Okay guys, here's the next installment! Yay! Also, I'm finally home for break, so I might be able to update more often...or at least a bunch all at once or something...look forward to it! Haha...
Also, a resounding "I LOVE YOU!" to the three people who reviewed me! Only one of you is a registered user (ms. Safarilover1) and the other two are unidentified guests, but you are all wonderful, and I hugely appreciate the support.
(P.S. this has now been edited...and I fixed a couple of the things people have pointed out that didn't make sense. Particularly the thing with the harpoon, throwing things and stuff. Tell me if it still doesn't make sense!)
Anyway, be prepared for an interesting little hiccup in this one...something which I may expand upon, depending on people's reactions...and on to the show!
When I get back to the training center Finnick is already waiting for me, dressed in an exercise suit much like mine. I glance around—we're alone; the doors are closed, and the observational balcony is empty of its usual ogling capitol gamemakers. Honestly I was expecting them to be here, pressing their noses against the glass and scribbling down how likely it is that I will die first. Oh well-no loss.
"Where's Oscar?" I ask, coming to stand directly in front of Finnick. "I thought we were supposed to train together—you know, stay a pair and whatnot." He shrugs.
"Well, as long as you stay together in public, it doesn't matter how you train with me. We want the other tributes and the gamemakers to think you're a team; that doesn't mean you necessarily have to be one for real." I nod slowly, readjust my white-blond ponytail.
"So Oscar wants to train separately," I affirm. He nods. I can't say I'm all that surprised…or disappointed. It's probably easier for both of us to train separately. After all, only one of us can win.
"Right, then. What are your skills?" Finnick says with a sudden clap of his hands. I shrug.
"Well…I'm good with knots…ropes in general, really. I'm a pretty good climber…semi-decent with plants. Ummm…I'm fast, I guess? When I don't trip. Honestly, I'm much better at swimming. Oh, and I know some hand to hand from wrestling with the guys on deck-and when I say 'some,' I mean that I can hold my own for maybe 2 minutes. Tops." He chuckles, but it doesn't mask his displeasure as he rubs his hand along the back of his neck and blows out a puff of air.
"Well, you could be a lot worse off," he says to start. "But we've got a lot to work on, too. You sound pretty set on traps and evasion, which is great, but we need to get you up to par on survival skills, and mostly combat. You won't be able to climb up out of reach and just wait there—the gamemakers will never let you."
"I'm not very good with weapons," I confess. "I was okay with a spear earlier, because I thought of it as more of a staff with a blade and didn't throw it…" Finnick frowns, puts his fingers against his chin, deep in thought.
"You didn't think of it like a harpoon?" He sounds a little surprised, and why shouldn't he? I'm from District Four-spears, tridents and harpoons should be strengths of mine. I shrug.
"I'm really bad with harpoons." He grunts noncommittally, sinks into thought again.
"Really, you should be good at quite a few things—especially throwing. It doesn't make sense for that to be a weakness. I mean, you fish, right? You're good at casting…hmmm…" suddenly he gets an excited look on his face, struts to the stand of knives and picks out a small one. "Here, throw this." He points to a target. I stare at him.
"How? I just told you I'm bad at throwing..." He takes my hand, positions the knife in my clumsy fingers.
"Think of it like casting a line—flick your wrist and use the same concept of aim. This is small, so you should be able to throw it far enough." I nod slowly, feel the weight of the knife in my fingers. Close my eyes, take a breath, focus on the target. Tunnel vision…
When I throw, I think of casting a line, just as Finnick said, and the blade speeds through the air. I miss the target—the blades lands half an inch outside the figure's outline—but the blade sticks deep in the board. Honestly, it's more than I expected; I thought for sure that the knife would strike the board handle-first. Finnick looks pleased.
"That's great for a first throw, Tobi! We'll get this down…and then I think we should work on constructing weapons."
"What do you mean?" I frown. Constructing them? I have no idea how to even go about something like that. He levels me with a stare.
"Well, you know how to make fishing hooks don't you?" he asks. I nod slowly, starting to get it. "There will be wire and rope—maybe even some twine. Knives…Arrows…You should be able to use quite a few things, once you get your hands on them." I nod, and we get to work.
The first half of the hour is spent teaching me how to use weapons that might be available. I work on knife throwing the most, until I can at least hit the figure somewhere vital 1 out of every five throws. Then we move to spears, and interestingly, Finnick has me continue with my own odd methods, using the bladed stick as more of a sword than a projectile. We pretty much leave actual swords alone—they're all too heavy for me. The bow and arrows, as well, as they would take longer to master than we have time for.
"Alright….go!" I take off. It's the half hour mark, and Finnick has me running a timed mile. I said I was pretty fast—now's the time to prove it. I remember as a child I used to swim…all the time. Constantly. From morning till evening I would play in the bay; Grandma used to say I was more fish than human. I could hold my breath forever. Naturally, all that left my lungs in great shape, which makes running a lot easier. I pump my legs, arms and shoulders slack, ankles strong. Breathe in, out, in out…nose, mouth. I create a rhythm with the pounding of my feet, and before I know it, I'm speeding back in to Finnick. He clicks the timer and gives me an appreciative glance. "That was a 4.5 minute mile, little miss," he says breathlessly. I'm breathing hard, but I grin at him. Strands of mercury hair are slicked to the side of my neck with sweat; I couldn't keep up a pace like that for very long, but it's good to know I can do it when I have to.
