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TRAINING, DAY 1
Walking into the training hall felt strangely like coming home again. After all, Flynn was raised half his life in a hall not unlike this one. The high ceiling echoes with the clatter of practice weapons clashing harmlessly together, and the noise forms a familiar rhythm, rising and falling like the wind on a stormy night. Now and then, a startled yelp breaks the pattern of sound, as some hapless tribute catches a blow from a padded staff or an edgeless sword. Other tributes work quietly at the non-combat stations, practicing their camoflage or woodcraft.
There's something almost homey about it all. Resting from his last bout, Flynn leans against the cool metal wall and watches the other tributes at their stations.
Most of the non-Careers aren't coming off very well; if they have any talent with a weapon, they're doing a stellar job of hiding it. Here and there, though, a few stars do shine. A burly kid from District Twelve is whaling hell out of a training dummy, and the statuesque blonde from District Ten is amusing herself by spinning knives into a terrifying blur and flinging them into a target with an accuracy that sends shivers down Flynn's spine. Between her and the Victor from last year, he's starting to wonder if the girls from Ten do their work details in the slaughterhouses.
Suddenly, a peal of laughter rings out.
It's so out of place here that it grabs Flynn's attention instantly. The boy with the bleached hair from District Five is at the staff fighting station, facing off against the trainer. The old guy looks grizzled and rough for the Capitol, gray-haired and inked across the face and shoulders with stark tattoos; a former Peacekeeper, maybe? Flynn would hesitate before calling him out, but the white-haired kid is surprisingly fast on his feet. He's darting almost playfully in and out of the bigger man's reach, raining nimble blows on any body part left unguarded for even a second.
"Try to keep up, old man!" the boy calls, still laughing. The trainer's bushy eyebrows lock together in a frown.
"Sodding show pony," he mutters, not quite under his breath. The insult just draws another wild grin from the District Five kid; he lunges in and locks weapons with his opponent, then deftly twists his staff around to smack the guy's shin and skips back out of reach as the trainer swears fluently. Flynn raises an eyebrow, impressed. The guy's got guts, all right.
The swordwork instructor, a tall, dark streak of a man, is leaning against the wall nearby. He raises an eyebrow at Flynn's expression. Flynn winces, caught out, and coughs into his fist - it's good to keep an eye on the other tributes' strengths, if only to guard his own back, but the last thing he needs right now is to start actually liking anybody. He's not here to make friends; not if he wants to win.
"Sooo," he says, with the blinding smile that made the masses scream adoration at the parade. "What do you think? Threat?" He jerks one shoulder in the direction of the staff fight.
The instructor's thin lips curl in distaste. So much for Capitol adoration. He glances where Flynn indicated, but snorts dismissively when he sees the kid. "Perhaps, if he was alone," he says, layering the words in scorn. "That's Forrester, isn't it? Our noble volunteer. That baby sister of his will drag him down like a lead weight."
That's right - Flynn remembers now, from the highlight reel of the Reaping he watched on the train. The tiny girl with the big brown eyes. Something about her reminded Flynn uncomfortably of the youngest kids in the factory, who used to beg him for stories back in the dormitory at night.
"Take it from me, boy," the sword instructor says, offering Flynn a practice blade. "Allies are never worth it. The useful ones kill you, and the useless ones get you killed."
Flynn mulls that over, as they stride back out onto the mats and take their fighting stances. The advice isn't anything he wasn't already thinking, but it's strange to hear it stated so plainly. How many kids has this guy instructed, as they passed through these halls on their way to the arena? Doesn't he care anymore? The idea of that little girl skewered on his blade, staring up at him with those frightened brown eyes, ties Flynn's stomach in a queasy knot. But that's the game here, isn't it? No mercy.
He shudders, eager for a distraction, and lunges into the fray again.