Chapter Four: Training
A/N: Here it is! This was harder to write for some reason. I think it's because I'm so excited to get to the Games already, and the stuff in between seems less interesting in comparison. Big thanks to me friend Mihica, who edited this for me!
Breakfast in the Training Center is just as wonderful as the other meals I've eaten so far in the Capitol. There are countless dishes to choose from: some of them are sweet, some savory, some sour, and some are even spicy. Spicy food is practically unheard of in Three, but isn't uncommon here. Capitolians hold a certain fondness for spiced beverages, which is how I accidentally mix up the hot chocolate with the 'Extra Hot Chocolate,' and end up spitting the liquid all over myself.
When Aeliana looks at me disapprovingly, I shrug helplessly. "It's spicy," I defend my actions. "How was I supposed to know it's spicy? I can't take spicy things."
After breakfast, the seriousness of the day sets in. Wiress looks at Beetee with a question in her eyes, and my mentor nods his head in response.
"Clink, dear, why don't you come with me," she says to my District partner.
"Alright, but can I grab one more croissant?"
The woman smiles and gives a small laugh. "Boys," she chuckles, "Always hungry. Very well, but don't take too long."
When Clink does things like this - grab an extra croissant, crack a lame joke, complain about his outfit - I am reminded that he's just a kid. He's only thirteen. His life hasn't even started, and in a few days it's probably going to be over.
Just like mine.
Clink eventually leaves the room with a number of breakfast pastries stuffed down his shirt, and then it's just Beetee and me sitting at the table.
"Alright. We have to figure out your strategy for today."
I gulp nervously. Oh, boy.
"You're a bulb, right? You aren't as skinny as factory kids usually are, and the clothes you wore to the Reaping weren't very raggedy."
I nod. "I finished twelve years at Technical Training. I was supposed to start my apprenticeship at the end of the year."
At this Beetee raises an eyebrow. "You're fifteen and you've finished at PATT?"
"Yeah," I reply sheepishly.
My mentor whistles. "An inventor, huh?"
"I wanted to be one. Before this."
Beetee says nothing, only pushing on the bridge of his glasses. I don't need a reply; the look he sends me is enough. It's a look that says, I'm sorry that this happened to you. I'm sorry you're going to die before doing anything with your life.
That look says all of the things he's not allowed to say out loud.
"Well," he continues, "I don't suppose you have any experience with weapons?"
I shake my head. "None."
"Yeah, that's usually the case. But listen-" Beetee leans in closer, staring at me intently. "Weapons aren't everything. You finished PATT early. If you were really going to become an inventor, I'd be willing to bet you're smarter than every other tribute in this building combined."
"Smart doesn't always win."
"Smart without a plan doesn't always win. When you get in that room, everyone will be trying to impress each other like crazy. They'll all head straight for the biggest, flashiest weapons."
"Okay..."
"So don't do that. It'll only hurt you in the long run. You'll get scared; it'll mess with your head. Survival is what will give you an edge in this competition. Spend some time learning how to stay alive for as long as possible."
"Meaning...?"
"Snares. Knots. Making fishhooks. Plant identification. Starting fires, building shelters. That sort of stuff."
"I've never needed to know how to do any of that."
"You'll learn fast. You have to; you don't have a choice."
I know he's right. I don't have the luxury of time to help me master all of these skills; it's learn or die. Barbaric acts of violence don't always win. Dehydration and hypothermia are also big killers in the Games.
Beetee gives the words a second to sink in, then continues. "When you're tired of that, try your hand at knife throwing or something. A little bit of self-defense will come in handy. But stay away from the big weapons."
"Sounds doable."
The advice is solid. Year after year District Three is at an inherent disadvantage. Our tributes aren't athletic. We're not survivors. We weren't born and raised in the wilderness, knowing edible plants like the back of our hands. Most of the kids Reaped are assembly line workers in a factory. PATT teaches you coding, programming, and occasionally genetic engineering. None of these skills help you in the arena.
Most of the others have a head start. They probably won't have to devote time to memorizing which plants will poison them to death, or how to start a basic fire. I have to learn everything from scratch.
