An Unlikely Pair

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By: DarkGiggle

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I make no profit so please don't sue me.

Warnings: Un-beta'd and looking for a beta. Rating and violence level will go up.

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PART 21

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As she is carted out he does some stretching and warm up punches and kicks. Why he didn't do them away from my view is a mystery yet I'm appreciative. He's hurt already; it shows in his slowness, his refusal to bend his left elbow and knee past a certain point and the way he is curling his body a bit over his right ribs. When he settles into his ready stance he has this resigned look to his face and jaded weariness in his onyx eyes.

The command to fight doesn't do anything spur him on; never the less, I attack with speed. He blocks, diverts, blocks, dodges and barely punches/kicks back at all (the few he does hurt quite a bit!). He's not bouncing around like she was, in fact he's not anything like her. He's really good, the ease and flow of his motions speak of years of skill but he's mainly defending, keeping me from hurting him more. I don't understand this mercy he's showing me (this is his job, he might have to answer to the purple robed asshole squad above), however, I'll take it. I charge forward in low, when he punches, I knock his arms up and go for his shoulders with both hands. I pull him forward and down, off balance and feet spread, then when I feel his hands on my shoulders, trying to push me away I slip down. My knee penetrates his footing, my shoulder slams into his middle, I grab his uninjured knee, drive into him forcing him up off his feet, press into his calf and bring him down. He grunts, both from his back colliding with the mat and my shoulder shoving further into his middle.

Instantly after he tries to scramble and get up, more urgently and with vigor that was not there a heart beat ago. I don't let him. The one way he is like her; he's not a ground fighter. In short order I'm behind him and under him, not a great position but perfect for what I want. I get him in a chokehold, his chin inline with my elbow around his neck and flex, squeezing off blood flow to his head. He struggles violently for a split second yet then the effect set in and he quickly goes from still to all out limp. Timing carefully I only release when it's sure he'll be under.

It should be really over now. Though a little more sore, I'm no more damaged than I was before him. After getting up (he's breathing but has not woken up, likely won't for a bit) I face the assembly of pricks but don't look up at them. Just one glance at this moment will form an irrepressible scowl and perhaps a few choice words.

Here is the middle ground my promise to Hawthorne enforces, I get nice clean knockouts and the price is no venting my feelings out on the group above. So I stand still, quietly awaiting their wishes as the medical team returns for him. It should be a good thing to get the go ahead for the Weights Station, a sense of foreboding is all that comes from it.

I go over and lacking all preamble, toss the closest one. It wasn't heavy so the two handed grip sent it clear across the room. The handled ball clangs noisily and rolls until it ends with the number 45 lbs facing up. It's unclear if the weights are meant to be tossed because there is no target area and the weights go from 2 to 170. Oh well. Still ignoring them I grab a 90 pound weight, launch it and follow up with a 135 one. Unlike the first two, the last only goes decently far. 140, 145, 150 pounds get lobed and land with decreasing distance. I'm hesitant to go up to 155. The 150 lbs was heavy and it's very different throwing them then just picking them up. Hope they're satisfied with just lifting because that's all I do with the rest of them. A sprain or strain this close to the arena I just can't afford. Once the 170 is returned to proper place I cannot help but hope we're done. Surely they're simply bored of me by now. There is this one thing I could do, that Mr. Abernathy suggested and it might be great… or it might be an opening to bring in another trainer. I stand coolly, waiting for dismissal until:

"Your mentor, wrote of one more skill with the weights, before he changed your program. What was it Miss Mellark?"

That makes me jerk up automatically, was it Haymitch (bastard!) who set up my session? The question flies out of my mind when I see there is less than half of the original Gamemakers there and most of the remaining ones are eating, dozing or chatting. What the flipping Fuck?! Crane and three others are the solitary members watching me and so jarring it's like taking a right cross between the eyes.

