Hem Herringbone, 17, District 9
It only took a day for Hem to be bedazzled by the Capitol.
It's everything she could have imagined and more.
All the stories her uncle told her about the Capitol never did it justice. The people, the food, the music are everything and more to Hem.
She wishes she was here under better circumstances, of course, but that doesn't take away from the magnificence of it all.
Wanting to relish in the music even more, she requests a radio for her room from her mentor, and by her return from her first day of training, it's there and ready for her. So as she prepares for the day, music fills her room.
(She thinks about the fear that consumed her not that long ago. In denial, it was her name of all names called at the reaping. Tears, endless tears for the entirety of reaping day, following her into goodbyes and onto the train. Tears and fear slept alongside her that night.)
Since her arrival in the Capitol, that fear has substantially subsided. There's something magical about about the aura here, something woven within the colorful threads and elegant music.
And she's made a friend on the first day! Well, the first real day of training. Hem doesn't know how anyone was comfortable enough socializing at the chariot rides, not when there were so many beautiful costumes to admire.
She didn't expect the girl from Seven to be drawn to her, but she's so thankful for it. Astel seems brave and strong and makes up for many of Hem's weaker sides.
(She was sad when Roman shot her down. Astel couldn't have introduced herself at a better time.)
The music drowns out the knocking at the door it takes a few knocks before Hem hears it. She turns it down, then saunters to the door.
"Hi!" The face of her mentor, Luca, surprises her, but a pleasant surprise. He's given her nothing but great advice so far, advice that has landed her a new confidence and a new friend.
Hem pushes the door open to allow Luca enough room to get comfortable. Hem knows he has more to offer than…many initially think. He takes a seat at the small, circular table in the corner.
"How was training?" he asks.
"Oh, it was exciting! It was exhausting. There were so many people, and stations, I almost didn't know what to do. I followed your advice though, I tried some weapons, and I think I'm okay with a javelin. I want to try it more tomorrow. That reminds me, I need to learn how to build a fire. I spent so much time identifying plants yesterday-I'm sorry I'm rambling," Hem stops herself.
"Don't apologize. Your enthusiasm is refreshing. Most are…less so." Luca's words set true with Hem, who saw it in the tributes that surrounded her at training yesterday. Many fearful faces.
(Hem feels it in herself, too. The uncertainty of it all.)
"Are you and the boy sticking together?" Luca asks. Hem shakes her head.
"He didn't want to. I'm not angry at him, though. I understand." Hem's voice struggles to be convincing.
"Anyone else?" Luca asks almost instantly to the point.
(Anyone else might have seen what he's getting at.)
"A girl approached me at a station. She wanted to ally. She seemed really adamant about it too, and-"
"Which girl?" Luca's eyes focus on the young girl standing in front of him.
(A hopeful girl, one blessed with the privilege of a wealthy upbringing.)
"Astel. She's from Seven. We're allied with her district partner and another boy, I think his name is Vetiver, and-"
"And what was the catch?" Luca's tone is sharp, and Hem takes a step back. She's never heard a tone like this from him, from anyone.
Did she do something wrong?
"She…just wanted me to be open about my alliance. To you, and to Roman…and to the Capitol. Especially during the interviews."
Has she already messed it up? She doesn't even know what there was to mess up.
"I don't want to come off as…cruel. But I need you to think, really think about how a girl like Astel would benefit from an alliance with you. Really think about it, and really think about her ask, to make your alliance as public as possible." Luca's words fade with the music, leaving Hem in a silence she so desperately needs to break out of.
The considerations spin throughout her mind and Hem has to lean her arm against to wall to stabilize herself.
"Are you saying I shouldn't ally with her?" If not her, who? Roman? He shot her down once, he would likely do it again.
"I'm saying it may be in your best interest to ask a few questions, and possibly reconsider your interview plan."
Suddenly it's not Astel grasping at Hem's attention, it's her uncle and his captivation with her violin playing.
"If you continue your mother's legacy, anything is possible." Pao had told her.
"I may…have a request," Hem says with a smile.
Exa Behrens, 14, District 6
Exa has little expectations starting off the second day of training. She feels slightly better about everything compared to the first day, but the bar started low.
What does a fourteen-year-old have going for them in the Hunger Games? Exa knows the answer: not a lot.
It has yet to slow her down. She spent yesterday getting a feel for every station. Thirty minutes here, an hour there, and she's more confident in her strengths than before.
