X: Training, Day One (I).
Weston Katsouris, 18
Victor of District Six
It's wrong of him to find a thrill in the midst of all this.
Before, perhaps, he wouldn't have cared. It's more difficult to ignore when Vadric is sitting by his side in the back-seat, their eyes blown wide as they look at the assembly of cars lined up outside the center, the doors they'll be required to walk through once again.
"Think of it this way," Weston tries. "You've already been in there once and survived it."
Vadric nods, still looking unconvinced as he pops the door open, allowing the cacophony of the crowd held back by bright yellow barriers to assault them full force. It doesn't bother him in the slightest to step out into it; Weston doesn't so much as look around at the other tributes slipping out down the block, ready to enter the same way he is.
All he does is stretch his hand back into the car, Vadric's fingers curling around his forearm as they drag themselves onto the sidewalk at his side.
"See, not scary at all," Weston points out, though he can hardly make sense of his own thoughts with all the noise. "At least you don't have to get in a chariot again."
"Inspirational," Vadric says quietly, looking around nervously as if someone is about to break free from the crowd and run at them. Carina's quick intervention in pulling them both forward puts a halt to any chance of Vadric running for it, though their escort seems more annoyed by the fanfare than pleased. Apparently someone misses the chariots after all.
He nudges them ahead as Carina leads them through the entrance of the building, so neatly in line with all of the other tributes that they seem to blend into one. The main foyer is just the same as it always was, quickly left behind as they're led once again into the depths, the outside world forgotten about. Weston remembers how he felt the first time standing here nearly a year ago to the day—back then there had been no expectations. No certainty about their journeys, about what was to come next.
He hadn't been scared like some of them, though, and he certainly wasn't now. If anything it was Vadric to be worried about—they were trying to make themselves small, an easy task lurking in his shadow, ducking down so as to avoid being looked at.
Back to old habits. Evidently just about everything else will die harder than those.
"Attention tributes!"
"Hespera!" someone calls back, sounding almost comically jovial. One of the Fives, he's almost certain, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which one. "Good to see you again. So soon, though… almost feels like deja vu."
The Head Trainer seems no more impressed than she has the past year, Weston doesn't doubt, but a few odd chuckles that drift through the crowd do wonders to disperse the awkwardness. "Yes, Mr. Ossof, it's quite good to see you again. You are correct, though—I'll keep this brief."
It really isn't as awkward as he expected. No one is screaming, panicking, threatening to upchuck their breakfast. Most look simply prepared. Others resigned.
Truthfully, he's excited to see everyone. Weston knows all of their names, but being in a room with them is different. To know them, truly, is so much more than that.
"Didn't we hear this whole spiel already?" a voice asks at his other side, airy and unconcerned. "I thought she said it would be short."
Weston glances down, a smirk playing at his lips. "I mean, if you'd rather get out of here…"
"Wow," Jordyn says, though there's definitely a little smile on her face. It's about the reaction he expected from such an audacious move. "And here I thought it would take more than five seconds for someone to begin acting up. I gotta say, color me shocked."
"Are you, though?
"Not particularly." She shrugs before holding out a hand. "Jordyn Palladino."
"Oh, I know who you are," Weston tells her, though he takes her hand regardless. "Not so easy to forget a pretty face."
"Funny. I was about to say the opposite about you."
Of course this girl has just got to try him. He can feel Vadric staring at him too, no doubt giving him a look because he can feel the tips of his ears burning like some sort of prepubescent teenage boy. It's not exactly the beginning he expected.
Not that it's entirely unwelcome.
"So what do you say?" he questions. She knows what he's referring to, of course—though she could pretend to have forgotten, evidently an easy thing for her to fake, she's all smiles and sparkling eyes as she looks up at him.
"Buy me dinner first," she says. "Then I'll consider it."
He's sure the day will do. A free lunch courtesy of the Capitol. When has Weston ever needed more than a few hours to get someone into his good graces?
There's a quiet sigh as Jordyn turns her attention back to Hespera. "You're ridiculous," Vadric murmurs. Code for you're jumping the gun, and she's dangerous he can only assume. They all are. Jordyn isn't giving him the time of day because she's in it purely for a good time. Of course he hasn't forgotten that. When surrounded by threats, though, where's the harm in collecting the best-looking ones?
"That I am," he agrees, though Vadric doesn't return his smile. As soon as Hespera finishes her speech, the doors swinging open behind her, Vadric scuttles away from his side as if they were never there at all. The disappearance is so quick that he can only stare after them until they're hidden from view by the plethora of other tributes.
