paler—it lost its sun, even though I've only been off the boat a couple days. My shower has left my normally white-blond hair a dark mercury, somewhere between solid and liquid as it clings to my neck, flows over my shoulders. My eyes are tired…but the grey is still bright. I lock onto them, as though I can see the ocean in my own irises. I can do this, I think. I can take off...I amble out of the bathroom, find clothes laid out on my bed. Flux must have put them there, though I couldn't say when. I feel the material, smile. It's highly processed polyester—specifically designed to mold to its wearer and hold up against wear and tear. It's in the standard design that all the tributes wear for training, highlighted with teal instead of red. I slip it on quickly, throw on the provided jacket and walk over to my desk where my little figurine sits. I drop it into my jacket pocket.
The training box is like something out of a different world. The ceiling is characterized by a net that stretches just under it, and the floor is covered by matt pads. There is a station for everything—swordplay, plant identification, knots, knife throwing, climbing. Everything. So many that I can't fathom which to approach first.
I continue to stare about as the training master gives an introductory speech, rattling off which percentage of us will die from which natural cause and detailing how we shouldn't overlook the survival skills. When she finishes, most of the tributes scatter, heading instantly for pre-decided stations. Even Oscar scurries off, heads straight for the station on setting traps. Blye told us this morning that we should stick together—make the others think we're staying in an alliance for a while—so I cast one glance around at the other stations before following my fellow tribute.
We don't stay at the station very long before I discover that traps are, essentially, the same as dealing with the rigging on the boat, just with wires. I master most of them fairly quickly, then turn to help Oscar with them. His fingers are quick, but he hasn't spent time on a vessel like I have, so it takes him a while to pick up the technique.
When we both feel comfortable enough with the traps, we head to the next station—we might as well just do everything in a circuit. I smile, stare up at the climbing wall. I like climbing. For my first year on the King Fisher, I was little more than a galley apprentice; I got assigned a lot of deck duty, and most of my time was spent clambering around in the rigging. The rock wall is definitely different, however—it's harder to get a solid foothold. My feet slip off the little rocks more than once, leaving me to dangle by my fingertips before dropping back down to the ground. With a self-irritated sigh, I cast a glare at the wall and move on to rope climbing instead.
I'm halfway through one of the nets when suddenly the whole thing tips upside down. With a muffled grunt of effort, I manage to hook my leg through a gap, save myself from falling all the way off the net. I'm left dangling by one foot for a moment, thankful that my ankle holds up, before I can swing my upper body forward to grip the rope, effectively re-secured. I look up the line to the cause of the problem. It's the boy from 12—I think his name is Peeta. He's somehow managed to maneuver his weight far to one side, flipping the net; and he isn't doing a very good job of holding on.
"Loop your foot!" I yell to him. He throws me a confused glance. I release one of my hands from the rope, point to my foot and gesture to him. He seems to get it—tries to copy my position. I grit my teeth. Even though I shouldn't care, I don't really want to see him fall off. Besides, I would hate to see the smirk on Two's face. Finally he succeeds, and I grin. "Now move to the other side—it'll flip the net back over," I call up. He tries…the wrong way: by taking his foot out of the loop. I sigh, unsurprised, as he falls the few feet onto the padded flooring. The room resounds with snickers. I unhook my leg and flip the net back over before dropping down to hang from my hands, letting go and landing squarely beside Peeta. I hold down a hand to help him up, but he doesn't notice; the girl has come up beside him.
"Throw that metal thing over there," she whispers. Apparently I am invisible. Peeta shakes his head, sits up.
"No, Katniss…Haymitch said not to show our skills—"
"I don't care what Haymitch said," Katniss interrupts. "Those guys are looking at you like you're a meal. Throw it." She stands up and walks away. Looks like Oscar and I aren't the only ones with alliance plans. Peeta and I turn to where she gestured, and find a crew of the careers snickering at us. I shake my head, turn and walk straight towards them, aiming for the station behind them, just to prove they don't scare me. Unfortunately it turns out that the station I'm heading for is spear-throwing. I deflate internally; spears are a lot like harpoons, just without the hooks at the end. I've never been good with those. For someone known to be good with fishing and boating, I'm notoriously bad at throwing the long projectiles. So much for showing off. Well, too late to stop now...
As I pass, a large hand flashes out to grip my shoulder. I close my eyes for a moment with an exasperated sigh; I know who it is even before I look up into his face.
"Two," I greet with a cold nod. He smirks at me, nods to Peeta, who has ambled over to the giant, metal weights in the middle of the room.
"Your new ally?" he asks mockingly. I casually pluck his hand from my shoulder, hold it out like a rotten fish. As I drop it, Peeta picks up one of the weights. Cato and his cronies chuckle, I watch in silence as Peeta, by some miracle, manages to hurl the thing all the way across the room, where it crashes into the case of spears. Great…I was just about to go over there, you oaf…I think, but I smirk at Cato.