She's learned that weapons are heavy and the Careers are scarier in person than they are on television, and the bloodshed hasn't even begun.
She found herself at many stations with Davidson. Unintentional, yet pleasant nonetheless.
But today, they seem to be anywhere but together. Davidson has found himself engrained in the stories the plans trainer has about his sister.
(Exa understands. If she could hear stories about Anton before he died, she would.)
Unfortunately, she doesn't have that luxury, and if she wants to see the rest of her siblings again, she won't linger in a daydream.
She finds herself at first-aid. She intentionally avoided it yesterday in preference for weapons and basic survival skills, but at the suggestion of her mentor Maude, first-aid is not to be ignored.
The station is relatively empty other than the quiet boy from Seven. He's been here since Exa arrived, yet hasn't said a word to her. At first, Exa assumes he's simply not interested in her presence, but after some simple observations, she realizes he's merely concentrating.
"Wow," she mumbles to herself after realizing what he's accomplished. Her words grab his attention, and his head whips to face her.
"What was that?" he asks, looking at the young girl whose eyes are still locked on his work.
He's done the impossible, Exa thinks to herself. At least, that's what she was told by the trainer this morning.
The mannequin is fit for a tribute to learn proper amputation techniques, with fake blood running through it and a preset injury simply waiting for activation. Once activated, the near-fatal injury reveals itself, and the tribute is given less than thirty seconds to tourniquet the wound, amputate the limb, and cease the bleeding. It took Exa a few tries to succeed. The trainer informed her that many fail, even on multiple attempts.
Yet here the boy is, stopping the bleeding, saving the limb, and the fake life in front of him.
"How did you do that?" she asks, eyes falling on the saving bandage. The boy looks at his work, then back at her.
He explains the techniques to her in a way that even she can understand, and she takes in every word. No matter the fact he seems to enjoy gloating ever so slightly, it doesn't bother Exa at all.
What bothers her is how wasted her potential is. She could be saving lives at home. The District could be saving lives, instead, they are content letting them perish.
"Thank you, for sharing," she says after the boy finishes his teachings. "My name is Exa."
"Owain. Are you a medic?"
"No." What is she, really, but a kid with an unrealistic dream? "I just appreciate medicine, is all."
The boy nods as he moves back ever so slightly to allow the trainer to reset the station.
"I was. Back at home, I mean. It was invaluable," Owain says to himself.
(Exa sees the pride he has in his craft, and she so clearly sees the skill the boy possesses. It seems to happen all at once: the repressed anger for the mayor for turning her away time and time again boiling up, clashing with the awe from what she just witnessed, knowing that in the end, her efforts for change remain futile.)
She can't decide which part of it annoys her the most. Her eyes shut, and all she sees is red.
So many dead! And for what! So many Antons. So many brothers and sons and cousins dead, sick, dying under the rule of a mayor who will continue to sit by passively.
Exa isn't fighting for herself. She hasn't been since her older brother dropped dead that fateful day. She's fighting for him, for those too sick to fight for themselves. With the money from a victory…
Her eyes open and she's never seen clearer.
"Teach me."
Becca Sryker, 14, District 10
Why did everyone have to be so annoying?
Becca storms across the training gym, wanting so desperately to escape everyone. It seems no matter where she turns there's a person, or more aptly a group of people there with the sole intention of irritating her.
(She knows that's not true, but it does reasonably explain the constant annoyances.)
There's only one section of the gym not filled with trainees, and that's snares. That's not to say people haven't come and gone from this station the prior day, but today it remains empty.
(At least that's what Becca thought.)
As soon as she settles and lets the trainer talk her through some fun and potentially deadly knots, a movement beside her ignites her anger once again.
Can't they just leave her alone?
Her eyes fall to the strange, obnoxious girl who has ruined Becca's plan. If she weren't in the middle of learning how to trap potential food, she would leave this station too.
The number on the girl's back reads Three, yet unlike most whom Becca has shared a station with, she is so engrained with her work that she hasn't even looked towards Becca.
(It is so unlike the community home, where eyes were constantly wandering, where any one moment of weakness would make everyone else pounce like wild animals. What is it like, to have the luxury to focus on only yourself?)
(The last time Becca could do that, the Capitol came in and called her name for the 110th Hunger Games. The last time she let her guard down, she paid for it with her life.)