Before long Aeliana's once again herding Clink and I to the elevator. I was too tired to appreciate it last night, but now as she presses the button down to the basement I admire the elegant piece of machinery. District Three doesn't produce elevators; we only help improve existing designs. Six does the actual construction of these machines. Still, the apprentice side of me can't help but admire the way the apparatus lowers us ever-so-gracefully, the way all of the separate parts noiselessly work together in perfect harmony to perform this descent. It's a beautiful thing.
We reach the basement, and Clink and I step out.
"Well, here we are. Good luck you two!" Aeliana beams, waving Clink and me goodbye as the elevator doors close in front of her face.
The sounds of several people talking can be heard from somewhere to our right. "Must be over there," Clink nods in the direction of the noise, and we quickly make our way over. The sounds increase in volume until we find ourselves standing in the entrance to the training room.
We aren't late, but even so almost every other tribute seems to already be assembled here and waiting. A few look up at us as we enter, but quickly look away. Why should they stare? Clink and I are some of the least intimidating people here.
A woman in a jumpsuit coughs pointedly, and the room goes silent. "Thank you." She looks around the room, taking in each and every one of us before continuing. "My name is Atala, and I am the head trainer here. Over the next three days you will spend your time preparing for the challenges you will face in the arena. Before you may begin, however, there are some rules I must make clear."
The rules are mostly things that, to me at least, are obvious. No unnecessary aggression. No hogging stations for too long. No fighting with other tributes.
Still, there are some audible groans from one side of the room. I want to roll my eyes. Of course the Career tributes would protest not being able to fight prematurely. Each and every one of them is probably itching to get some blood on their hands.
When we are finally dismissed to train as we please, most tributes make a beeline for the weapons stations. My mentor was right when he said those would be the most crowded. The tributes from One, Two and Four dominate the swords and knives, expertly stabbing and decapitating dummies while the others watch on, intimidated.
Just as I decide to head over to the empty fire starting station, Clink takes a few steps in the opposite direction. I stare at him walking away, puzzled, when I realize where he's going.
He's making his way over to the weapons stations! Why on Earth would he do that? Didn't Wiress tell him not to? Granted, I didn't actually hear Wiress' advice to him; I just assumed his strategy would be the same as mine. We're mostly in the same boat: neither one of us is very strong, and I'm pretty sure his weapons experience is the same as mine - that is to say, nonexistent.
"Clink!" I call out to him. Upon hearing his name he whirls around, shooting me a glare. The hostility in his voice is unmistakable as he hisses, "What? What do you want?"
My expression goes from confusion to shock. Why is he mad at me? "Where are you going?" I ask. He rolls his eyes in response.
"Weapons. Duh." With that, my District partner walks away without a second glance.
"I don't need you, anyway," I mutter under my breath. More people at the other side of the gym mean less distractions at the survival stations.
Starting fires is hard. At first glance, I though this station would be easy: I've watched tributes from games in the past do this same activity dozens of times. They make it look effortless; a few twigs, some dry leaves, friction...right?
No matter how hard I try I just can't seem to get the damn thing to light. The instructor tells me I need to press harder on the twigs, but my fingers already hurt from the continuous pressure. I sigh as yet another twig snaps between my fingers, unlit. The best I've managed to get is slightly warm; I haven't even accomplished smoke.
I must have spent more than an hour on that station, hopelessly trying to produce something that resembles fire. Eventually a shadow is cast over my work; I look up to see a pale girl with dark hair analyzing me. Her brown eyes are narrowed in concentration as she assesses the way my fingers curl around the wood. A piece of cloth pinned to her shoulder has the number twelve sewn on it.
"Your angle is all wrong." She crouches down and takes the twig from my hands, kneeling above the bigger slab of wood where I've carved a small hole out with a knife. I watch as she rolls the twig between her palms, applying continuous pressure to the slab on the ground just as I've been doing. Except she tackles the work from a slight angle, pressing and pressing until a trail of smoke rises from the hole. Soon the smoke gets more potent, and a few sparks follow. Eventually this girl creates a small flame which she extinguishes before it can grow.
