XXIV: Training, Day Three (I).

Ilan Azar, 17
Victor of District Seven

Yesterday he was afraid to step foot over here.

Frankly, thinking about going anywhere alone was nerve-wracking, but he couldn't very well stick to Sanne's side like glue the entire time and get away with it. One of them would have to be on their own eventually. One of them… one of them would be dead.

It was too early to be thinking about such a thing—both in the morning, and during this entire process. He could see her across the room sitting in the middle of the camouflage station, a myriad of paints dashed across her fingers. Of course she had told him to tag along, but Ilan couldn't make himself do it.

Traps seem much more practical than painting right now—any sort of artistry makes him think of back home, the murals he would paint on the treehouse walls. He thinks of laying there with Vitali, watching the peek of the stars through the trees overhead. It brings back too much for Ilan to even contemplate sitting among a crop of fake trees with acrylic paint staining his palms.

He doesn't know who he's planning on fooling, acting like he actually knows how to do this. No matter how easy it is for him to follow the instructions, to look after patterns, nothing ever works. The mechanism fails. The trap refuses to spring. More often than not his fingertips get caught in the ensuing collapse, bruising the skin that is so used to wrapping around the frayed ropes of the swings hanging from beneath the treehouse, Vitali's hands gentle on his back as he pushes him forward—

It's all too much.

Ilan flinches as metal digs into his palms once again. At least there's no sort of crowd over here today. In their stead, unfortunately, is the trap-maker himself, and every time Ilan seems to fail it seems to spur Milan on further.

They have not spoken, and Ilan knows that's not due to change. He couldn't make himself speak up even if he was gifted an entirely different voice. He's not the type. Every time he fails, though, he feels his skin burn with a shame too deep to fit such a simple action. Every time Milan watches his projects splinter apart, he feels himself flush.

He should be better than this. It's obvious. No one here is this clueless. If anything he's a burden, due to drag Sanne down with him and get nothing from it.

He's a fucking failure all on his own.

"You're overcomplicating it," Milan says without warning, and he nearly traps his fingers again. "The mechanism will do most of the work for you—"

"I don't need help."

"Wasn't helping. Simple fact."

Oh, of course he wasn't. Why wouldn't he want to rub it in Ilan's face that he's so much better, that he actually knows what he's doing?

"Last I checked the arena did most of the work for you," Ilan reminds him. "Your ally, too."

"At least I didn't kill him."

He misses not being stuck in a personal hell like this one. Even the apartment in the city center was better than this. Half of him wants to crawl under the table and cry, but the more terrifying part wants to get up and yell right back in his face.

Ilan is not a bad person; he's just like everyone else. He misses the sound of his mom's voice even though it's only been a few short days, misses the optimism that he had held onto for so long thinking he would have Vitali talk to him again. Everybody around him always acted like something was wrong… messed up, even, but Ilan was happy. As happy as he could be.

A hand grabs his, suddenly, saving it from getting clamped in yet another trap. Sanne drags his arm away, pulling insistently, but not enough to hurt. "Want to come with me?" she suggests, but he knows it's more of a demand. No doubt she's been watching.

It's only the softness in her eyes that makes him stand. He can't let anyone else down. "At least I have someone, hey?" he says, feeling relief hit him when Milan looks up, the full magnitude of the reminder washing over them all. "Better than you."

Having someone for real was a repeated concept for Ilan. He was too complicated for his brother to make any effort, and his parents struggled, and Vitali… Vitali had left him, and Ilan had no one to blame but himself. His own head was responsible for this disarray. When everyone around him faded away into the background, it seemed only natural. There was no fault to place when running from him seemed only natural.

At least Sanne hadn't. She should, but Ilan couldn't allow himself to chase her off. His brain, as always, refused the idea.

"He's not worth it," she says quietly. She's still got her hand curled around his arm, thumb stroking gently over his skin. "Just… just stay with me for the rest of the day, alright?"

She's worried. He can't do that to her anymore. Better to just stay with her, as requested, than make Sanne chase after him all day. She would, too, if he doesn't just listen.

That's all he can do now. Clearly he's incapable of fixing things, and thinking too intently on that is a dangerous path to travel. If he can't even complete one simple thing, how is he ever supposed to fix things with Vitali? How is he supposed to live?

If there's an answer out there for him, it seems further away than ever.

Aranza de León, 18
Victor of District Eight

Of course she's always been melodramatic in her own right, but making it official really does seem like a dream come true.

It didn't matter what her accomplishments were after this day—she had been a simple girl longing for something more, the type of life she knew she deserved, and now she had been launched into perfection. Well-known and unflinching, able to bag not one but two Careers when she had no right to them at all.