"If he were, you'd be in some trouble wouldn't you?" I retort. He offers a scowl before the cocky grin is back, one eyebrow quirked.
"Well, actually I was hoping you would provide a bit of extra baggage," he snarks. I laugh.
"Right, well…tell me how that works out for you." I saunter as smoothly as I can over to the spears, pick one up off the floor and heft it in my hand. I stare at the dummy about ten feet in front of me. I know I'm supposed to throw the thing, but there's no way I'll be able to clear the difference, and I can feel the careers staring right between my shoulder blades. This is one of many make-it or break-it moments. So I take a deep breath, heft the spear, and run over to the sword dummies. I twirl the spear—treating it more like a staff with a blade at the end. By the time I'm finished, three of the five dummies are decapitated, the other two either missing limbs or stabbed through the abdomen. I heft the spear again, straightening. Not bad for flailing around…
"Interesting approach," Cato's voice drawls from behind me, accompanied by a slow, mocking clap. "But I don't think that's what you're supposed to do with it." I turn, spin the spear for show and thank my lucky stars when I manage not to drop it before pointing it casually toward his throat. Showing off is a tricky business…especially when you're not as good as you're pretending you are.
"I don't think it'll matter in the arena," I retort. "Five people are dead—it doesn't really matter what technique I used to kill them." I drop the spear, stalk past him. I hear him chuckle as I pass.
A while later, the bell rings for lunch, and we all file out of the training room. I find Oscar—over the course of the session, he's flitted around most of the survival stations—fire, shelter, plants, traps, knots. Even camouflage, though he says he's no good at it. After the spear station, I managed to get around to the plants, swordplay and fire. It turns out that the legends are true: district 4 is bad with fire. I guess it's because we come from water.
The careers all circle around a long table, joking and laughing and teasing one another as though we aren't training for our lives. I watch them with interest as Oscar and I pick a corner table. Most of them seem…oddly detached. I pick at my food with a grimace. No wonder they aren't afraid—they're in denial. They tell themselves it's really just a game.
After lunch, it's on to the private training sessions. Each district has a time slot, when their mentors can come in and help them train alone with the equipment. Ours is several hours after lunch. Until then, we are free to do as we please, as long as we stay in the building. It's not long before I find myself on the roof.
Unfortunately, I'm far from the only person with the idea. Already sitting with her legs over the edge, I find Katniss Everdeen—the girl on fire. I sigh. I had really hoped to be the only one up here. After a moment of deliberation, during which I almost turn and leave, I finally decide I might as well make the best of it.
Without a word, I walk to the other side of the rooftop, take a seat. She spares me a glance, and I toss her a nod before we return to ignoring each other and I look out over the city. It glows, like a bioluminescent fish flopping around on the shore, and I feel oddly unsettled. I'm not sure how much I like flying, Grandma, I think, allow the hours to drift by.
"I think you're almost up, 4," a cold voice says from the doorway out onto the rooftop. My heart sinks, and without a moment of hesitation Katniss stands, turns and walks away. I find myself wishing I had decided not to stay in the first place.
"Must you invade the rooftop?" I ask tiredly, not bothering to move. Cato saunters forward; I can hear his boot heels clicking against the metal surface. He wouldn't push me off the roof, would he? Surely not…I mean, there's the safety shield, anyway. And even if there weren't, why deprive himself of a nice, messy kill in the arena?
"It's not your rooftop," he answers simply, leans against the rail beside me.
"No," I agree. "I suppose it isn't…nothing really belongs to us anymore, does it?" I'm really only talking to myself as I pull the little fish figurine out of my pocket and hold it in my palm. I hear Cato laugh—it's a rough sound, unexpectedly bitter.
"Just our deaths," he says morbidly. I cast him a frown, and he points to my little fish. "What's that?"
"Just something from my district…" I curl my fist back around it, tuck it into my pocket. He nods.
"Well…I meant it when I said you're up," he says gruffly. I look up at him in surprise. Is that…discomfort in his voice? I wouldn't have pegged him as someone awkward. "You should probably go on down there, or you'll be even more likely to die early." I sigh, stand slowly.
"Better watch it, two," I say as I pass him. "Depending on how things go, I might outlive you, yet." It's an empty threat, we both know it. If Cato wants to kill me, there's little I can do to prevent him from doing so. Yet as I step into the elevator and the doors close, I hear him practically guffaw, and can't help but crack a smirk, as well.
See? Lovely bit of banter, there. And what have we learned from this? Cato is actually human! Yay! Alright, that's that I suppose. Although, I can't really peace out without the expected spiel: Reviews are much beloved to me (and to all) and I will love you forever if you present them to me!
Haha-TTFN, that's all for now, folks.