The rest of the training we spend sitting cross-legged in the middle of the facility, surrounded by bits and pieces from all the other stations. We've tied some twine from the knots onto the handle of one of the knives—it's a good way of creating a sort of boomerang knife. We've also fashioned some interested hooks out of the wire and attached twine to those, as well. If these get into someone…well, they won't be coming back out again. When our time is finally up, we have created an entire new arsenal of things that will be more readily available than the more basic weapons.
"Well, I suppose that's it for today," Finnick says, stands and brushes off his hands. He reaches down to help me up, but I stand on my own, offer him a smirk. "Don't forget the interview is tonight." He reminds me as I head toward the door.
The interview.
I completely forgot.
I spin around, a look of alarm on my face. He laughs, waves a hand at me. "Don't worry, Tobi. Flux will go over it with you—you'll be fine." I throw him a doubtful glance, but don't argue. I pass Oscar on the way out, and he gives me an odd look, gestures to the remaining pile of weapons on the floor as Finnick begins putting them away.
"What on earth have you been up to?" he asks, face incredulous. I smile softly and shrug.
"Tinkering," I answer mysteriously before leaving the arena. As I walk through the stark halls to the elevator, I idly wonder what time it is, glance around the windowless walls. No sooner does the question cross my mind, however, than I feel overwhelmingly claustrophobic.
I lean heavily on one of the suffocating, white walls, hand to my chest. My heartbeat skyrockets beneath my fingertips, and suddenly my vision is sporadic. I'm hyperventilating, there's no air…my eyes flit in spasms from white square to white square, searching for anything, something not white…and suddenly I'm filed with the all-consuming fear of dying in whiteness…whiteness is blinding…burns my eyes, my head…
I clap my hands to the sides of my head, sink to the floor and lean down with my head between my knees. I focus on my breathing, force it to become slow…even…
I sink into a meditative void. The ocean floats in my mind. Breathe in, breathe out. I hear the waves slap on the sides of a boat—me—feel the subtle rocking motion. In…out…hear a seagull cry miles away, the whoosh of wind, smell the salt and the warm sun. Breathe…breathe…
"What's up with you?" The scathing voice cuts through my illusion and my eyes snap open. I'm still on the floor, hands tangled in my hair, head between my knees. I realize something is missing: it's the motion. I've been rocking. I didn't even notice until I stopped…
In front of me is a pair of shoes. Thick, black leather combats, attached to cargo-clad shins and dark canvas knees. It takes a moment for me to register the voice, brain on replay as my gray eyes remain wide and staring through a thin, white-blond curtain. I almost laugh—I must look completely insane…
Then the voice clicks, and my face morphs into a scowl. My eyes have anchored onto the shoes—they're not white. My breathing is back to normal; without shifting my gaze, I straighten my shirt, sit up, and push my hair back from my face. Once I'm sure I can, I push myself to my feet, arms crossed , to regard my…savior? Accoster? Enemy.
"Cato," I whisper. He smirks at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Having some problems, four?" he sneers. I simply blink at him.
"None at all," I respond breezily. I meet his gaze, my own icy as the mid-winter sea. His eyes still spark with malicious amusement as he saunters forward. I realize with dismay that I'm trapped with a wall at my back. He leans forward and down to my level, nose a mere few inches from my face.
"I wonder how long that will last…" he muses. My heart jumps. Was that a threat? Of course it was…An image of Cato running toward me, wielding a sword already slimy and glistening red flashes. My heartrate is accelerated, again, but I manage to smile coolly, tilt my head up so I can peer down my nose at him, despite his superior height (a trick I learned from having a beast of a younger brother.) I take a step forward, almost forcing him back. My nose is practically stabbing him in the chin.
"Do you know what it's like to work on the sea, two?" I ask. His expression doesn't change, still infuriatingly amused and endlessly contemptible.
"I'm not pond scum from your district, four," he sneers. I smile; it's a tiny gesture, but I know he catches it, just like he notices the new wildness dawning in my gaze. I can feel it, too, like ice in my bloodstream.
"On the sea you can never hesitate," I tell him, take another step forward. He doesn't budge—this is a pure battle of wills. "But do you know what's even worse than hesitation? Arrogance." I'm still whispering, and my words float through the stark halls like a ghost, mournfully eerie. "The moment you think you know the sea—the second you think you can control her or beat her down, you're finished." I poke him in the chest and push. It doesn't do much—I'm not strong enough—but his sneer has faded a bit. "She'll chew you up and spit you out faster than you can say 'sushi'." I offer one last, quietly crazed smile before backing up, walking to the elevator and putting a foot inside when it finally opens. Before stepping fully in, I glance over my shoulder. "By the way, sorry about the lift; but you know what they say: Ladies first." I step the rest of the way in. Before the doors close al the way, though, Cato's hands reach forward, quick as lightning, to hold them open. He looks in at me, face oddly unreadable. He's smiling, but it's cold…frightening.
"You're an interesting one, four," he says haughtily. "It will be very amusing to watch your…performance in the arena." He withdraws, the doors glide closed. "See you for training!" he calls, just before they bang together and the great machine begins pulling me to the fourth floor.
So yeah...that hiccup with the panic attack. You like, or no? I mean, I thought it was sort of an interesting part of Tobi's character-honestly, I wasn't expecting that at all, but I guess she's not coping as well as I thought...
Anyway, if you hate it, love it, don't care...let me know! Much love,
~S.S.