XXII: Training, Day Two (I).
Jordyn Palladino, 17
Victor of District Four
Today will be a good one.
Jordyn refuses to be downtrodden about this whole thing—no matter her circumstances, she's always been one of the best at making life exactly what she wants to make it.
"You look happy," Amani comments idly, his gaze fixed out the window as the elevator carries them down. "Good day yesterday?"
"As good as a girl could ask for."
"And last night?"
Their eyes meet at precisely the same time. There's nothing accusatory in Amani's eyes, at least—Jordyn isn't exactly awake enough to push back against any claims working against her name. Then again, she reminds herself, Amani doesn't exactly have any room to judge others about their choices in life.
"Now what ever could you mean by that, dearest partner?" Jordyn asks, blinking innocently. In response Amani rolls his eyes, though she thinks she detects the barest hint of an amused smile on his face before he turns back to the window. Hell, she didn't even think he was capable of smiling anymore, so that's something.
Truthfully, she didn't think anyone would notice. Jordyn had always been good at keeping under the radar even if some tended to fixate on her, watching her every movement. She had waited until everyone had gone to sleep before she tip-toed out. She had been back just as dawn broke, before even the Avoxes had arrived to set up the morning's breakfast.
Granted, she had stolen Weston's training shirt and brought it back to her room, if only to inconvenience him. Judging by the fact that they're one of the first pairs to arrive at the gymnasium, no sign of the Sixes, it must have worked. Of course she hadn't intended on Amani seeing it, or even paying enough attention to put two and two together, but sometimes it just worked out like that.
He wouldn't use it against her. Jordyn could sneak out tonight, too, and every night after that, and Amani wouldn't so much as breathe a word about it.
Even if they weren't allies, he was trustworthy enough for that.
"Be careful with Six," he tells her, pivoting on his heels to face her before he can leave her behind in the lobby. "Even if you are… enjoying yourself."
"Will do," she agrees. Jordyn may throw herself into just about anything, but she knows what she's doing.
Of course, Weston is smarter than Benthos ever was. Stronger, somehow. Infinitely more capable judging by the fact that he's here while her precious old Benny is not. But, truthfully, Jordyn deserves a bit of enjoyment. It's been far too long since she's had any amount of fun, and where's the harm in it when the other party feels the same way?
If stealing his clothes is the largest trick she'll play in the midst of it, Jordyn will take it regardless.
Today can't solely be focused on that, however. She spent every minute with Weston yesterday, thinking of little else except the thrill that ran through her when she realized things were changing. The stagnant air that had been stifling her lungs for so many months was gone; Jordyn could breathe again.
She knew what she wanted to do. What she desired. It was the question of where exactly those wants were going to take her.
Rather, who.
They had talked a little about it yesterday, her and Weston, between flirtations and fun-poking. Allies were a fragile topic of conversation after how quickly the Careers had split apart, their willingness to not even share the same space. For it to be just the two of them would be pleasant, not ultimately not preferable.
It would be suicide.
Jordyn perches at the trap-making station, pulling a diagram over her lap as she watches her fellow tributes trickle in one-by-one. The trainer doesn't see fit to reprimand her when it so obviously looks like she's gained some sort of studious nature overnight. As if. It's not like Weston was going to give that to her.
Speak of the devil, though. He was one of the last in the room, and had little hesitation in making his way to her when all Jordyn could do was smile and wave at him, cheeky as it may have looked. He boosts himself up onto the table beside her with a tired sigh.
He's wearing a shirt, now. It's altogether sort of tragic.
"Didn't take you for a thief," he comments.
"Me?" Jordyn gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over her heart. "Stealing? I take offense to that."
"Next time, I'm going to take your shirt."
"Next time?" she echoes, but there's no use teasing about it, is there? Jordyn already knows it's going to happen again—that sort of thing, good as it was, just isn't destined to only happen once.
Weston's answering grin, something that makes a shiver crawl its way up her spine, is only further confirmation.
Damn him, though. That's not all she can focus on today. "Save it for later," she insists, digging her elbow into his side. "We've got bigger fish to fry."
He snorts. "Whatever you say, Four."
"I'm serious. You know what we talked about."
"If I recall correctly, we didn't exactly do a lot of talking last night…"
"You're incorrigible," she informs him. It's something he's clearly aware of, though. It's a word people would often assign to Jordyn if she gave them the time of day; not many people were afforded such a luxury.
They both know what has to happen, though, and Jordyn thinks she's made up her mind. There's no telling if it will be easy or not, but she's never cared much about that.
Jordyn has always loved a good challenge.
Tova Revelis, 18
Victor of District One
There would be nothing more satisfying than splitting the trainer's face in two with her axe.
