Woodrow Stickman, District Seven, Pisces
Woodrow felt like he knew the Hunger Games well, almost instinctively. There was no longer anyone alive in all of District Seven who knew a time without them. It was a tradition as sure as summer, cruel as the depths of winter. And Woodrow paid more attention to the event than most.
It wasn't that he enjoyed them. Woodrow hated seeing anyone in pain, innocents in particular. But when he was young he made a promise to himself to always try to look straight at suffering without ever becoming desensitized to it. He'd only been partially successful. Woodrow had an analytical mind that loved puzzles, even as his heart ached for the tributes inside the games. He often found himself wondering what he would and would not do in the arena, cataloging common mistakes and mapping out popular gamemaking patterns in his head. He was familiar with every part of the process, from the reaping to the victory tours. Every part except training.
This was why he was so excited to find himself in the training center, despite his dire circumstances. It was one of the few parts of the games not publicly televised, meant to help maintain the mystery of what might happen in the arena itself. The training center often underwent multiple renovations between games and it was not uncommon for a completely new building to be built from year to year. Yet the gamemakers, tributes and a handful of influential Capitolites were the only people to actually see these buildings. He was in the middle of a rare opportunity to discover the hidden process of preparing for the games and deciding training scores, which influenced the way the Capitol treated each tribute. The knowledge that he was experiencing something few others got to see gave him some comfort and helped him battle his fear.
There were three main floors of the training center, each completely filled with new pieces of technology and learning aids to help tributes develop skills they may use in the trials to come. Woodrow planned on visiting every floor by the end of the training period. But today he decided to focus on the floor designated for survival skills. These were the skills that he found himself most comfortable with, which he reasoned would allow him to adjust to how the center worked.
For the most part, it seemed self directed. Each tribute wore a special suit that generated a force field at any sign of danger to reduce injury and dispel conflict. It was also equipped to interface with stations throughout the building, where Woodrow could connect to interactive programs at each station and ask questions of an expert in that subject, through digital screens or the audio equipment built into their training gear. These experts were all somewhere else, though. Combined with the great size of the center, Woodrow felt like there was almost no one in the building.
However, he did see a lot of his fellow tributes. The stations were many but they all seemed to funnel back onto the same pathways, keeping a sort of closed loop where he had a general idea of where the other tributes on this floor were and what they were doing. He saw one of his district partners, Acacia, turn a corner and follow a sign labeled 'water filtration' before turning the opposite direction and entering an area called 'nighttime encounters.'
Woodrow wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting from the section. It was marked on the map which hung at the front of the floor and he found it intriguing enough to go. Yet for some reason he was surprised to find the area pitch black the moment he turned the corner. His eyes struggled to adjust from the harsh fluorescent lighting of the rest of the center until finally he could work out a familiar outline ahead of him.
Trees.
Before him stretched a small forest. He imagined most tributes would consider it large. But Woodrow grew up in forests just like this one, winding his way around the tall stumps and learning to navigate through miles and miles of barely differentiated put a hand up to one of the nearby trees, feeling the damp moss that clung to it. It felt like his childhood. Like the long nights he spent learning to navigate through woods at all manner of the day as part of his firefighter training. There was a part of him that felt at home in the area.
"While using the sun is a primary way to navigate during survival situations, there are a number of alternate techniques that you can access during the night." A voice explained through the speaker in his training suit. He realized, a bit delighted in spite of himself, that he must have made contact with a lesson plan, "When in the woods, you can use the patterns of vegetation growth, as many species orient either towards, or away from, the sun's path. You may also use the constellations to orient yourself. Stars are a well-known orienteering tool that were frequently used by pre-dark days sailors. Because many biomes allow you to see the stars, we shall focus primarily on astral navigation."
Above him, the sky brightened slightly, and Woodrow looked up to see Polaris, the north star as his instructor continued to talk. It was peaceful here. Simple and serene. There was a part of him that should have known his mind wouldn't let him stay in such a place for long.