The girl leans back and Becca can see what she has been so preoccupied with, as if that would tell her anything. A medley of metal and binding wrapped in rope, the whole thing as big as Becca's two fists. The girl smiles at her creation, not a care nor a notice for the stranger sitting beside her.
(What Becca would give to afford to be that lax.)
"What the hell is that?" Becca asks the girl. Her eyes fall to Becca's face.
"It's my masterpiece," the girl responds in awe.
"It looks like a pile of garbage," Becca replies. Most would scoff, gasp, or take offense to a comment, or reply with their own insult.
Not this girl.
"It's perfect. I wish they would let me use real gunpowder." The girl reaches out to adjust a few of the metal pieces.
Gunpowder? Becca's eyes analyze the thing again. She never spent a lot of time watching the Hunger Games in the community home, even though it was technically mandatory viewing. Their shitty caretakers kept the TV playing in the background, yet no one, not even them, paid it much mind. Her adoptive mothers did the same, ran the television in the background while the Games droned on and on until all but one remained.
She remembers one year, the first year living with her moms where the Games spent so long focused on one tribute building something similar-looking to what the girl beside her has created. She remembers being equally confused at the device, wondering its purpose.
Until the tribute buried the device by the cornucopia and blew the legs off of the group of Careers that had been harassing him all Games.
"You built a bomb?" Becca asks, too stunned for shock.
"It's an upgrade to what I built at home—one with no flaws. Obviously, I can't bring this into the arena, but I will show the Gamemakers it tomorrow afternoon, and they will ensure I have everything I need at my disposal in the cornucopia," the girl says with a confidence Becca could only dream of.
"You're insane." Another set of words that would normally be followed with insult in response, or a throw of a fist. This girl, however, just smiles even wider.
"I'm a genius."
Caliadne "Cali" Karpathos, 18, District 4
Cali stands to the side of the weapons station, watching Amatus and Ronan spar with swords. Vitali stands beside her, while Klara and Choux shoot bows nearby.
She doesn't feel well-rested. Despite the comforts and luxuries the Capitol offers her, it can't save her from the mess that is her own mind.
From the mess that is her relationship with Ronan.
After Callista's strategic talk the previous night, Cali had fully intended to disappear into her room. She hadn't anticipated to be followed.
(When has she ever been able to anticipate his moves? She can't recall.)
"Cali…" his words cut deeper than anyone else in her life. Not even the cruel words of her parents could affect her as strongly.
She's so close to her room, that she could disappear into the room and lock it without a second thought.
Instead, she turns to face him, threatening to release the flood of feelings she's kept bottled up for so long.
Don't, a little voice reminds her. There can only be one. There can only be one Victor. He's too distracted by his brother….his mother….no one is going to look out for her but herself…
"I'm sorry," he blurts out. He reaches his hands out ever so slightly as an offer. Cali doesn't move, not yet.
"It's okay…" she starts.
"No, it's not. I've been so focused on…everyone else when I shouldn't be. I didn't realize it. You made me realize it. So…I promise to leave them back at home." His words spiral throughout Cali's mind as she tries to understand what he's saying.
"Your turn!" Amatus' voice brings Cali back to the present. His eyes glare daggers into her and Vitali, who is still beside her.
"Please, don't hit me too hard," Vitali whispers in her ear as they move to replace Amatus and Ronan in the sparring arena. Cali smiles.
"You're not in danger. If you were Amatus though…" she responds, eliciting a smile from the strange boy from One.
"Or Ronan, right?" he asks. The question takes her off guard, and Vitali immediately backtracks. "Just, I thought, I don't know. Maybe a rivalry? I'm sorry-forget I said that."
Her initial reaction is a sense of failure, clearly, they're not as good at hiding their familiarity with one another as they thought. Until Cali realizes Vitali didn't say 'friends' or 'partners', which is exactly what Callista advised against.
"Yeah, something like that," she's happy to close the conversation, and Vitali is happier to oblige. They pick up dull sparring swords, neither eager to jump straight in.
Too many eyes are on them to get out of it though. Cali respects Vitali's wish and aims as close to his sword as possible. Again and again, they repeat the same moves. She strikes, and he blocks. Even when she slows down, when her arms get weaker and leave some room for him to strike, he doesn't.
"Boring! Klara, get over here," Amatus yells to his district partner. The look on their face screams how little she wants to listen, but she sets her bow down and joins the trio in the arena.
"I want to see Four sweat a little." Klara looks at Cali, then over at Vitali who too eagerly hands them his sword and makes his escape.