That is, of course, until a hand lands on his arm. "You coming or what?" Jordyn asks.
There is no choice—his fate has already been decided in this matter.
Amani Layne, 18
Victor of District Four
No one is available to tell him if this is a terrible idea or not.
Avonlea didn't have the slightest clue when he asked—if anything, she seemed more taken by the question in the first place than finding an answer.
In a normal year, the kind Amani's father and everyone else trained him for, there would be expectations. He would be a leader. The scars that stand out on his arms like flashing beacons will prevent that; as well as everything else, it seems.
"This seems fun," Jordyn announces. She's joined him, but Six is lurking just behind her, looking almost amused as both Two's sidle up. His instincts are quickly catching up to what his wounded heart already knows; this is the opposite of a good idea. It's not going to be pleasant or efficient. It's not going to work.
Something catches him in the arm so hard that he nearly stumbles, wincing at the dull pain that reverberates up into his shoulder. Tova Revelis breezes past him without so much as a look back, eyes fixated most obviously on the line of perfectly lined up hatchets. Maderia is right on her heels—she looks genuinely apologetic as she mouths a quick sorry at him, though that doesn't stop them from ending up at the same station.
"Something gives me the impression she doesn't like you very much," Jordyn tells him plainly, patting him on the shoulder.
"Who does," Weston says behind her. "I mean, no offense, man. I didn't care much at all about being stuck here all year, but everyone else…"
Amani sighs. "You know you don't have to stay, right?"
"I know." Jordyn's hand pats him again, like she's placating him. "Good luck."
At least he knows that's genuine. For all of her charades, she's never been cruel to him despite everything he's done. She'll be better with Six, or anyone else for that matter. Amani knows in the end he's only going to drag someone down with him.
He wants to be capable of yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs. He wants to cry for how this has all gone to shit. And he can't do any of it. Amani can't even find it in himself to hope that something will change for the better. All he can do is stay calm, and even that's nowhere close to good enough.
He's been left alone with the Two's—Sander, who's staring at him in silence, and Levi, who has braced himself at an equal distance between them, looking mighty uncomfortable at the thought of stepping closer in either direction.
Levi gives a forced smile, though, throwing a hand up. "I hate to bounce, but…"
He's gone before Amani can get a word in otherwise—his lips fall open, a call poised on them, but Sander shakes his head. "You can't control what he does; I wouldn't bother trying."
And his District partner would know best, wouldn't he? Amani eyes the scar between Sander's eyes, so dangerously close to slipping from the bridge of his nose and into his eyes. He can't imagine having trusted someone so intrinsically only for them to betray him with a knife to the face. Tiernan and Kona… they were his friends. Even if it had come down to the three of them, it would have been fair.
Amani knows what would have happened in that case, though. It's the same thing that should've been seen all the way through back in May.
"You don't have to stay either," Amani says quickly. He might as well say all he needs to before he swallows the words back down. "I'm not exactly the ally anyone wants."
"But you want them?"
"What?"
"Allies," Sander clarifies. "Or at least… you're doing a damn good job of pretending you do."
Amani isn't sure what he's doing—does he want allies, or is he just going through the motions, trying to convince everyone he's the same as they thought he was before someone inevitably finishes the job he failed to complete?
"You're trying," Sander continues. "That suggests to me that at least part of you wants to live."
"You sound awfully sure of that," he says quietly. Amani's not even sure of the truth behind that statement. Can Sander know better than he does what Amani truly wants? Everyone else seems to be picking him apart in a way that Amani isn't willing to. His insides are ugly, all twisted up and bleeding, and looking at them so intently will only bring him back to the precipice once again.
A precipice that he keeps trying to move away from.
"There's not much I'm sure of anymore," Sander admits. Amani wonders if this is how people looked at him—with pity in their eyes. He feels for Sander. He understands the struggle better than anyone else.
Once upon a time they were both titans, and now they've both been brought to their knees.
Not one part of it has been any fault of their own. Even if Amani has tried to convince himself that it's all his fault, that's he's too much of a fuck-up to see this through, that he's not good enough or right or worthy of living—
He doesn't know if he is. But he knows those thoughts aren't his fault.
Amani swallows, ridding the lump from his throat. "We can work on some things today. If by the end of it you want to take off, I won't hold it against you."
"And by the end of it if you want to run, I'll understand."
He nods. Sander smiles, though it's weak, nearly shaking at the edges.
What they have is so little. Fragile, even. But it's better than having nothing at all, most would say, and Amani was terribly close to that.
Death didn't want him—all there's left to do is for Amani to stand back up.
Pietro Dolokhov, 16
Victor of District Twelve
How far they've come from a gymnasium full of Twelves.