He thinks he knows better. He thinks he knows anything at all. He didn't spend years walking up those Academy steps, sweating and bleeding and going to the point of exhaustion. This man knows nothing about a true fight.
If he would shut up, her life would be all the better for it.
Tova has gotten good at ignoring him, though. She had to spend most of yesterday practicing it, letting his commentary float in one ear and out the other. Snapping at him would do nothing, nor would putting up a fight. They'd bar her from the station if she went that far, and Tova needed this like she needed air.
The other skills were trivial, at this point. The only thing that had proved worth her time the first round was the killing, how to cut into someone and let their life bleed out. As long as Tova stuck with that, she could do it again.
Ives would want her to. So that she could go back home and see Aviya and her father, pour money into Maelle's accounts so that she could survive without her brother.
Her longing for it to be him here with her was dampened, someone, by Maderia. It would be easier to lose her, less like thorns cutting into her side and stealing the air from her lungs. And her company wasn't terrible—far from it, in fact.
That never would have happened with Ives. The thought was fucking laughable. She still remembered Ives getting on her case when they were all of twelve, pestering incessantly until she spilled the name of her crush. A girl a year or two older, blossoming and beautiful, everything Tova was not and was never going to be. Even if she had wanted to kill him for it then, she missed it now. She wanted him back, even if it was in the form of seeing his final resting place, a safe haven where she could speak to him once again.
No obstacles would stand in her way of that. No one here mattered enough.
Someone mattered, though, and it was the owner of the eyes that had lingered on her all morning. Tova was no stranger to people watching her—she contained prowess in the right things, enough power to frighten. Most would observe her for a few moments, enough to think they knew what was going on, and then depart.
But this one… she hadn't left. She had been watching Tova yesterday, too, and she was so close that it made her skin crawl.
"Can I help you?" she asks drily. It's a welcome distraction from the trainer, at least.
"Tova Revelis, correct?"
As if everyone here doesn't know her name, least of all Aranza de fucking León, who watched everyone like a hawk with little care for how it was received. That was the type of girl she was. Tova plants another axe in the chest of a dummy, it's soft innards spilling out across her feet.
"Why do you need to know?"
"I figured someone should. You don't seem to have many visitors."
"There's a reason for that," she deadpans. Because she's frigid and harsh and overall just unpleasant. That's what the trainers back home would tell her, anyway. She never would have been chosen to volunteer because she wasn't the true kind of One—she didn't flip her hair and giggle like some sort of airhead. She didn't play games without some sort of assurance that they would be worth it.
Aranza looks more like their type, but there's something calculating to her gaze, a blatant curiosity in the way she stares at the fake wound Tova has created. Dare she say it, something almost eager.
"I'll ask one more time," Tova says. "Can I help you?"
"I do believe we can help each-other, if you're willing."
She steps forward, hand brushing gently over Tova's arm as she gently pries the axe loose from her grip. Tova is almost too dumb-founded by the blatant interruption to do anything about it—before she can stutter over her own words, she yanks the weapon back.
And Aranza grins. "I like you, Tova."
"You don't know me."
"What if I want to?" Aranza ponders. "Would you give me a chance? Would you be willing to know me back?"
She's not going to fall for this. Aranza destroyed her own alliance from the inside out, pulling strings and shifting players around until they were nothing more than items she could finish off.
But she's… intriguing. She's not afraid of Tova, not like everyone else is. For the first time in a long while, Tova feels something like equality when she looks into the eyes of the person standing before her, lengthy differences spanning between them but something similar all the same. They're unafraid. Willing what has to be done.
They both want to win at the expense of anyone else.
"You're not as much of a fighter as I'd prefer," she tells her. "Skinny as hell, for one. Not exactly the most dominant force."
Aranza smiles. There's something sickly sweet hidden underneath it, even though Tova knows the truth. There's nothing sweet about this girl. She may look something like an angel, but her hands are as dirty as the rest of them. "You'd be surprised. Though you could teach me a thing or two, if you're so worried about it."
Somewhere, Maderia is watching them. There's not a doubt in her mind. If Maderia was talking to other people yesterday, though, whose to say she can't? They could have all the eyes on them within this entire room but for once, Tova wouldn't be any the wiser to it.
Something bigger is happening. She knows it. It's not something she ever would have imagined, scarcely a dream at all, but it's a possibility. There is no replacement for what she's lost and still nothing that could have a hope of standing in her way, but Tova is unable to deny the temptation.
"Suppose I did," Tova says. "What then?"
Aranza takes the axe from her grip once again—this time Tova allows it, watching the other girl pass the weapon from hand to hand, examining the blade under the light.