That was the insidious part of memory. A night such as this should only conjure good thoughts, comforting thoughts of home and family. Yet as he stared up into the artificial sky, Woodrow couldn't help but remember the stars the night of the riot. It was a clear night, a perfect night for stargazing. Woodrow was walking by himself, something he often did when trying to clear his head. A capitolite representative was coming to interview Serena May's family so he was expecting any trouble to gravitate more towards the center of town.
He heard chanting from some distance away and a sudden burst of light as the forest caught fire. Woodrow responded automatically, without thinking. He was a firefighter, after all. His job was to run towards the danger, to protect those in need.
By the end of the night, he ushered fifteen people out of the forest, but that wasn't who his brain revisited when it returned to that terrible fire. All he could see, all he could hear, was the weeping woman on the outskirts of the forest. She wailed that she couldn't find her daughter. Woodrow promised to help locate the girl and sprinted back into the flaming woods.
All he could recall were the girl's frightened eyes when he found her, just in time for a flaming branch to crack and fall from a nearby tree, separating them. No matter how hard he tried, he hadn't been able to save her.
"They're pretty," a voice on his left said, providing Woodrow an anchor to pull himself out of his memories.
"They are," he agreed, catching his breath and trying not to let on how deep in his thoughts he was. He turned towards the voice and almost panicked again.
Beside him was a small girl, with frail features and wide, slightly frightful eyes. She was as pale as a ghost.
Bolt Eisen, District Eight, Aquarius
"Warning. Your activity is causing extreme strain and may result in injury. Please take a break or choose a different activity."
The words flooded out of Bolt's training outfit, complete with some flashing lights for emphasis. Bolt adjusted his grip slightly to try to stay on the monkey bars, but with the encouragement of the strain detector eventually sighed and let go. He fell a few feet onto a soft surface, almost rolling his ankle. That would be his luck wouldn't it? He could clearly imagine hurting himself in the process of trying to avoid injury.
Bolt looked behind him at the parts of the obstacle course he'd completed then ahead to what he hadn't managed to complete. Less than half of the course. He knew that he was out of shape, but the reality of how much so was deeply embarrassing.
Grabbing a towel from a rack to the side of the general fitness floor of the training center, Bolt sat down on a bench and tried to decide what to do. Building up physical strength wasn't a true possibility, he could only gain a certain amount of stamina in the amount of time he had. But he wanted to do something to become at least a little formidable.
Ever since he was young, Bolt felt like there was a ticking time bomb in his chest. A sort of dark inevitability that would end in disaster. Most people waved it off as melodrama, but here he was in the Hunger Games. And he was determined to finally let that bomb explode. He would die here, but he wouldn't go quietly. The problem of course was that he had a limited amount of skills that he could actually use for this purpose.
Most of what he knew about was clockwork. His mother owned a small shop in the center of District Eight where she created and maintained timepieces for peacekeepers and other people rich enough to keep such luxuries in their homes. Most people in his District told time by looking at the nearest television, especially during the Games when turning off a tv was a grand offense punishable by death. Yet his mother taught him everything she knew, explaining the beauty and intricacies about how individual gears could form together as a whole.
He remembered once for his birthday, she brought him a small box covered in wrapping paper. Inside was a glittering gold beetle with a key protruding out of the top. She turned the key and the creature came to life, skittering and beating its wings.
"Clockwork is a bit of a dying art form." She'd said, "But its applications are endless."
That was it. Bolt could make a large array of objects provided he had the parts. The problem, of course, was how to get them. Clockwork was an obscure medium and unlikely to be found in the arena. He'd need sponsorships. Which meant he had to attract the attention of the Capitol.
"You're looking good," a voice said from above him, "Which is rather impressive. People like to think they're attractive when sweating, but few actually are."