I… I've never felt so small or insignificant before. Never this little; I rock backwards with the feeling, both with the newness and just the horrid sensation. This is not comparable to home, there I was at least a person, this… this feels more along the lines of a thing or animal. No less than animal or object, all animals and resources are scares in twelve so they all hold value. To them I hold none. To the ones that left I am nothing and to the ones that stayed I'm barely above that. My actions, my struggles and my life mean Nothing to them. I'm so irrelevant to the majority of them they couldn't even stay to do their jobs of watching me and have already written me off. A shiver of cold and nausea runs through my guts. I knew, I knew to the Capitol in general and to the government of Panem I was as good as dust to them, as all the citizens of the higher districts know, but I've never known it from real, in person, people. I've never had such abuse done to my face.

Part of me (a part not reeling in shock), wants to spit, curse and beat the ever loving crap out of them. Wants to let lose this sudden rage and shake them until they see that I have value, my district's people have value, that life has value! The rest just wants to flee, simply walk away from these monsters for whom life is so cheap and then take a shower to wash away the metaphorical stink of them. I can't do either, for Gale I can't do either. For the hunter I force my limbs stiff, push down a swirling orb of malice in my heart, glare at the floor and say levelly; "The two and five pound weights, I can turn them into projectiles. I can hit targets or practice dummies if you would like."

Immediately that gets a response, "Head Crane, you can't, this has run on long enough. Call it a night already." Whines an older woman, all that face-pulling surgery isn't hiding it.

"Yes, this is cutting deeply into my festivity time, the sponsors and the feasts are calling." Snorts an overly porky man (man? woman? thing?) dyed a rosy tangerine color, if he(?) were just a bit more light pink, with that up turned nose…

"Don't you want to see something new?" asks a much older man, his white hair likely real and his ruby red teeth hopefully aren't. "It's so rare to see something new. That last boy, his rope trap, now that was exciting."

Before a debate can start up Head Gamemaker Crane turns around to them, quashes it with a glare and commands, "Eight of you may leave, decide amongst yourselves quietly, the rest must stay." He returns to looking at me then and gives no mind to the many glares at his back. In the near silence that follows eight happily trot away and the rest slump more in their seats.

All except the weird teeth guy (at least he noticed Hawthorne) are on my shit list and I'd like nothing more than to peg them with a stone from the Slingshot station. Wish Crane had let them go, not like I want the callus freaks around if they can't be bothered with the likes of me. 'For Gale,' repeats like mantra in my mind, making me halt until I have the okay to take some weights (four each of the 2s and 5s) back to the knives station and then find out it's been taken down. There's no one there to manage it but the Avoxes who are rushing to set it back up again. Guess all the trainers have left by now. So why the hell is he making me do this?! While I wait for the targets and dummies to be pulled out of the supply closet and be put in place I unscrew the bolts holding the handles on, making them real balls. They are just a bit bigger than the baseballs back home, but oh to take a hit with these would hurt! That don't I turn to the ever loosening wrapping on my hands and peel it off.

Finally when it's all set I grab a 2, tell the Avoxes to clear out and pitch for the bullseye on a target board. With a loud crack the weight shoots through the board and thumps when it hits the padded wall behind. The wide eyes of the Avoxes are almost amusing, until they start tinting with fear. That's right, if there are no trainers, it could be one of them the Gamemakers label as my human target. I fervently hope it does not come to that. I go through the target one by one, putting wholes through the bullseyes and smashing the flying targets with the 2s, knocking heads and limbs off the manikins with the 5s. My arms are staring to burn, but still the order to stop doesn't come. A while later the burn is changing to an ache however I refuse to ask for a cease from them; pride and logic won't allow it. It is not until a young man rushes in with a gym bag over shoulder that I get to stop. Oh no…

"Apologies Head Gamemaker, but I seem to be the only one on hand and I was leaving until a minute ago." He huffs a bit breathlessly. "If you'll allow me a bit to warm up I'll ready to go."

I recognize him, he's the trainer of the Fire Making station (his metallic gold hair and silver eyebrows stood out amongst the other normal instructors), so what is he doing here now? Surely it's not for fire skills? And in those Capitol clothes, of zigzagging streaks of electric blue and white defiantly isn't the uniform he was wearing the first day.

He gets a nod in response. Disappointingly he does not go over to his dismantled station and instead begins to stretch.