No more packs of Seam rats, smaller gaggles of Merch kids wondering where they had gone wrong. There was no longer coal dust stuck under Pietro's nails—weeks of a high-powered Capitol shower had rid him of it, scrubbing him clean from all the shit Twelve had dragged him through.
Most years they were bloodbath fodder, easy pickings for those willing to participate in the slaughter.
Now that wasn't an option. No twenty-fourth, no panicked running, too afraid for their lives to pick up a weapon. He had to make it further than that.
He had to make it until the end.
Of course that's easier said than done. You'd think with how much time he had to prepare for this day Pietro would have at least a vague idea of where he would like to start; it turns out, no such thing has occurred. It feels as if he's spinning on an axis, unable to pinpoint where he'd like to begin or where would even be the best place to do so.
Everyone else has filed off—even if all they're doing is lurking about, it's better than him standing in the center of the room like he wants to be stared at. It's not something he would mind. Staring eyes are better than ignorance. Pietro didn't expect himself to be a hot commodity, but this, feeling lost once again, small and unseen, doesn't sit right in the pit of his stomach.
The station to his left is beckoning, though, the same one that had called his name the first time as well. Nothing quite so special had presented itself in the arena—Pietro had grown used to wielding bars of metal or crude knives, but that doesn't mean the temptation still doesn't grab a hold of them. Surely the Capitol won't leave them so empty-handed for the grand finale.
He plucks a long, narrow sword from the weapon's rack, the trainer silent even as he fixates on Pietro's hand, his grip around the hilt. He was corrected enough the first time that he still knows how to hold it.
"This fucking blows," a voice says behind him. Only a second later an arm reaches around him, reaching for a sword of similar length. Pietro jolts, thanking the heavens that the weapons are still blunted. The last thing he needs is to cut into somebody's arm prematurely because they have so little concept of personal space. Granted in the arena it wouldn't be so bad, but now, when so much is on the line?
He needs to control himself.
"Does it?" he asks, watching as Clementine Alinsky places down her previously chosen sword with an irritated huff, choosing a heavier one to its left instead.
"Well, duh."
Pietro's not so doom and gloom, though he supposes he gets where she comes from. Looking death in the face again isn't exactly appealing for most people.
"Did'ya know I just tried to talk to the Tens, and they both looked at me as if I was growing a second head?" Clementine asks wildly. "Swear to God, you put a few allies down because you know they're untrustworthy and suddenly you're the devil. As if they wouldn't have done the same thing."
Pietro lets out a surprised snort. This girl is almost exactly what he expected her to be. "Can you really blame them?"
"Don't you get on my case too."
"I'm not, I'm not," he insists, turning about-face to choose one of the many available dummies, rolling his shoulders out. "I'm just saying I did the same thing, and I'm not expecting anyone to trust me either."
"I'm not asking for trust," Clementine mutters. "I'm asking for help."
Trust is almost non-existent here. If Pietro thought it more of a thing, perhaps he would have tried Ravi. Even if he's not much of a fighter, he's still something of home, more reliable than he believes the others to be.
He hears a thud as Clementine strikes out at one of the dummies, and when Pietro peers back over his shoulder she's got a frown on her face. Evidently she hadn't thought this all through—had she expected to walk through those doors like she was entering her first day of school, ready to make a gaggle of friends and then some? He understands being so desirous, but it's not as if the options are overflowing. There's no wealth to be had.
Granted there's one standing here with him right now. Someone in a similar predicament, quick to act and even quicker to betray. Pietro knows without a doubt that they'd be on the same page, that they're out only to save their own skin. No false illusions, no fake promises. Just blatant allyship with no pretenses.
"Did you want some company today, Clementine?" he asks. She whirls on him; once again a sword comes dangerously close to connecting, and the trainer's eyes widen as Clementine sets it back down. She raises her eyebrows, looks at him from feet to the very top of his head, before she crosses her arms over her chest. Pietro wants to tell her that she's not nearly as intimidating as she believes, but that point is sort of moot to what he's trying to accomplish.
It's someone to fill the silence. A body in the space next to his. It's where Amaranth should have been, Pietro knows, but it's almost better that it's not.
Amaranth may have turned out to be a nearly impossible kill for him, in the end. Clementine, though…
Clementine he can work with.
Casia Braddock, 13
Victor of District Nine
It's no surprise that she feels dwarfed once again.
To be in a room with Lilou and not many others was decidedly different. Lilou wasn't an imposing figure, nor was she much taller than Casia, to be truthful. If harmless pranks were threatening than Lilou would be the scariest person around, but they weren't.