Her smile is more devilish than ever. "We'll find out, won't we?"
Sanne Levesay, 16
Victor of District Seven
It feels like nothing has changed.
When you're nothing more than a young girl who was never intended to hold a weapon, it's easy to brush off said inadequacy even when it's happening all over again. That being said, the only difference between this time and the last is the lack of Brycen.
He's not by her side. There is silence in the wake of his encouraging words, a room of strangers where Sanne felt like she had known him after such a short period of time.
Of course there's no discounting Ilan. At this point Sanne is unable to tell which of them is keeping the other sane. Sticking close to him is the only reliable constant she's had—there have been no spoken words about it, no agreements, but they both know.
It's the two of them or nothing.
What a relief it is to have the knowledge that she won't be going into this alone. The last thing she wants to do is watch someone else she cares about die, but her options are few and far-between. She can either win, or hope to die before him. Sanne was left alone once before and she lit the world on fire, watched corpses writhe amongst the flames almost unfeeling because the sight of Brycen's lifeless body had sucked the life out of her own.
Even with that knowledge, no one cared about her. She was not a threat in the eyes of those larger than herself. Sanne was the type of person who would fold as easy as the rest of them if she was shoved hard enough.
She didn't want to be, but it seemed like the truth. It wasn't as if she could go to simply give up, though. Brycen wouldn't want that, nor Evette or Celadon. Ilan wouldn't allow it.
Sanne watched him heft a sword up from the weapon's rack, something far too heavy for his stature, clearly, as he nearly drops it point down over top of his feet. "We should spar," he decides, giving the weapon a few experimental swings. She's seen a number of truly terrifying things this past year, but that's fairly high on the list for how simple the action it.
"I wasn't very good at this last time," she tells him, eyes poring over her choices. Frankly, she had been terrible, but Carya had been wildly insistent that they try out everything they could get their hands on. They had laughed together, the four of them, watching one of the trainers disarm Sylvan over and over again, looking almost bored.
Those had been the good times. It was safe to say she wouldn't quite get there now.
"Sanne," Ilan says. "I'm trying to distract you from whatever thoughts you're lost in. Let me at least try."
She really is lucky, isn't she? He cares. So consumed by her own grief and melancholy, Sanne has asked him hardly anything about his own life or his own struggles. She knows he has an elder brother. A boyfriend. A treehouse in his backyard that he considers his sacred space. He likes to paint.
All of that feels so surface-level. Sanne needs to be better, because he's trying to be that for her.
She gives herself a good shake, quickly selecting a sword from the rack. "You're asking to get a black eye."
"If a black eye is all I walk away from this with, I'll consider myself lucky."
"Hey," she insists, a startled laugh escaping her mouth. "Be nice."
"I am being nice!" he insists. "We're both going to injure each-other, if we're being honest."
It can't be too bad though, right? At least none of it would be intentional. Sanne still feels a spike of fear course through her when she lines up opposite him, squaring her shoulders. What would she do if someone who knew what they were doing was looking at her like this? Thatcher feels like such a distant memory… besides, none of that had been planning. She had been terrified. She had fought back.
There was nothing elegant about it. There was never going to be. Sanne was not born to be a fighter. Truly, she's beginning to suspect that she wasn't made to be much of anything.
"You both need different weapons."
Ilan's eyes flick up and over her shoulder. Sanne turns with a jolt as she realizes the proximity of the person behind her—it doesn't help that Amani is at least half a foot taller than her and much bigger to boot.
"Sorry?" she asks, humiliated to find that the word comes out like a stammer.
"That one's too heavy," Amani says, gesturing to Ilan's weapons. "And yours is too light."
"Too… too light?"
Ilan is already scurrying back off to the rack, apparently unwilling to toss away the advice. "A lighter weapon seems like a good idea if you're small, but it's unsteady," Amani explains. "You need control for it. Experience."
It's nearly a rapier, the sword she has in her hand. The blade seems to tremble in her grip. Sanne certainly doesn't have experience… not the kind that he's suggesting.
She wants to back away, to say something of importance, but words fail her. There's nothing malicious in his face, no sign that he's trying to give her untrue information. He's been here a while, lurking around the same space with Two.
Of course, she knows what he did. They all do. It's sort of hard to believe he could be inauthentic after that.
"Thanks," Sanne murmurs, returning the weapon to its proper spot. She quickly selects another—the blade shorter, its width wider. Even though her grip still feels weak, the sword feels steady. The difference is obvious.
Amani is gone when she looks up from it, back at Sander's side, the two of them quietly conversing. They're not all that was shown on those arena cameras—they're not monsters or creatures of madness, destitute and waiting to die.
