XXV: Training, Day Three (II).

Kai Melchior, 15
Victor of District Five

It seems like a miracle that he's even here.

Not here in every sense. Kai remembers volunteering with perfect clarity—he had been one of the first up on that stage so that he couldn't talk himself out of it, wouldn't think about his family's faces when he announced his intentions.

It's just… here. Exhaustion had pulled down at every inch of his body this morning, so much so that each inch he had dragged himself from bed had felt like an individual agony. Khione suggested that's where he should stay; after all, no one was going to fault the kid who was already actively dying for skipping out on the last day of training. He needed what little bit of strength he had for his private session.

Kai couldn't imagine anything worse, though, than being curled up in his room during what was more than likely one of his last few days alive. Khione escorting him downstairs was up there, for everyone had stared at him while she had eased him into the gymnasium. It was impossible to tell how many of them felt bad.

It just wasn't enough. Not everyone was going to step aside and willingly die quickly enough that Kai could get out of here and be saved. If anything, most of the people here would believe they were doing him a favor. Putting a dying creature out of its misery.

He definitely was miserable, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. He couldn't eat at lunch because of the budding nausea in his stomach, and it only worsened his lack of energy, the consistent quiver to his limbs. This was definitely one of his bad days. It seemed impossible that any of them were still good, but this was by far the one that was plaguing him the most.

Frankly, it was a miracle that he even made it back into the gymnasium at all. Kai had no real objective in mind—the only thing that made sense was finding a chair to sit in, and stat, before he blacked out in the middle of the room and got the medics called in. He'd sooner die of embarrassment than the cancer flooding his insides.

He's so tired, though. How a human can be this exhausted and still function is beyond him. He swings his leg over the bench, toes catching on its firm edge, and nearly careens over sideways before a hand hooks around his elbow, stopping his graceless descent.

"Easy," a voice says, but Kai rips his arm free without turning around, half-falling into place.

"I've got it," he snaps. No use in coddling him, catching him… what would even happen, if he fell and hit his head? No one would fix it. They never have.

His vision is swimming an odd amount, leaving Kai no firm belief that there's any use in discovering who stopped him from careening to the floor. He flattens his hands to the table, letting his balance ratchet back up. Kai still isn't sure where he quite is, but there's no use in figuring it out.

There's a quiet sigh, still behind him. "You know, I hear that enough every other waking moment," Kai says. "That pitiful sigh. You don't have to feel bad. I did this to myself."

As everyone seems so keen to remind him of. Even Sarain, though she's always tactful, will not let him escape the fact that he dug the very hole he plans on crawling into. But no, someone's going to have to drag him there, dump him at the bottom, because Kai isn't going willingly. Not if he has a say about it.

His vision is clear enough now that when Ravi takes a seat beside him, leaving a few inches of space, he at least knows who he's dealing with.

"It's not pity," Ravi says.

"Then what is it?"

"People who are dying deserve better than what you're being given," he responds. At least he's blunt about it. No talks of his situation or circumstance—Kai is dying, plain and simple. "Peace. Comfort. A family by their side, if they wish. Something to ease the pain."

And he's not going to get any of that. Right. Kai lays his head down on his folded arms, allowing his eyes to slip shut. Sleep won't be afforded to him, but a little rest can't hurt.

"Am I bugging you?" Ravi questions. And… no. He's really not. It's a refreshing change from what Kai has been dealing with as of late.

"You're fine."

"Alright. You don't mind if I stay?"

He's given enough confirmation of the fact, Kai thinks, unless Ravi means something more. Still, his neck aches something fierce, temples throbbing, and the idea of lifting his head is less than appealing. "You don't mean…?"

"I could help you. If you'd like."

Ravi is trying, awkward though it may be. He's offering himself up as something of a protector, even if he's not the defensive type. If anything he just wants to be what he's already described—a way to ease Kai's pain before he goes.

"I'm going to drag you down with me." It feels like poison seeping through him from the inside out just to admit it aloud. Kai doesn't want to be weak. He doesn't want to be the direct cause of someone's demise because he can't handle himself. Zeph was bad enough.

Ravi's reply is equally as quiet, though, something resigned to it. "I don't mind," he murmurs. It truly doesn't sound like that's the case, and Kai doesn't have the energy to refute it. Perhaps if he did he would argue more, but all of the fight he has left needs to be channeled into something larger. He needs to save it for something larger.

And that fight is clearly not today.

Farasha Oriani, 14
Victor of District Eleven

Since the moment the words left her body, Farasha has felt guilt over them.