Wordlessly, I copy her actions. It takes me a few tries, but after five minutes or so a little fire comes to life on my wooden slab. I extinguish it with my boot and stare at the girl in admiration.
"You've got it. Remember the angle," she says, staring at me for a moment before turning away, heading off to some or another station.
I am grateful for this girl's help, but a large part of me is suspicious of her intentions. District Twelve did not stand out to me during the Reapings; I barely paid attention to their tributes when they took the stage. The girl could easily pass for a factory worker from Three, what with her small build and weak appearance. Still, there's an intensity to her gaze that frightens me. She looks as if she knows something the rest of us don't, like she's hiding something underneath the frailty.
I decide to adopt a new stance on tributes. From now on, everyone is a threat until proven otherwise.
The instructor at the snare station is staring into space, a look of pure boredom on his face. When he sees me approach he brightens, beckoning me with a smile. His station must not be very popular.
Over the next twenty minutes I learn three different kinds of hunting snares, but am only good at one of them. He also teaches me a snare that can dangle an opponent in the air by the ankle.
When I finish up with snares there are only ten minutes left until lunch, and I decide not to immerse myself in a new station just yet. I take the opportunity to scope out my competition.
The weapons stations are still very crowded. Clink is right in the center, unsuccessfully trying to hit a dummy with a throwing spear. His thin arms just don't have the strength necessary to propel it; the spear stops short three feet from the target, clattering to the floor. The boy from Two snickers and says something that makes the tributes around him laugh, and Clink's face burns a bright red. He stomps away from them while they continue to snicker at his expense.
Why are you doing this to yourself, Clink? Why make yourself look vulnerable like that?
The girl from District Seven, who I dismissed on accounts of being a nervous wreck at the Reaping, is throwing axes at targets with deadly accuracy. The terrified persona has vanished; in its place is a girl who looks almost bored as a flick of her wrist sends an axe that splits a dummy up the middle. Even the Careers regard her with something akin to respect.
Yet another reminder not to underestimate people.
My eyes scan the room, looking for the girl who approached me before. I spy her on the ropes course, jumping swiftly from platform to platform above everyone's heads. She's harnessed in so she won't fall, but I still wince when her foot slips and she's left dangling in midair.
"Attention, tributes. It is time for lunch. Please proceed to the lunchroom," a voice echoes over a loudspeaker. At once people begin to put down their weapons and make their way out to the hall. Zandria from Two gives her sword one final swing, slicing a dummy in half before joining the rest of the Careers triumphantly.
Pretty soon I am alone in the room. I should really join the others; I am hungry, and lunch is when all of the alliances are formed between tributes. I'm only hurting myself by remaining here.
But the weapons stations have been crowded all day, and who knows when I'll get a chance like this again? I know Beetee told me to steer clear of the big weapons, but it's not like anyone's watching or anything. What if I turn out to have a knack for spears or swords, and I just don't know it yet?
I make my way over to the throwing knives and pick one up, turning it over in my hands. It's surprisingly light, and I can see my reflection in the blade. Not really knowing anything about the technique, I count to three in my head and throw the knife at the wall, hoping for the best. It goes too far left, hitting the wall and clattering to the floor. It's almost as bad as Clink's performance, except he didn't have the sense to fail away from prying eyes.
My aim improves a little with the second throw, and by the fourth I actually manage to hit the target. The blade doesn't stick, but at least I've made an improvement.
Archery is a bust. The arrows, when I finally get them to fly, are weak and don't hit anything. It's a shame, really; the bow is the finest weapons here. It's expertly designed: the strings are made of thin glaetium wire, perfect for increasing stability, accuracy and firing power. This, combined with the sharpened steel arrowheads, makes the bow a deadly weapon if placed in the right hands.
After my third failed spear throw I end up simply admiring the weapons rather than using them. There's a rack of shields next to the station, but I haven't seen anyone use them. Shields are cumbersome things; who has the time or energy to carry a shield while running from an attacker? These things aren't light enough for anyone as un-muscly as me. These shields are made of solid ceplumite, the smallest weighing at least six pounds.