Even though she had grown up with almost nothing, Aranza had always had her charms. Girls had followed her around like lost little puppies. Boys had stared after her as if they were imagining they had a real shot. She was the girl everyone either wanted to be or be with.

And now she fits the role for real.

She couldn't have chosen two better allies. No matter their short-comings, they seem small compared to what they have to offer. It seems like an added bonus that they're quite nice to look at, even though she has a comical few inches on both of them. What they lack in height certainly shows up tenfold in the way of vigor. Aranza could sit here for hours and watch them hit target after target without flinching.

Really, it's fascinating to watch them together. Aranza knows she's not the only person here surprised by the development of the One's alliance and surprised doesn't even begin to cover it. Some seem horrified. Others are judgmental.

Tova ignores it. Madeira takes note of it and ducks her head. But when it's just the two of them they're quiet, words never spoken loud enough to travel to whoever's closest.

Perhaps that was what went wrong the first time. Aranza chose too many loud-mouths. They served their purpose in the end.

Doesn't everyone?

Quiet can infuriate, but her compulsion to watch them has chased that feeling away. They're not being underhanded in regards to her presence so much as they're just acting normal, at least by way of each-other. Navigating carefully. Once, when Tova handed her a knife, Maderia hesitated before she stepped away, hands lingering.

The realization hits her so suddenly that Aranza nearly careens sideways off the table. She's not dense. She knows when something is up.

Maderia's almost-something with Catelaya. Their partnership, against all odds. The way they look at each-other.

No one has ever looked at Aranza like that before.

She straightens her back when Maderia approaches, keeping her eyes trained forward until the other girl is by her side, watching one of Tova's knives sink into the bullseye yet again. "Good break?" Maderia asks. "We can keep going, if you're ready. You were getting pretty consistent."

That she was. Aranza appreciates the comment nonetheless. "Of course," she agrees. "Though, would you mind if I asked you a question?"

"Shoot."

She crooks her finger, beckoning the other girl closer until she can lean down, lips nearly touching the shell of Maderia's ear. "Are the two of you—"

Maderia shoots back suddenly, feet staggering against the slick floor. Aranza launches her hand out, tangling their fingers together before she can get any further. Panic flares to life, bright as day in Maderia's eyes. She's right. Of course she is. As if there was ever an option other than that; when she sees something, she knows.

Though their arms stretch the distance, she still has enough of a grip that Maderia clearly doesn't see the sense in pulling away. When Tova turns her eyes find their joined hands, narrowed as she lets them linger.

This is all much more complicated than she thought.

"The hell's going on?" Tova questions.

"Nothing," Aranza answers easily, pulling Maderia back so that she has no choice but to prop herself against the edge of the table. "We were just doubly in awe of your incredible knife-throwing skills."

She doesn't believe her. That much is clear. Tova points a knife right at her, though, with a smile on her face. "Watch it, Eight."

"I'm watching," she confirms. Tova rolls her eyes. Beside her, Maderia swallows so loudly that the sound is audible even to her ears. Finally, something that's a decibel above silence. She lets her stew for a moment longer before she bends her head forward once again.

"If you're worried I'll tell someone, I won't."

"That's not—"

"Promise."

"It's not what you think," Maderia hisses. "It's not… it's not like that."

Whatever that's supposed to mean. It's clearly like something, but that's not information Aranza is privy to, no matter how much she wants to press and pry. Like she said, it's complicated—but that's something she can work with. Dare she say it's almost her specialty.

"Regardless, it's your business," Aranza tells her. "Your secret is safe with me."

It's not enough to calm what must be her racing thoughts, but Aranza has offered enough solace that Maderia's shoulder's droop, the fear draining out of her all at once. "We should start up again," she continues, hoping that agreement will force this conversation, this confrontation, out of Maderia's mind. She hops up from the table, selecting her own set of knives as she lines up next to Tova, choosing her own target.

Their secret is safe, at least, from the outside world. She might as well have struck gold. The things she could do with this information, the lengths she could go to in order to manipulate and stretch out every inch of it.

She can do so much.

"You'll never be this good," Tova tells her. Another knife. Another bullseye.

"Is that a challenge?"

"If you're up for it."

She'll never be as good at knives; you can only strike gold once, after all, and Aranza has already found her spot. She no longer needs weapons.

She has all the ammunition she needs.

Alia Maduro, 15
Victor of District Three

Even through everything, Alia just keeps telling herself to listen to Voxel's advice.

She's spent two and a half days looking. Watching. Trying to make sense of those around her, coming to terms with the idea that one of them could end up by her side.