I think I would rather be alone.

A lie. Such a blatant one that Farasha isn't sure how she even forced out. Being alone and unwanted is the last thing she has ever coveted. It's human nature to want company, a shoulder to lean on, and she's never truly had it.

In Alia's eyes, though she was undoubtedly softer, Asha saw nothing more than Poppy and Ixora, two girls who had pretended to be her friends all under the guise of using her for something more. When the time was right, had they been given the chance, she would have been pushed into the direct line of fire without either of them blinking.

People always seemed to have ulterior motives no matter who she looks to. That's what she had believed about Alia, too.

But now the other girl just looks… dejected. She's hiding it well, but Farasha has spent so long watching her since their earlier split that she recognizes the signs. The hunched shoulders, the downcast eyes. The way she avoids everyone else.

The fear of rejection is keeping her from making a move, the same fear that has paralyzed Farasha all these years. Things have never worked no matter how hard she tries, and bothering has never seemed worth it, but this? It's her last chance, isn't it? If Farasha doesn't try now, she's going to die alone, without ever knowing what it was like for someone to care without anything else lying underneath.

She can't quite force herself to head directly across the room. Her path is more haphazard, lingering on stations and the other tributes, all the while keeping one eye on Alia's position. Minute by minute Farasha allows herself to move closer, each footsteps feeling more dangerous than the last.

There's nothing to worry about. As long as she keeps telling herself that, she isn't doomed to fail.

"Alia?"

The other girl gasps, dropping the handful of spiky looking plants she had been examining between her feet. She doesn't seem to realize who has spoken to her in her startled reflex, bending down to scoop up the abandoned flora before they can collect dirt. Farasha bends forward for one as well, even if she can't quite tell what it is.

By the time she's righted herself, Alia is staring at her. Farasha thrusts the plant back in her direction, relieved when she takes it despite her hesitant movements.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she explains. "I was just… wondering if we could talk."

"Okay," Alia says, her voice a scarce whisper. Almost as if she's holding her breath.

Just try, Asha. She wanted you for some reason. What's the worst that could happen?

She knows all the ways that could go wrong; that's why her breath shakes, chest aching something fierce as she holds out her hand. "Could we start over? Forget earlier ever happened?."

There's a brief pause before Alia laughs, and she feels something within her release as Alia's hand closes around her own, shaking it in a clammy but firm grip. "Sure thing. I'm Alia."

"Farasha—Asha, really, but either is fine, I don't—"

"Asha," Alia echoes. "I like that. Almost sounds like we go together, don't you think?"

Alia and Asha. Asha and Alia. She was such a fool, earlier, to chase this away when it could be a good thing. All because she was scared of history repeating itself yet again. Even if it does, Asha will die knowing she put in one last, hearty effort.

"I'm really glad you're here, Asha," Alia says.

"Me too. I'm sorry for earlier. I don't know what I was thinking, really, or what I was saying."

"You don't have to apologize."

"No, I do." Another deep breath. At least this one doesn't hurt so much. "I'm not always so good with… with people, and they're not always good with me either. I've never stuck anywhere before. I don't know what it's like."

Alia's smile is fragile, some unknown emotion swimming in her eyes as she steps forward. Asha tries not to go stiff as the older girl's arm wraps gently around her shoulders—not so strong as to trap her in if she wished to step away, but enough that she feels the comfortable weight of it.

"Well, you can stick with me," Alia tells her. "But like I said, it's only if you want."

This time, it feels like her hesitation has vanished into thin air. "I think I would like that a lot."

She deserves this, no matter what she's done in the past and who has tried to destroy her perception of what it means to be cared about. Alia is exactly the type of person who can re-write this for her. If she's lucky enough, maybe they can even be friends.

Of course she had to come here one last time to find such a thing. Alia saw what she was through a television screen, has seen her fear and hesitance in person, and yet still she has not shied away. That's someone worth trusting. It's not the type of thing her parents would be proud of her for—in their eyes, this is no great achievement, a fear accomplished by thousands of people every single day, but to Asha it's everything and more.

It's all going to end; denying that part is inevitable. But for now Asha is content in the knowledge that she's not only tried, but succeeded.

In her eyes, that's even sweeter than winning.

Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Victor of District Six

They know they should be doing more.

It feels downright pitiful to have been doing nothing more than sitting around these past few days. This time has given them clarity, though, presented him with the clear-cut facts; they're going to die. It's coming to terms with it that's the problem.

They had been so sure of it the first time that a part of them wants to hope there's something more, a chance at a better life beyond. They could get help, the kind the Capitol had been offering them and more… their mom, too. A nicer house would surely help. A more comfortable bed.