Oh how I wish I'd had access to these materials back in Three... Heaven only knows what I could have created with a block of ceplumite or glaetium back home. The only time I even got to touch metals that powerful was in a special experiment at the end of my eighth year at PATT. It was one of the only memorable things that happened at the institution. I loved fooling around with the powerful glaetium magnets.
A voice startles me from my daydreaming, and my blood runs cold. Hadn't I been alone?
"You've stopped throwing things."
I slowly turn around, my eyes instantly connecting with those pale blue orbs I'd analyzed again and again in my head.
He leans casually against the wall as he speaks, a knife much like the one I'd been throwing before in his hand. He twirls the blade like one might a pencil, the movement just effortless enough to be intimidating. Without breaking eye contact, he lifts the thing and sends it whizzing across the room with the smallest movement of his wrist. My eyes widen in shock as the blade embeds itself in a dummy's chest mere feet away from where I stand.
"Honestly, you didn't seem like the weapon type. I wondered why the heck you'd want to stay behind."
When I don't answer, the boy slinks towards me. He stops a small distance away from my position. "You don't look like you're trying to practice very much. Care to tell me what's so interesting about those shields you were looking at?"
He's been watching me this whole time. Why should he care, though? I'm no threat to him.
Still looking at me he yawns, stretching his right arm behind his head and momentarily hiding the red number nine I know is on his shoulder.
"Hmm? Don't feel like talking? What, cat got your tongue?"
I'm not quite sure what to do in this situation. He's already seen my incompetence; it isn't like I've revealed anything he didn't probably suspect already. How would I even reply? Oh, I just really like looking at the shield's metal. It looks pretty solid, if I do say so myself. It sounds stupid when I put it like that.
The silence grows, and I can't stand it. With every passing second I feel those eyes burning deeper, picking me apart from the inside out.
"I find the designs interesting. That's all." I try to tone down the fear I know colors my voice. The other tribute raises an eyebrow, clearly doubting my words.
"Oh really?" he questions. He drags a chair over from a different station and sits, propping his chin up with one hand. "I read about District Three. Real smart, some of 'em. Pull the whackiest electrical stunts, if they make it past the Bloodbath."
What is this guy playing at? There's got to be a reason for all of this talk. He's hinting at - no, accusing me of something - but I haven't figured it out. Does he think I'm hiding something? That I have a strategy?
I have no idea how to proceed in the arena. Of course, he doesn't know that.
Wait, why am I scared of him, exactly? Sure, his eyes are unsettling. He acts like he knows more than he does, and talks like he's leading you into a trap. But can't two play at that game?
I decide to change my angle. Let him think I have something up my sleeve - what's the harm? Maybe, just maybe, he'll think twice about taking me out if it comes to that in the arena. Who's to say I'm not secretly a Beetee or Wiress?
"I've read about District Nine. Real weak, most of them. Don't usually make it past the Bloodbath, and certainly can't handle weapons."
I've surprised him, I can tell. There's a flash of shock on his face, but it is quickly replaced by a smirk. "I guess we're both full of surprises."
We? Who said anything about me? He isn't treating me like one would expect a skilled competitor to treat a weakling. He's acting like I pose a threat to him - like I'm a contender. Although he does still frighten me, the knowledge that someone thinks I'm worth being careful around makes me glow a little bit on the inside.
There are so many questions I have about this boy. Who is he? Where did he learn how to throw knives like that? What's his name?
But most importantly, why did he volunteer? That's the biggest question of all. He must have some sort of motive for joining these Games. No one from his District ever volunteers like he did. The Games aren't something most think are worth volunteering for.
And as he sits there, analyzing me, I can't help but ask it. "No one volunteers from Nine. Why did you?"
Immediately his expression transforms into something venomous. "That doesn't matter," he spits out. "All that matters is the plan I know you're hatching."
So he does think I have a plan.
"Why would I ever tell you?"
All at once the anger vanishes, and the smirk returns. "I suppose you're right. It doesn't matter, anyway. You won't live long enough to execute it."
