Lyme- District Two
The President's Own, the elite squad of Peacekeepers assigned solely to guard President Snow and handle any assignments he can't trust to anyone else, are each given a kitten at the start of their training. They must name the kitten and bring it with them to all training exercises, carrying it with them partially through the obstacle courses and simulated enemy encounters they face as part of their training. If you can get through all that while shepherding a kitten you can protect the president through anything.
I never got that far. I failed training. It only takes one failure. For me it was a ruck run. Each of us carried sixty pounds of supplies along with a bulletproof vest and a rifle. It was a ten-mile run with a pacer behind us. Fall behind the pacer, fall out of the President's Own. I'd run before. I was never the fastest but I'd always made it to the end. That time I didn't. I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could and I reached my end before the course did. I watched my squad disappearing into the distance and knew it was over. My instructor, Leonidas, was the pacer that day. He looked at me for a single moment as he passed me by and I saw the disappointment in his eyes. He never looked at me again.
They didn't give us weapons in the Cornucopia. The soft rolling hills and patches of forest would be all the tools we had. My training in tracking, navigation and wilderness survival made me invaluable. My training in tactics and experience with spartan environments made me unstoppable. My allies and I stalked the Arena killing outliers with whatever we could put together. When the inevitable happened and we split up, I killed my biggest rival with a rock. Then I abandoned the fight and went commando.
I failed as a Peacekeeper. I wasn't going to fail as a Tribute. Things that were below Careers weren't below me. There was no pride, only victory. When I needed to hide in the murky waters of a pond while two Careers passed by overhead in a temporary pairing, I swallowed my pride and did it. When I needed protein, I ate caterpillars. It doesn't matter what you have to do. War ends only when you win.
The last Tribute left with me was the girl from Eight. Faille Wever was thirteen years old. She had the face of an angel. In all my time at the Capitol I'd never heard a bad word about her. We talked about how easy she'd be to kill, sure, but never with relish. She was one of the ones where it was impossible to forget she was a child. We all liked to talk about the glories and battles of war, but we always turned the talk away from the collateral damage. I suspected, and later found out I was correct, that she lived so long because of a grassroots sponsoring effort rare in its fervor.
I failed President's Own training, but I was there on the last day with the graduating candidates. I fulfilled the last requirement, the one that candidates always think has the highest failure rate, but really has the lowest. Twenty years later that lesson stayed with me when I led my District against the combined might of the Capitol. I knew I had to be willing to do anything to win. Bombing civilian sectors. Sending out advance forces I knew would be slaughtered to pave the way for the second wave. I knew how much blood would be on my hands and that I could not hesitate.
On the last day of training the candidates strangle their kitten.
Lyme is in the movies so she doesn't need an appearance.