No matter how much they try to talk themselves into the idea, it seems further and further away. Victory is not even close to a guarantee for someone like them. It's a pipe dream, a fabrication… something to dream about and nothing more.

Her dreams have been stolen from them, though, once again. The prep team will once again layer make-up beneath their eyes in order to hide the shadows, chattering and pretending they're not there in the first place. In reality, Vadric is going into this the same way they ought to have a year ago.

Avanti had been the one to come to them. If she hadn't, Vadric would have been alone, and more than likely died that way too. Avanti, Weston… none of it would have happened if he had just allowed the doors to close.

The worst part was he was coming this way now, too. Vadric had seen him hesitating all day, a quirk so unlike himself that it was impossible to miss. By the time he sidled up to them, a looming presence that peered over their shoulder to watch them loop knots around their fingers, they had no idea what he was thinking at all.

Whoever could figure out Weston was a miracle in their own right.

"How's it going, gremlin?" he asks, sitting down next to her. He doesn't ask. Weston never would.

"Are we still stuck on that?"

"Are you still a gremlin?" he fires back. "Planning on hanging someone, are you?"

"Not currently." They hum, turning their eyes from the knots they've created to the room around them, trying to scan but coming up empty-handed. "Where are—"

"They're fine. They don't need me to babysit them."

Vadric was thinking more that Weston's chosen allies were babysitting him, but alright. It feels good to think it, something light-hearted, even if they're not able to say it aloud. They finally find the pair of them across the room—Levi's shooting arrows, not quite with the accuracy of someone that's a fine-tuned expert, but every-time he hits a bullseye Jordyn does a little cheer, further spurring him on.

This is good for Weston. Normal. He's with people that he likes, and wasn't just forced into something because of proximity.

And that's why he's here, isn't it? It hits them all at once. The glaring image of the two of them in that railyard together feels superimposed on their brain, somehow blotted out by the fact that until just a minute ago they had sat here alone, allyless with no plans to be otherwise. It should have been obvious that they stuck together now.

Nothing was ever that simple.

They sigh. "Weston…"

"Don't Weston me. Jordyn even asked about you. They wouldn't mind if you came with us."

"I'm not letting you drag me along just because you feel bad."

"I don't feel bad—"

"So what is it, then?" Vadric interrupts, feeling so unlike themself. Apparently once you spend a year with someone you get almost comfortable enough to speak freely—this is the first time they're experiencing it, really. "If it's not pity, then I don't know what it is. You and I both know that if we hadn't been thrown into the Games together, we wouldn't have been friends. We would never have even met because—because I would have never left the house long enough to see you and you were too busy living your grandiose life. And that's fine."

It's the most they've spoken, surely, in a while. Weston normally does enough of the talking that they don't have to worry about it. Now it appears they've stunned him into silence.

If they're not offered some sort of award for that, they'll never have a chance to win another.

"So," he finally says, the word drawn out. "We're friends?"

Sometimes she really does hate him. "That's not—"

"That's exactly what you said."

"We were," they clarify, fixating on the table. It's more bearable not to have to face him directly. "But we can't be anymore. You understand that, right?"

Neither of them were ever really built for friends, anyway? Not Vadric, at least. Because when they look up, some of that delight and satisfaction that Weston had clearly felt from cracking their rock-hard shell is gone, replaced by a careful numbness that somehow feels much more reassuring. He's pulling back. He's accepting it.

Even if Vadric doesn't want to, it's for the best.

"I understand," Weston agrees. His voice is taking them back to that first day they met, almost clinical in how he regarded them. Fitting, for his line of work. He slaps both of his palms down against the table, clearly in resignation and not any form of anger, but Vadric shrinks regardless as he gets to his feet.

"You'll do good," they tell him. They believe it, too. "But good luck… just in case."

"You too, gremlin. Give 'em hell out there."

He smiles, but it's no trademark Weston look. They smile too, but it feels weaker than ever. Somehow, despite all of that, Vadric can still manage to feel an iota of comfort. No one else will be dragged down by them, killed and left to rot because he can't handle their own head.

If they are the only victim of themselves and what lurks inside, then they'll die happy.

Or at least something close to it.

Hawke Rabanus, 18
Victor of District Ten

Going through the motions was good for him.

The familiarity of a routine was pleasant to him. Even if his shifts back home were sporadic, hardly organized, Hawke knew exactly what to do and how to operate. His life was mundane even if he signed up for danger upon waking every morning, and that was the way it ought to be.