With that, he stands up and begins to walk away.
Who the hell is this boy?
"Who are you, anyways?" I shout after him.
He stops in his tracks, but doesn't look back. "My name is Amaranth." I can hear the satisfaction in his voice as he adds, "But my friends call me Ranther."
When I finally make it to the lunchroom I sit as far away from him as possible.
—
Lunch is relatively uneventful. There aren't any concrete alliances as of yet aside from the Career pack, but Clink spends twenty minutes having a one-sided conversation with the boy from Ten, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
When it's obvious the other boy won't reply any time soon, my District partner switches to trying to chat up the boy from Six. He gets a few nods, but not much else in terms of conversation.
Why is Clink trying to be conversational now? Can't he tell no one is in the mood?
Unless...
Something clicks in my brain. I might not have been there when Wiress gave him a strategy, but I suspect I know what she told him. Clink is the youngest competitor here at thirteen. Apart from maybe the girls from Six and Twelve, he's also the smallest and the scrawniest. With no weapon ability or survival skill, he doesn't stand a chance in the arena. Wiress must know that he can't survive on his own.
He's trying to score an alliance.
It all makes sense now - heading straight into the crowd even though he can't wield anything, making conversation in the lunchroom. Brushing me off when I tried to talk to him. He doesn't want to associate himself with me anymore than he has to - when it comes down to it, I'm not the type who can provide food or protection in the arena.
Even my scrawny little district partner doesn't think I stand a chance.
That's not true. The boy from Nine - Ranther, or whatever is name was - sees me as a threat. He said so himself.
Of course, he thinks I have a genius plan that I'm hiding. And there's the fact that he said he would kill me.
Now that I think about it, why don't I have a plan?
I'm an apprentice! Plans are the foundation of everything an inventor creates. If I can't come up with some sort of idea to save my life, was I ever really worthy of the laboratories?
The answer is obvious. If I can't come up with a winning strategy after twelve years of grueling technical training, everyone who ever believed in me, everyone who ever praised me, told me how smart I was...they were all wrong. My teachers. My parents. Grace. Even Dash didn't doubt for a second that I'd make it to the top.
My mind is made up. I'll start my apprenticeship now, with the arena as my lab. It'll be like a special challenge: use all of the skills you gained over your years at PATT to come up with some sort of usable death trap. When I think about it this way, it sort of seems like a homework assignment. And everyone knows I'm good at those.
The other tributes better watch out.
When we resume training after lunch, I don't put as much effort into the stations. I still make my way around the survival stations: I try my hand at camouflage and basket weaving, and while I'm not terrible at either of them, I know that they probably won't be of very much use to me. I spend more time at the climbing and shelter stations.
My climbing is mediocre; a ledge or cliff side, I can scale, but a tree? Not so much. I try again and again, but I can never seem to get the footholds right. When I finally manage to get to a decent height, one of the branches snaps under me and I land on the mats below in a heap. To make things even more infuriating, the girl from Seven then proceeds to scale the very same tree with ease despite weighing at least twenty pounds more than me. When she reaches the top she looks back down at me and has the audacity to laugh.
The anger must show on my face because the next thing I know, there's a hand on my shoulder. The action startles me and I jump a little. The hand belongs to a boy who looks about two years older than me, with dark brown skin and an apologetic smile. The look he gives me is resigned. I look to his shoulder, where the number seven is stitched neatly in bright red.
Oh, no. Not another tree climber.
"Don't take it personally. That's just Maya," he shrugs as if this answers everything.
How am I not supposed to take it personally? His District partner literally made a point of laughing in my face and making me look like an idiot.
I don't hold back. "That was kind of a bitchy move." I glare at her, but she isn't even looking in my direction. All that greets my gaze is a swishing blonde ponytail.
"She's always been like that," the boy sighs. "But she's just scared as hell. Making fun of other people is how she deals with all of...this."
"What, are you her spokesperson?" I reply, still pissed off.
"No, but I've known her a while. We work in the same chopping center, and she's my cousin-in-law."
I pause at this and turn to look at him. "Cousin-in-law?"