At the end of the day, they're still just kids.
Milan Crusoe, 16
Victor of District Eight
The simple days seem to have passed.
It's silly to say, but he had a plan back in August. Ideas formulated on the train and in his room during the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, thinking until Milan was convinced he could get out of this.
Dorian had thrown a spanner in the works—Milan had planned to go in alone. He hadn't expected to find friendship, let alone someone that shared his penchant for brilliance and didn't shy away in the face of adversity.
He knew it would have to be different this time. People would move about watching where they put their feet. A rope would be suspicious. If something was unsettling, investigations would be thwarted in favor of them avoiding it entirely. He needed help, someone even more than Dorian was.
They hadn't talked. Milan didn't think it was necessary. He should have known better, though.
Aranza had abandoned him.
She spends all morning flitting between the girls from One, seemingly absolutely smitten with them both. He's seen enough of her to know that she's playing it up, but he can't deny that it's working. They're not falling for it, of course, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't change the fact, either, that Aranza has seemingly bagged herself two Careers while he sits down at the lunch table, alone.
It's presumptuous of Milan to think that others would want him, but surely that's the case? He knows what he's doing, and he's already proven himself. The opportunities he could provide, the safety… somehow, it's all being overlooked.
History is tragically repeating itself. His mother was successful until her books began to fall off. Milan was the same, the talk of the town until he was trapped in a room with twenty-three others who had fought just the same, even if it wasn't in such a unique or clever way. There was no use in pretending that he wasn't rapidly descending towards the same ending.
But he would bring them both back. Once again their name wouldn't just be good enough—it would be everything.
That thought is dampened somewhat by Aranza sliding primly into the seat across from him, setting out her cutlery and napkins as if she's about to have some type of grand meal. All Milan can manage to do is stare until she looks up at him, a sweet smile gracing her face.
"What?"
"Why are you here?"
"You looked lonely." She's still smiling. She's rubbing it in, by the looks of it.
Milan has always been comfortable being alone. Although he wishes to be heard whenever possible, he won't shrivel up and wither away like some people when not fawned over for long enough.
Unlike someone he knows.
"This farce you're trying to see through with District one is bound to fail," he informs her. "They don't trust you. You're nothing more than a viper, and the rest of the room knows it as well as they do."
"Someone sounds bitter."
"I could have killed you," he reminds her. "I would have. This seems like an odd way to show appreciation; an even odder form of repayment."
"Oh, get over yourself," Aranza quips, rolling her eyes. "Wherever do boys get such grandiose ideas that we owe them anything? It's maddening."
"I know—"
"What you know is that you're just upset you didn't think of it first. Truthfully, I think the Ones would have taken you. You're a unique skill-set. Now you're harboring upset because I got there before you, and you're alone."
Milan has wished almost every single day since he escaped that arena that he killed Aranza while he had the chance. Now than ever he can imagine it. Venecia couldn't have been any worse—even still, he would have taken worse if it meant be rid of this one.
He has to swallow his pride, though, as much as it sticks in his throat. It feels like a stone going down. "Are you willing to hear a proposition, then? I heard you out last time."
So long ago, now, but Aranza remembers. She shrugs as she pops a cut of asparagus into her mouth.
This is not what he envisioned, nor what he even truly hoped for. "I could come along with you."
Aranza's smile is aimed more at the table than his face. "With the way you're acting? Most definitely not."
The movement in which she removes herself from her seat is abrupt, still somehow graceful enough that it's a marvel as she scoops up her plate. "I'll ask them, though!"
She leaves him, just like that, slotting herself into the seat next to Maderia and across from Tova two tables over. It doesn't exactly look like she's asking, but it's nothing Milan truly expected of her. It was nothing more than an escape.
They're both quite good at charading, it seems.
With certainty, though, he understands that those two girls will get Aranza killed before they ever help her to any level of success, if they're not the ones to cut her throat themselves. She'll fight, of course. She has the spirit for it, the same way he does.
It's not a lost cause. Aranza said it herself—the Ones would have taken him. If they would have been so willing, and if he had just raced ahead to make himself known first, Milan would have had something sealed.
Would they get him killed the same way as Aranza? Quicker? Further down the line? He must have the chance to find out.
If not, Milan has to think of something, and fast.
Time is running out.
Officially halfway done training. Feels sort of sad to say that when I normally only do three chapters for the entire thing, but alas. :skull: We're also halfway done pre-games if you count the re-intros, which I don't know if I do, so whatever. We'll just say we're halfway through for sanity's sake.
Hope you're enjoying. Let me know if you feel so inclined.
Until next time.