Crap on a cake, he really is my target. I purse my lips and watch his form; he's very flexible, maybe more than me. Then he stands on one foot and brings his other straight up along side his body, straight into the air. I gasp, snap my view away and flush horribly. Those pants are very tight and very thin and he doesn't seem to like jockstraps or underwear. "You need to change pants!" I cry out.

"What?" He says.

Why the hell does he sound so surprised? Shouldn't it be obvious? I glance, nope he's just switched to his other foot, and turn sideways so that he's only in the outer limits of my peripheral vision. I can feel the heat bleeding from my face down my neck and up my ears! "Go change pants or put some underwear on!" I half bark half order. What the hell is he doing, coming here like that?

From above a chorus of laughs starts, I inadvertently turned towards them so they can see my crimson blush. They apparently find modesty and common propriety funny, the twisted bastards. So life is cheap but humiliation is platinum?

Slowly relinquishing his obscene display the dude stands normally (with those pants it's not much better) and ask, " Are… Aren't you like around 16?" One silver brow is raised up and he scopes me out like I'm the one that's weird. Of all the gall!

I level a glare at his eyes specifically then turn away again, "What's your point? That doesn't stop you from going and changing."

Now this dude just looks boggled and the degenerates up there are laughing harder. How the hell did it get to this!? Why is this so funny to those bent aberrations of the human species?!

Though I am on the wrestling team I never really had to deal with… this situation before. Not that I hadn't seen it happen before. My big brother started wrestling when he was 14, so for two years my little big brother and I watched him on the team with envy, just waiting until we were old enough. When little big brother joined it was a smooth transition from eager spectator (and at home practice dummy) to full team member and I was suck waiting two more years by myself (not really by myself as it was then my turn to be the practice dummy). Anyway, situations of lack of under clothes and worse… 'male excitement'… have been happening around me be since I was 10. Those happenings just never happened to me. My big brothers, bless their hearts, had a very strict 'talk' and a harsher 'demonstration' with all the guys on the team and everyone looking to join on the day I tried out for the team. They repeated it the day I was approved for the team. Not even any of the fathers of the guys on the team complained, not when my father showed up to my first practice to cheer me on (so embarrassing then, so heartwarming now). Nobody on the team is allowed to not wear their proper layers, nobody is allowed to try any 'funny business' with me, definitely no male excitement pertaining to me in anyway (the ones that are interested in guys save that for each other) and they all have to call me Mellark so they remember whose family I belong to. Yes, it's special treatment, yes they kind of resent me for it but I'm grateful for it and I'm strong enough to shut up any individual that has a problem with it.

No family here to back me up now however these fucks can't really want to watch his junk flail around, right?

"Miss Mellark," there is far too much unholy delight in those light greenish-blues, "are you suggesting you will forfeit this station if the instructor does not change into more concealing clothing?" he questions haughtily.

"Ye- Nn- Ma-," I stumble over yes, no, maybe so and my color brightens. I'm sure I could glow in the dark by now. Crap on a cake, forfeiting is not an option but this is just gross! This is unprofessional! I thought there were rules of conduct here, or why else punish me for flipping the finger at all? I pause for a moment, not to weigh my choices, just to read his face. He is trying to hide it from those around him yet he riveted to me, so fervent for my answer he is all but leaning over the balcony edge to hear me. This fiendish supercilious man must be waiting and wanting for me to give him any excuse make this worse for me! I don't know how he could outside of the arena but I sincerely don't want to find out. My overall frustration level increases and I can't help the frown I send him. "No Head Gamemaker Crane, I would never suggest forfeiting."

"Then what are you suggesting?" His voice rings of impatience though his gaze is curious.

Oh goody, another mercurial unstable, morally deranged person. Now one more reason why the Capitol favors the Career districts becomes clear. Creeps like other creeps. 'For Gale, for Gale, for Gale,' my mind chants with stubborn verve. It really is too bad I can't piss him off further, that leaves this jerk trainer, who seems way too amused with this. Him I can vent on and before I can think better of it my mouth goes, "I'm suggesting that if he doesn't at least ask you to go put some decency on, I'm going to throw every weight right there until there ain't nothing left to display!"