Casia forgot what it was like to be small, but June had been full of it. Both in the gymnasium and in the arena she had felt small as a mouse, ironically so. Every wheat-stalk, every person, and they all look down on her.
All, at least, save for the girl from Eleven. She seemed almost miniature, her frame slightly and willowy. Not that it could make her feel any better—Farasha wasn't coming anywhere near her, for good reason. Their proximity in age was the only connection they had.
She had Lilou, of course. That had been their pact. Was it her first choice, she can't be sure, but she can't deny that Lilou was right in her assumptions. Casia's act is up this time before it's even begun. She knows it because when she heads to the knife station the trainer perks up, watching her select a few blades with undeniably curiosity lingering in his eyes.
In June everyone had looked at her like she was already dead, some pitiful creature found kicked and battered on the side of one of Nine's well-traveled roads.
No one was looking at her like that anymore.
"Can I spar with someone?" Casia asks, finally locating a knife eerily similar to the one she had been gifted in the arena. It feels like an old friend tucked into the palm of her hand; how she wishes she could have kept it. They had ripped it from her hands the second she stepped foot in the hovercraft, a swarm of Peacekeepers and doctors all descending on her like a pack of rabid wolves.
There had been no saving it, no matter how much she had wished to.
"Why don't you warm up a tad first, darling?" the trainer asks her. "I'll get someone for you in a few minutes."
Her stare is hard as she notes his lax position, the undeniably condescending note to his voice. Despite her proving herself time and time again, Casia is still a child in the eyes of so many, incapable of making a dent either in the arena or the outside world.
She doesn't need to warm up. No one in the arena is going to give her that time—they're just going to kill her.
This is why she chooses not to speak up. Asking questions only leads to her feeling inferior. There are those that she's grown comfortable with—Lilou and Hari and even Aden, some days, but these people, these strangers… they're not worth anything. It's as if they all turned a blind eye every time she happened to make a kill.
Casia skirts around his perch and lines up at the targets, setting the spare knives down on the table to her left. It's as if her brain knew she had to make some sort of re-impression, picking up throwing knives without even knowing she was doing it.
She winds her arm back, the blade pinched tight between her fingers. She knows that much, at least.
But the knife wheels forward, tumbling over and over, and clatters uselessly into the target before it bounces to the ground. She feels her cheeks flame red, hears the trainer get to his feet as if he's about to come to her side and give her instructions.
Casia didn't do this the first time. She didn't do anything.
And it had worked. No one had even thought to come after her because she had spent the entire three days cowering, staying out of the way of the older kids and those looking to squash her like a bug. Of course she had itched to grab a weapon, but she had held out. It was better in the long run to look so small that they would never see you coming.
Everyone knew her now. Casia winds up again before the trainer can get too close and lets the knife fly. It edges closer to the center only to tumble to the floor once again.
"Perhaps—"
She ignores him. His voice is a small irritation in the grand scheme of things, the buzzing of a mosquito at the shell of her ear. The third knife sticks for a moment in one of the outer rings before it pulls free. Casia traces it's haphazard pattern as it hits the ground.
She knows the fourth knife is going to connect even before it does. Something in the movement of her arm, the way the knife flies straight as a bullet. Though it doesn't hit the bullseye, it plans itself solidly in one of the middle rings and hardly wobbles.
Casia smiles to herself before she turns, quickly ridding the barest hint of happiness in her face. Speaking up is still nerve-wracking, of course, especially when she's always been content to stick to the fringes, but she has no choice now. She has to be bigger than anyone else here.
"Could I have that sparring partner now?" she questions. The trainer's eyes are still lingering on her knife—it may be a jump of the gun, but in his silence he almost looks impressed.
"Of course," he answers. "One moment."
There is no true victory in this, but it's a small win. She's gained some of his respect, even if his opinion doesn't matter. Casia refuses to look around the room but she knows she has a few sets of eyes on her, the giants around her acknowledging someone so much smaller. Perhaps they're finally realizing what she's capable of.
If only they knew, though. In Casia's eyes they don't even understand the half of it.
One can only assume that they're going to find out.
A disclaimer now that we've officially begun training (and therefore the formation of alliances large and small): I'm making what I think are the best choices for my story overall. There's been a ton of talk about people who would be good together, people who you want to see together, and so on and so forth, but obviously not all of those things can happen. If something happens (or doesn't) it's nothing close to a personal agenda, just the best decision in my eyes, and I do hope that you can understand that.
I'll be updating the blog with allies after every full day (two chapters). Otherwise, have fun with your speculation.
Until next time.