The clock was always right here. Training started at the same time, and they set out lunch at one in the afternoon on the dot. Everything ended at four, when the trainers would begin to slide the mats away and make sure the weapons were properly holstered.

There was a sense of finality about it all, the last time he would ever step foot in here, but Hawke was watching the clock, unable to help himself. He knew where they would be taken after this, and he was ready to get it over with. Clearly he had proven himself not to be one for pomp and circumstance—the sooner his private session was over with and he could stop pretending that he actually cared about what the Gamemakers thought, the better.

He wasn't the only one by far that was watching the clock, but when the bell rung to signify the end of the day he was the first one moving, making headway for the double doors that marked his exit. Hespera was waiting in the lobby, her arm held out to direct him into the adjacent waiting room. Hawke knew it all too well; he hardly had to take her direction to find his way there, a seat of Peacekeepers opening the following doors to the icy, gray hallway where they were doomed to wait. Instead of the uncomfortable metal benches that had greeted him last time there were labeled seats, and he took the first of the Ten's without stopping to think twice about it.

Everyone else was much slower. Some of them were still hesitant as if this was foreign territory. If they didn't screw their heads on tighter, and fast, they were going to fall so quick no one would bother to remember them. It didn't matter the feats they had achieved in the past; a corpse was a corpse, and there were a few thousand of them already in the ground because of the past hundred years.

Twenty-three more was child's play.

Robbie sits down in the seat next to him with a thump, their shoulders knocking together in a move that can only be described as purposeful. Hawke keeps his eyes forward, refusing to react. Both of the Nine's sit down across from them at the same time. Lilou stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, before Casia draws her attention away.

"Whoever gets the lower score has to fight a mutt one on one," a voice says, floating above him. Sloane Laurier's arm nearly catches him across the face as she stretches forward to flick Robbie in the temple, retreating with an amused huff before he can retaliate.

"That's fucked up!" he calls after her. "Also, you're going to lose!"

They shoot matching middle fingers at one another; it's almost enough to be touching, if Hawke actually gave a shit about whatever interpersonal relationships people happened to be forming. The last person on his mind at this particular moment is Robbie. Whatever he's doing is none of Hawke's concern.

He doesn't understand how so many of these people can be so certain in the choices they've made. Watching them mingle is enough to have him nauseated. Much like Robbie and Sloane, a decent handful are joking around, standing about in the hall instead of taking their seats as they should.

Still, he won't let it bug him. None of these people are worth his time. In just a short time, now, they'll all be dead.

Hawke doesn't plan on being able to recall a single one of them in the aftermath.

Thankfully, when Hespera enters at the back of the crowd, a pleasant hush falls over them. "Take these few minutes as your respite while the gymnasium is cleaned and the Gamemakers prepare. We will call the first of you in shortly."

"Prepare?" someone sneers. "Prepare for what? They're already sitting there."

Whoever has spoken goes ignored; Hespera looks them over, as if taking a headcount, before she departs. The doors clang shut behind her. Some chattering begins up once again, but it's uneasiness that floods the room in a great amount, silencing the worst of the noise.

"You seem eager," Robbie says, just loud enough to reach him. "What if you get a lower score than me? Huh?"

It won't happen. "A nine last time around, versus your seven, if I recall."

"Skewed results." Robbie folds his hand behind his head, leaning back against the wall. "Doesn't matter, anyway. They're just numbers. That alone isn't going to win you any favors."

No—Hawke will see to the rest of that himself. He's doubtful about anyone being so forward-thinking as to put a gun in his hands yet again, but he did more than enough with just a simple knife that he's not worried.

Robbie is right, even though he refuses to admit it aloud. Numbers don't matter. That's why Hawke remains content in his solitude, watching the others chase after allies and friends as if that will save them in the end. It's as if they didn't watch the events of the last year. Everyone falls just the same. When it comes down to it, it's about what you do in the arena.

What happens here is a farce, and like Hawke said—he's eager to be rid of it. After today, everything is fair game.

Hawke can't wait for this place and its rules to become obsolete once again.

A/N here.

And just like that, training is finished! I say, as if I didn't write six whole chapters about it and put you through a month and a half of reading it, but oh well. I had fun. Hope you guys had at least some in exchange.

Things after this chapter are slightly non-traditional. Less carefully crafted pages of interviews (though I'll be doing a small handful of those for posterity) and more... fun things. Only six more chapters until the Games begin so I think some fun is warranted. If you have any predictions for what might be happening and your name isn't Z, feel free to let me know.

Until next time.