Through it all, Alia keeps trying to talk herself out of it. Closeness has never been worth it in the end, tried, tested and proven a dozen times over in her life.

Stepping foot off that train had been a nightmare—Alia had seen her family through the thick of the crowds, but she had Voxel escort her away before there was any chance of interaction. When Heletha had offered her open door and a guest bedroom to Alia, she had jumped at the chance. Anything was better than returning to her family's home and watching them pretend to care.

They had tried, of course. More than once they had knocked on Heletha's door at all hours of the day and asked to speak with her, to which Heletha would politely decline. On the one occasion that Alia had to open the door herself, she had lasted all of a few heartbeats before she had chosen to slam it directly in their faces.

For years she had been unwanted, but no longer.

Until now, at least.

Last time, her little family had come together as easy as breathing. Now, all Alia could do was watch, let her hope turn to dust. A family was risky, as she knew all too well, but she wasn't asking for anything that significant again. If she wanted it, she would have to do it herself—that much was obvious. And as terrible an idea as she began to suspect it was, Alia couldn't help herself.

She was alone, too. They were both girls pegged as fodder who someone came out of the other side. Alia approaches the table on quiet feet, trying not to startle her the way she knows it's so easy to do. The Games make everyone nervous.

"Mind if I sit?" she asks; Farasha's eyes dart up to her before she shakes her head, gently nudging a piling of kindling together. For an Eleven, she looks vastly uncomfortable even holding a stick, but she looked much the same in the arena too. It's all unfamiliar territory.

She did this the first time around, too, but Alia lets the trainer explain the process to her once again, watching Farasha from the corner of her eye. The sharp snick of a blade against flint is impossible to miss as she begins to scrape the magnesium into a small pile, clearly hoping to ignite something bigger. It may not be her field of expertise, but she's clever.

"I'm not very good at this either," Alia offers, hoping to crack gently into the ice. "Being from the city and all."

Farasha nods. The knife continues to scrape up and down, a shiver crawling across Alia's spine. She won't allow herself to be crestfallen—not yet, anyway. She's just… quiet. That's all.

"Where did you live in Eleven?" she asks. That prompts something, finally, Farasha's eyes flicking up to meet her own.

"Why do you ask?"

She shrugs. "Just wondering. You don't have to tell me."

Oh, but please do. It feels nice to talk to someone that doesn't terrify her, not like Sloane does. Farasha resumes her progress, but this time it's slower, the noise less intrusive. "We don't have cities, not like you guys, but… but I lived in our largest equivalent, I suppose. Not far from the Justice Building."

"That must've been strange."

"My parents moved us when I was younger. Better for their jobs. I remember it, just not as much anymore."

What could be like to have parents that actually let their child breathe instead of working them to the bone? Alia wouldn't know. Does Farasha though, either? She shrinks herself down too much to be considered confident, having none of that same free-spirited energy that so many girls their age seem to possess.

Perhaps this is why she grew unable to ignore Farasha. If they're more similar than Alia ever realized, it's her job to stay close. If she can have nothing else, it makes sense to keep a hold on this.

Alia smiles to herself as Farasha finally gets a spark, the kindling burning to life beneath the small pile of wood she's created. "Good job," she murmurs, relieved when Farasha's eyes twinkle, something pleased hidden within them. It doesn't look like she's used to any amount of praise.

"I wish I learned more of this back home," Farasha says. "Would've been helpful."

"Me too. That doesn't mean we can't help each-other, though."

It's impossible to notice the way Farasha goes stiff in her seat, looking more hesitant than ever. "Only if you want to, though," Alia continues quickly, hoping to dispel any awkwardness. "If you'd rather be alone, I'll let you be. Just say so."

She will get up, even if it stings. She's not so cruel as to stick around regardless and try to force something that isn't working.

"I think I would," Farasha decides, eyes fixed on the table. "Rather be alone."

"Okay." Alia forces a smile, swallowing away the hurt and the disappointment and the brief flash of anger that rises within her. She's better than that. "Have a good rest of your day, then."

She's stupid. She doesn't learn. Walking away is nothing short of embarrassing, her quickened pace surely obvious to all of those around her. If relationships are such a heavy risk, why was she even trying? To please Voxel? To prove to herself that not everything has to end so terribly.

Well, it does. Only one of them's coming out this time. A part of her wants to break down, to be that little girl that exists in another life, but Alia won't allow that. She's strong enough not to.

And this is not going to break her.

Robbie Creston, 17
Victor of District Ten

He's sick of Hawke's sneering.

He thinks he's subtle about it, too. The guy is so damn quiet most of the time that you could miss it if you didn't know to look, but Robbie knows. Oh, he knows.