Oops. Oh Hawthorne, I'm sooo sorry! I tense harshly, waiting for the hammer to fall.

The trainer squawks, most of the men balk, the women's reaction is more mixed and Crane pervertedly looks enthralled. There is more wrong with him than previously estimate however, for whatever whimsical reason instead of going after me for shooting my mouth off (spectacularly!) he just looks to the perv #2 and cocks an eyebrow. At that all muscles relax a bit too much and I wobble a tad. 'There won't be repercussions for Gale! There won't be repercussions for Gale!' my thoughts cheer! I'm not naive enough to think I'll get anything above a two now, yet I take that look to mean there won't be repercussions for Gale, so it's fine. Yes I very much wanted to help, but as I seem to be a hinder to him in all ways I'll take not harming his odds.

The golden haired asswipe gives me such a glare but I could careless and he bites out, "May I please be excused for a moment more to change Head Gamemaker?"

That is music to my ears, watching him schlep his bag and head for the doors is even better. It calms me and lets me realize sticking the handles back on the weights might be a good idea. He's back too soon for my tastes, only the two lbs weights are done and he's only changed his lower half (jock evident), oh well. Actually, now that he's properly dressed everything is serious again and I don't want to hurt him… um… not hurt him with a hard, solid metal ball that is.

It's not my choice so when the decree comes to start and he runs for cover I go after him. I toss one of the four at his shoulder and it misses sliver as he turns the corner behind an weapons stand. Just as I turn the same corner to follow something long flies at me. On instinct I duck it and then the second that comes after. When no more come (and he's made his escape) I breathe again. Staffs! They are wooden staffs, not spears. Shit that fucking startled me. Although they would have hurt on impact, they wouldn't have impaled me. I take one more lungful then go after him at full speed! There isn't much equipment left up (when did the Avoxes to all this?) so he sticks to knocking over stands in my way. It does no good, I clip him once in the thigh and once in shoulder. Discretely I retrieve each weight each time after I hit him, it gives him a few seconds to shake off the pain. Despite what the Gamemakers obviously want he's not going to end up a pile of broken bones and head trauma. To take him down cleanly I'll have to get close enough to force him in another chokehold. I get in two more hits, one to his other thigh and one to his hip and dodge a bow (not the arrows), a coil of rope, a dead insect case (Ew! Ew! Ew!) and a poorly thrown yet huge mace in return. As I gather my weight he dives for the Stealth station and disappears in the thick of it. Oh thank frosting! I can take him down without prying eyes. I crash in right after him, drop the weights once it's thick enough and commence to hunt him down for real.

Damn it, I'm making too much noise and he's making none. Going in slow and stealthy isn't possible, don't have time to be quiet, can't give him the chance to slip away. That being the case it isn't surprising I don't hear him coming over my own sounds and take the tackle to the back full on. We hit the dirt, twigs, bushes and tree trunks in a tumble on limbs. Instantly I switch to my wrestling and find out he's even bend-i-er than me. This is turning into a pain in the ass, with him wriggling and contorting himself. It also does not help being poked everywhere by nature and getting dirt ground into my knife cuts (cause it stings!). When a random stick digs into one of my deepest cuts I've had enough and haul him up. As the weaker party, he's got no option but to follow. I get behind him and manhandle my way into wrapping my arm around his neck; however, before I can flex his hands go somewhere unexpected. I squawk at the feel of two hands reaching back and squeezing handfuls of my rear then instantly shove him away. Where in this crap bowl of a world did that come from? I look uncertainly at his back and when he turns with a too wide smirk on his face I know he did that on purpose to get that very response. My face heats in upset and I hiss, "You perverted louse!"

He shrugs like it wasn't anything and warns, "Next time you come at me I'll grab your boobs."

My jaw literally drops and I gap at him in total disbelief. Who… Who in their right mind fights like that? That's not real fighting, that's being a pervert! I try to get my mouth to say that yet it merely sputters and slurs awkwardly over sounds.

The letch takes this as an opportunity to leer and add, "Then again, maybe you want me to?"