Klara kindly gives Cali a moment to catch her breath before they advance. In complete contrast to her previous sparring partner, Klara is aggressive and out for blood.
But so is Cali.
Cali's dead focused on Klara, but she can't help but notice Amatus' nod of approval to her side.
(She sees Ronan's expression too. An awe that drew her to him in the first place.)
"I care about you. I do, and I'm so sorry I haven't shown you that. You deserve better…" He pauses, waiting for words, an expression, something from his partner.
Except, none come because her words are stuck in her throat, and releasing them may cause her to break.
Distracted by last night, Klara is able to get the upper hand and deliver a would-be lethal blow, if they wanted it to. Fortunately for Cali, she stops her swing an inch away from Cali's neck.
Amatus claps, eyes falling to Vitali, gloating about how a real Career fights.
Cali watches the interaction, but her eyes can't help but fall on her district partner.
I need to focus, she reminds herself. Until their eyes lock and she remembers the kiss they shared.
She can't afford to offer him a third. She's losing focus.
Caliadne Karpathos has fought her whole life and nothing will stand in her way anymore.
Moriko "Mori" Ostrya, 12, District 12
It wasn't her idea to join the girl at the medical station.
"I would focus on survival today. Medicines, herbs, water, anything that could be the difference between life and death. The arena could have things that aren't native to Twelve."
Grey's words resonated with Aizen, who jumped at the opportunity to avoid weapon training.
Mori didn't mind, she's spent more time outside than most and she wants more than anything for Aizen to have her same knowledge. She can train him on survival now and weapons after lunch, tomorrow too if needed.
The idea's perfect in her head until she realizes the medical station is already occupied with another girl. She expected Aizen to want to redirect them elsewhere.
She's surprised he didn't.
For a while, the girl didn't even acknowledge them. Instead, the entirety of her attention is locked on fixing a mannequin.
"She thinks she can avoid the forced amputation on the amputation mannequin. She's struggling, if you're thinking about trying," the trainer explained when Aizen inquired. He didn't, but he did keep a curious eye as the girl tried again and again.
"Don't rule out other allies entirely. It's a tough group this year, even one person could benefit you two," Grey said. Mori immediately pushes the idea away. She wonders if Aizen does the same.
An hour passes, and the trainer teaches Mori and Aizen medical wraps and concoctions they weren't all too familiar with. Grey's advice proved practical after all.
(Aizen takes in every word, while Mori's concentration is deadset on the stranger within their vicinity. She has to protect him.)
"This is so cool…" he mutters to no one in particular. Mori glances down at the concoction he's made from a series of plants the trainer provided them. His eyes look back up to the trainer, and he asks, "This would stop a wound from bleeding?"
"Yes. A small one, of course. You merely set the paste across the wound. Just ensure the consistency is closer to paste than a runny liquid or it won't set right," the trainer drones on about distinguishing the medical herbs from the edible ones, but Mori has tuned him out again.
All she can think about is the danger she's put him in. Everyone in this room is a threat, that Mori knows for certain, but the threats in the room are ones she can prepare for. She can tell that the boy from One is less confident than his allies. She can tell the boy from Ten doesn't speak, but can scale a tree faster than even she could. She can tell the girl from Eight is as strong as she is loud.
It's the unknown that terrifies Moriko. It always has been.
What if they're thrown into a cold wasteland? She heard Zara mention that arena at dinner the other night.
Twelve was cold, but the trees never failed to protect her.
Is she guaranteed trees?
Is he guaranteed stars?
She's certainly not guaranteed comfort. Every moment Aizen's life is on the line she can feel her chest weigh heavy with guilt.
"Mori? Look," his soft voice brings her back to the present, and her eyes fall to where he points. To their stationmate, who has spent so long training on a bleeding mannequin.
Except there's no more blood.
"She stopped the bleeding," he explains with a childlike wonder that Mori's only heard from him once before.
Aizen didn't stay with Mori past dark often, but he was adamant about showing her something. A small collection of papers he usually carries in a bag are now in his hands, and he is using them like one would use a map.
She just isn't sure what map compels him to keep looking up, but she follows him anyway.
They reach a large clearing before he stops.
"Sit here, sit here," he says, patting the ground beside himself. Mori complies, something she's not quite used to. With anyone but Aizen, she'd do the opposite of what they asked.
"Look." he points up to the sky. "My dad calls those the dippers. There's a bigger one - see you can see it right there." She tries to follow his finger, but all she sees is darkness.