Robbie sees every single one. In the quiet that spreads between them, he knows that Hawke believes himself to have won the early battle. After all, Robbie's more alone than ever, and it's not by choice. What he has to do seems obvious enough, given the options he has left, but still. Groveling is not a good look on him.

And he's most definitely going to have to grovel.

Hawke is one of the first ones to sit at lunch, and as Robbie passes behind him he resists the urge to drive the tray into the back of his head—not worth it, never worth it, he has bigger targets here. The path he weaves through the tables is straightforward, and when he plops his tray down across from her, Sloane only looks jaded.

"Robertson," she says flatly. "We meet again."

"Still stuck on that, I see," he responds. No use in correcting her, because Sloane clearly doesn't care. It's just a name. He won't let it bug him.

Even if it does.

"Did you make that up yourself, or were your parents just that pretentious?" she asks.

"'Dunno. Never met them."

"Gotcha. My parents suck, but at least they gave me a name that allowed me to blend into society."

A task that Sloane doesn't seem to have taken kindly to, from what he knows of her. Last he checked, even intermingling amongst an orphanage was more commonplace than getting high on every other street corner. She's clean now, but that's not by choice. There's still something haggard about her even months later, a part of her that will never quite escape.

But Robbie knows what that's like. He thinks, no matter how hard the prep team scrubs, that he'll always have graveyard dirt beneath his fingernails, the scent of fresh chrysanthemums clinging to his skin from when he lays them beneath his parents headstones.

"You wanna cut to the chase, Ten? M'tryna eat here."

"Can I ask you a question instead."

"If this is some sort of weird psychoanalyzing bullshit, no."

"It's not," he informs her. "I just wanted to guess. You're alone on purpose. Last time someone got too close, you wound up feeling bad. You don't want it to happen again. Am I right?"

"You're pushing your luck," she says simply, which means he's right. He busies himself with taking a few bites of food, allowing Sloane a moment to pull back from the harshness of the question as she slurps away at her drink.

Even if he's not the most adept at this, Robbie can still figure something out. As long as he has time, there's hope.

God, he's starting to sound idiotic.

"I don't want attachments either," he tells her.

"So…"

"So, me and you. That's it. Nothing more to it than an extra pair of eyes to watch your back while you sleep. If it comes down to the two of us, we fight it out with no remorse. How does that sound?"

"Well, killing you sounds preferable," Sloane admits. "Considering you keep interrupting my lunch."

"And the rest of it?"

Sloane snorts. "Sure. Don't care, Ten."

Robbie blinks, so suddenly so dumbfounded that anything else he had prepped vanishes from the tip of his tongue. He had been so prepared to fight for this, to get up in arms trying to explain to her what he could offer, what the two of them could accomplish. Robbie would have never given up, even if she had refused a dozen times over.

For it to be that easy doesn't make any sense.

"You've got a weird look on your face," Sloane says, popping her spoon free from her lips. "You about to die or something?"

"Just like that? We're allies?"

"Just like that," she echoes. "You're the one that asked, Ten. What else do you want?"

She sure is lucky that he's got Hawke as a District partner, otherwise he'd find her insufferable. Anything seems better than Hawke at this point, though, and Sloane's proven herself more than capable.

Even if it looks as if she'd rather be asleep.

"Nothing," he manages finally, still struggling to wrap his head around the development. "Thanks?"

"Don't thank me. If your partner tries to snap your neck, I'm leaving you behind."

As is her right. Robbie doesn't doubt that he'll turn tail and run in the opposite direction if anything comes after her, either. That's why this will work; being on the same level of understanding is something that he never had with anyone before. Even when she was in the midst of dying, no doubt Sable still thought that Robbie was coming to save her.

He had seen it in her eyes, even through a television screen. She had been hopeful.

She had been foolish.

Robbie settles back in his chair, finally allowing himself the sort of deep breath that's been trapped in his chest for the past few days. I did it, mom and dad. I fucking did it. Their proud smiles, suddenly filling his imagination, are enough to make him smile too. He's one step closer to really doing right by them.

Still, he forces the happiness from his face. There's nothing that he'll let ruin this for him, least of all Sloane's questioning stare, no doubt searching for the source of his joy. She doesn't need to know, because at the end of the day she's not going to matter.

He matters. The family he chose. The people, few and far between, that Robbie has allowed himself to care about.

Everyone that falls in-between is simply collateral damage.

Only one week left and we'll officially be out of training and into the back half of pre-games, though I do hope it hasn't felt like too much of a slog up until this point. In better news, we're less than two months from the bloodbath! Almost there.

As always, I hope you're enjoying the content. I'm (mostly) enjoying writing it.

Until next time.