This time I don't so much as yelp as my cheeks heat enough to start a fire. This time I color in anger. It clicks, this is his way of fighting dirty. He wants dirty? He'll get real dirty! In half a blink I drop, grab a fist full of dirt and toss it in his eyes. He roars back, trying to clear it but I cock back my fist and deck him full on. He lands already KO'ed. Although it's not the near my hardest punch it was one of the most deserved! Plus he will be feeling that for a while.

Seeing as I'm feeling particularly uncharitable and still a good deal disgusted at the moment I grab his forearm and drag him out of the station by it. If he gets a bit scrapped and the dirt and grass stains really get rubbed in, too damn bad. This spares me anymore bodily contact and the only reason I don't leave him there is to spare the poor clean up crew from going in after him.

When I get out of the supposed privacy of the stealth course it's to half of the scum watching me and the other half watching a continuous replay of me throwing dirt on a large screen hanging from the ceiling. They saw everything and I didn't even notice the cameras, oh crap on a crap cake. Yep, definitely not getting above a two, but maybe, hopefully they still won't hurt my teammate. This time I fidget as I await the verdict and it seems the pause is made purposefully longer than it has any right to be.

Crane tilts his head. He, like a few others, is a mix of amused (again) and something indiscernible. "Your session is over Miss Mellark. You are dismissed."

Oh thank frosting it's over! Truly and completely over! I nod once and make a beeline for the exit. The rest is a blur until I'm slumping against the wall of the elevator as the doors close. Slumping turns into sliding and then to settling on the floor as my legs refuse to obey and won't support me. So tired! Why am I so so so tired?! As my muscles loosen all the hurts, aches and pains take this moment to make themselves known. Ow, ow ouch! Oh god, even my eyelids feel achy, how's that possible? I close them for a second and what feels like exactly half a second later small hands are shaking my shoulders.

I know these hands so I don't startle to seeing the redheaded Avox crouching over me, face the picture of worry. Yeah, this isn't the best place for a nap. It's a struggle to get up and more so to walk, my body does not want to listen to me. Then she's there, tucked under my arm, taking some of my weight onto her petite form. She's helping me? She is and I can only be grateful. "Thank you," I say sincerely, suddenly choked up.

I don't understand why she is being so kind as to help me, but her kindness feels so good right now. That dark orb in my heart, that up until this moment was wreathing and riled, settles and dissipates a good bunch. Breathing becomes easier and my senses grow both sharper and blurred. I distinctly feel how tried my body is as it returns to my command however it's my head that is so muddled. It's confusing and a new sensation that I don't have a comparison for.

When we reach my bedroom (yes!) there is something unexpected there (no, damn it, just no!). Gale is in my bed, over my covers, face down, out for the count, oblivious to the world and to people who need their damn bed! With energy that springs from unknown sources I lumber over to him at double speed (which not as fast as a lazy stroll) and am socked in the nose at the halfway point!

Uhg! It reeks! Dear god of delirium, can you fake smells? Nope, didn't think so. Grossness, it's got to be Hawthorne because the rank stank is of sweaty-boy/ripe man stench. It's a smell I know too well (thanks so much father, bros and my team) and avoid when at all possible. Damn it, and now he's ruining my bed with it!

I glare at his stupid slumbering form. I held my tongue back for him, I changed myself for him, I swallowed my pride and rage for him and this is what he does now? He sleeps in my bed! He-

The absurdity of my own thoughts hit me and I sag. Am I honestly getting mad at him for sleeping? He can't help it if he's tired and he worked up a potent sweat. Didn't I even invite him to use my bed earlier (feels so long ago)? Sigh. I guess I'm more tired and muddled than I thought.

Briefly I debate the pros and cons of going to his room and making it as rank as I must smell, then shove him out of the middle to take a side of my bed. After all, mime is paradise. He half wakes briefly but the Avox is there the next heart beat, running her fingers through his dirty hair, resetting the three ice bags (how did I miss those? So tired) and soothing him back into the land of the unconscious.

'She really is kind,' is the last thought that goes through my mind as I settle into cushy, warm comfort.

Part 21 End.

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Side Note: Double posting so please see part 20 if you somehow got here without reading it first. Hope you enjoy it! Oh and as always, still looking for a beta. Sigh.