"What am I looking for?" she asks him.
"The stars. When they're in a line, they form these things called constellations. My dad… taught me about them. Here, look." He places the map on her lap and it starts to come together. The stars, the invisible lines that connect them together.
She looks up again and that's when the pieces start to align. She can see the collection of stars that form, what did he call them, dippers?
He shows her the rest of the ones that are visible that evening, but otherwise, they don't talk much. Mori can't say she fully understands it, but in the short time she's known the boy, she's never seen him this wondrous about anything.
"The trainer said that wasn't possible. I-" and before Mori can stop him, he's moved closer to the young girl, still so entranced in her work that she doesn't notice either of them.
"She could help you get home," he whispers to his friend.
His words cut so deep if he were looking at her face, he'd see her stunned. Fortunately, he doesn't, and Mori is able to bury it again.
(Bury the realization that, in spite of it all, he's fighting for her to go home.)
How the hell will she fight to get him home if his mind is in the wrong place?
Oswaldo "Ozzy" Moquette, 17, District 8
Ozzy's feet hurt from standing for a day and a half, so lunch could not come soon enough for him. He's the first one there and has his pick of the table, and by the time the other tributes start to fill up the empty spaces, he's nearly done eating.
Perfect. He needed time to focus, anyway.
His district partner is hell-bent on joining the Careers, so he's not surprised when she seats herself just beside the apparent leader, the boy from Two. He finds her amusing, it seems. Ozzy finds her rather obnoxious.
To each their own.
He's starting to see where other truces have formed. Pairs and trios sitting closer than they were yesterday, conversations louder than the near silence that filled the room previously. A few are still solo, yes, but not most.
Ozzy has never fallen in with most, anyway.
The last in is the boy from Three, trying ever so hard to be subtle about his floating eyes. He puts food on his plate, enough to where most wouldn't think twice.
(No one sits with a light plate and an empty glass unless they are up to something.)
Little things were of the utmost importance in the work he and his sister used to do. People were rarely so surface, with their personalities, intentions, or their valuables. Where one person would have been satisfied with a small box of jewelry, Scarlet and Ozzy would find the secret pile of cash and valuable gems underneath the floorboard or hidden deep within the crevices of the bedroom closet.
Ozzy misses his sister. When he returns, because he has to return, he won't stop until he rescues her from the man who has the audacity to name himself their father.
The time for lunch comes and goes and the strange boy from Three's eyes has fallen over everyone in the room at least three times. After the second watchful glare, Ozzy deduces that it's not the people in the room that he's really interested in. It's the trainers that wander around the corners of the room, the ones that most tributes don't know are there.
As everyone eagerly gets back to training, Ozzy decides to move in. Training is fun and all, but he wants in on whatever this boy is doing. He clearly needs help with subtly.
(And Ozzy needs something, too. Something he won't get by sparring with a few underfed kids.)
"When you're watching someone, don't follow them with your entire head. It's like putting a big sign above you that screams 'I'm watching you'." The boy jumps at the sound of Ozzy's voice, eyes widened. The sight makes Ozzy laugh, despite the boy's cold expression in response.
"What do you want?" the boy asks, the tone unlike one Ozzy expected from someone whose been caught with wandering eyes. Almost as if he's as curious about Ozzy as Ozzy is with him.
"I want in. Whatever you're planning, scouting for, whatever. I can help," Ozzy says. As the second day of training inches to an end, he doesn't want to be left in the dark any longer. He doesn't want to enter the Games with a disadvantage.
(His unanswered questions eat away at his sanity, and he didn't have a lot to start off with.)
"It's going to be dangerous," the boy says with a weak attempt at intimidation.
(Ozzy knows true intimidation, and it's not here in the Capitol.)
"Good," Ozzy says with a genuine smile.
(Maybe he won't need to wait to win to help Scarlet.)
The boy is silent for a while, for so long that Ozzy takes the opportunity to ask the single question that's been on his mind since he sat in front of the boy.
"What's your name?"
"Mishra," he says. The name rings as familiar in Ozzy's head as…
(As nothing. Ozzy's past is a closed and damaged book, with pages ripped and burned so no one could shuffle through them.)
"Mishra. I'm Ozzy. I think we're going to work very well together."
yay more training!
uhh things are happening yay!
see you in two weeks-ish with mishra, val, tamin, bazooka, aizen, and chaffinch!