"Her older sister married my cousin four years ago."
All at once my heart breaks a little for this kid. It isn't like Maya's his sister or anything, but they're both kind of friends by the sound of it. They know each other, and that makes both their Games one hell of a lot worse. I think of my own cousins. I have three, and we're not that close. Only one of them is male; my dad's sister's son, a boy one year younger than me named Max. We see each other maybe twice a year, and he's a nice kid. He's in the biotech program a year below Grace, smart, likable. We don't have all that much in common, however, and we're not really friends.
If he were in the Games with me, though...
I shudder at the thought. Our families would be torn apart. I would be torn apart.
The boy stares at Maya somewhat sadly, and I feel like I have to say something. "That...sucks," I say lamely.
"Yeah. Yes, it does." He seems to snap out of his momentary daze. "I'm sorry. You're probably not looking for any sad stories. I shouldn't have interrupted your training."
"It's nothing. Really. I was too mad to think straight, anyway."
The boy's answering smile somehow manages to put me at ease. "The name's Barker. District Seven, but you know that already."
I laugh a little. "Widget. District Three. Nice to meet you."
We part ways. Despite my new philosophy about everyone being dangerous, I can't help but think that I've made a friend.
Then I remember the truth of the situation. For him to go home, I have to die. He probably wouldn't hesitate to kill me if I were the one standing between him and home.
I transfer to a different survival station, where I discover that berry identification is not my forte. I can name the obvious ones; strawberries, blueberries and raspberries I've got down. It's the other, more uncommon ones I struggle with. I mix up bearberries, which are edible, with bloodberries, which are not. My biggest blunder occurs when I tell the instructor that the deadly nightlock branch I hold in my hand is actually a branch of harmless elderberries. The girl from Eleven witnesses this and shakes her head.
"Eat those and you're dead in seconds." She then scans the branches laid out before us, picking out one that looks very similar to the nightlock. "These are elderberries, right?" She asks the instructor, who nods her head.
Show-off. How can she tell? They look the same to me!
It becomes apparent that I won't master berries anytime soon, so I occupy myself with the other plants. Soon this, too, becomes frustrating. By now more people have turned to the survival stations, so I decide to back off for a little bit.
Even though I sucked at them earlier, I am drawn back to the weapons. I enjoy watching other people work with the bow in particular. No other weapon will ever have as much grace as the bow.
Well, it looks graceful in a capable person's hands. The girl from Eight isn't very good; she isn't pulling the bowstring far back enough, and the arrows keep dropping to the floor without coming close to the target. I would help her, but I'm just as bad as she is.
After six more attempts she notices me watching her. "Can I help you?" She turns to me, hands on her hips. I know she's trying to scare me off, but her stance isn't very intimidating. It's cute more than anything. Her dark hair is pulled back into the neatest braid I've ever seen, and the bow looks too big in her hands. She's not that much shorter than I am, but her face looks young.
"Not really. I was just watching."
This annoys her. "I could tell," she replies. With a huff, she turns away from me and fires one more arrow. Like the others, it hits nowhere near the target.
"Hey, Muck! Get any better yet? Those arrows are flying almost as low as your training score!"
The girl from Eight scowls, but determinedly keeps firing. The taunt came from somewhere behind us, and when I look back I see the boys from One and Two sneering obnoxiously. They continue to mock the girl, occasionally pointing her out to other passing tributes.
"What did you do to make them mad?" I ask her quietly.
"Nothing, really," she answers.
"You sure? They seem pretty ticked off."
Finally, the girl sighs and relents. "I asked the girl from One for a turn with the knives. She said no at first, but then the instructor made her hand them over. That made her mad. She got her cronies to stand around and jeer at me."
I wince. By messing with the Careers, this girl has unintentionally made herself a target.
"But then," the girl continues, "They cornered me and asked me my name. So I told them, I said: 'Mukta Thatcher, District Eight. And you?' But they didn't have the decency to answer me back!" There's unmasked rage in her eyes now. "Started following me, they did. Calling me Muck."
I can tell that behind the anger, she's hurt. I'd seen this look before on someone else, a few years ago.
It was a Friday night, and I'd just come home for the weekend from Tech Training. I was nine years old, doing homework at the table while my Dad tried his best to help. It was dark when Dash came home that night. Mom was beside herself with worry. He was only ever an hour late, at most; for it to be past nine o'clock and him still being absent was unthinkable.
"He's a smart boy, Modeme. He's probably stopped somewhere on the way back." My father tried to reason with her, to keep my mom's worry at bay. It wasn't working.
"I know my own children," she snapped. "This isn't like him. There's something wrong."
Not three seconds after the words left my mother's lips, he opened the door. Mom immediately ran forward and wrapped him in her arms.
"Dashex Irving! Why on Earth are you back at this hour?" My mom tried to sound like her usual strict self, but the relief in her voice was evident.
He shrugged her off and headed of to our room. "Stopped to chat with some friends," he said over his shoulder. The door slammed shut.
Later that night I came in for bed. As I lay under the covers, I couldn't help but whisper in the darkness. "Dash? What happened?"
I was prepared for the silence. My brother never liked questions, and I certainly didn't expect him to answer. He surprised me.
"There was a group of Tech boys milling around three blocks from the house. I ran into them on the way home." My brother's tone was bitter, and this shocked me.
"So? It's the weekend. There are always Tech kids hanging out on the weekend." I didn't understand why anger suddenly colored his voice.
"They asked me if I was lost."
"You weren't."
"I know. I told them I live here."
"I still don't get it, Dash."
"They laughed, Widget. They laughed as if the very idea of me ever living in the MSA was stupid."
"Okay..."
"So I hit one of 'em."
"What?" I sat up in my bed and stared at my brother alarmingly. I could make him out in the moonlight, turned on his side facing me, expression screwed up in anger.
"I beat the shit out of the redhead. The others scattered pretty quickly after that."
I couldn't fathom why my brother would ever hit someone. He had a temper, but Dash's rage had always been harmless in my eyes. He'd yell, shut himself in our room, and be fine in a couple of hours. Never before had I seen him use violence.
"Dash! You'll get in trouble!"
He snorted at this. "No I won't. His friends called a Peacekeeper over to break it up, but they got Leonardo. He took one look at the situation, chased the kid away and gave me a smack on the wrist. That was it."
My nine year old self was grateful Leonardo was the one to break it up. My father showed him around the labs on his first few days in the District, and as a result the young Peacekeeper became friends of sorts with our family. I knew that Dash could have been whipped for his violence, but Leonardo wouldn't dream of doing that to him.
This information still didn't change the fact that Dash had beat someone up. Back then I couldn't understand why a comment about him being lost would drive my brother to hit someone. Why would something like that make him as angry as he was?
It wasn't just anger, though. I could read my brother well; underneath the hostility, there was a layer of hurt. For whatever reason, those Tech boys had hurt my brother.
"Forget about it, Widget," Dash yawned into the darkness. "A bulb like you could never understand."
So now as I stare into the soft brown eyes of the girl from District Eight, it's Dash I see staring back at me. And all of the sudden I need to make her feel at least a little bit better.
"That just shows you they're pretty dim-witted," I tell the girl, iIf the best insult they can come up with is 'muck.' Talk about unoriginal."
The girl, Mukta I think she said her name was, cracks a smile. "You're right," she chuckles, "it's lazy. I've heard that one a million times."
"You know, they used to call me Fidget back home. It's the only usable thing that rhymes with Widget, I guess, but it doesn't even make any sense."
We take turns coming up with better nicknames and trash-talking the Careers, who continue to jeer behind us until training ends. Even then, we don't stop our banter until the elevator doors slam shut between us on the third floor.
I enter my room with a big smile on my face. It's easy to forget that the other tributes are all real people, and that a lot of them are perfectly nice. Talking with Mukta felt a lot like walking outside of PATT with Grace, or spending time with Coyle. It was easy and fun, and I can't help but feel like Mukta is a new friend.
Unless I have to kill her.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Only one more chapter after this, and then the Games begin!