Bolt looked up. His bench was near a large rock wall, where a boy was sitting triumphantly at the peak. Frazier looked a little less remarkable wearing the clothes of the training center, but he was still absolutely radiant. The career from Three stood up and adjusted his climbing gear, then began to repel down to the ground. Each movement was graceful and effortless, as if the boy was floating instead of controlling his fall. When his feet finally touched the ground it looked almost like there wasn't any weight to him whatsoever.
"So you really are a career." Bolt said, "Like... I mean you can do the physical stuff too."
"Oh did you think I was all style, no substance?" Frazier teased.
"Perhaps. It would be enough, I think. Just being pretty."
"Well I'm a man of many talents. As I'm sure you'll find out."
"Does this ever actually work?" Bolt didn't know why he asked the question. His mother taught him to have better manners than that. People didn't live in one world, but rather entire personal universes of their own making that fit into the worlds of the people around them like an enormous clock. Pointing this fact out, mentioning the flaws in someone's story, was considered quite rude. Yet Bolt did it anyway.
"Does what work?" Frazier asked.
"The smile. Pretending to be happy."
The boy from Three gave him a dazzling smile, this time edged with restrained rage, "Who says I'm pretending dear?"
"I'm just asking because it never works for me."
As suddenly as it arrived, the anger was gone from Frazier's face, replaced by something even more dangerous. At first Bolt thought it was sympathy and felt anger rise in him as well, but the closer he looked the more he realized that it was empathy. That was a far harder thing to run from.
"It wouldn't," Frazier said, sitting down next to him, "You're too smart and too honest. For a smile to work you have to fool someone. Yourself or someone else."
"Who are you fooling?"
"Depends on the day, I suppose. Today? Today I'm not sure I'm fooling anyone."
They looked directly at each other at that moment. Frazier's eyes were sad yet sparkling and they took Bolt's breath away. There was a storm in those eyes, and Bolt just wanted to get swept away in them. Wanted to lose himself in this hurricane of a Career and forget planning, forget the Games, forget about whether he was living or dying.
So he leaned over and kissed him. After a moment of surprise, Frazier kissed back. In the back of his mind Bold realized this could be an advantage. Attaching himself to such an attention-grabbing tribute may gain him sponsors. But in the moment, none of that mattered to him. As he kissed the other boy, all he wanted to do was for one brief period of time feel like he wasn't alone in his misery.
Hades Yamaguchi, District Two, Libra
Hades was finding it quite difficult to not dwell on what Rudy had told him during the parade. It shouldn't have meant anything, really. Just the ramblings of a boy in shock who didn't like him on a good day. Yet there was something about the conviction in Rudy's voice when he said it. The utter certainty that he would kill lots of people. It felt personal and unsettling.
Particularly because Hades was not planning on becoming a particularly violent tribute. He was a Career, of course, and had entered the Games willingly. But he was an efficient sort and never wanted to cause any more suffering than necessary. There was a part of him that hoped he could have a clean Games. Simple, straightforward, only a few kills to his name. He wasn't adapting well to the realization that, to win the Hunger Games, things might get messy.
The problem was that if Rudy's words were true, there was nothing he could do to change them. They held a prophetic ring to them, which was something he had read about, but never believed until that day in the chariots. And prophecies all ended the same way. Oedipus, Cassandra, Jason. Trying to avoid a prophecy could put you directly into its path. Best to completely ignore it and continue with his preparation for the Games.
Hence, during lunch, rather than eating with the other Tributes from Two, Hades plopped his tray down in front of one of the volunteers from Seven. Woodrow Stickman raised one eyebrow but said nothing in response.
"It's the first day, so I don't think I can make any solid conclusions. But so far you seem very solid. Honorable even," Hades said, "So I'm gauging your interest. Would you like to join the Two pack?"
Woodrow sat there for a moment trying to look thoughtful, and Hades was positive he had him. People acted a certain way when they wanted to avoid seeming too eager, but had already made a decision. Hades figured that was how it would go. For an outside Tribute, joining the careers exponentially increased one's odds for survival. There was no reason for the boy to say no. But he had to give the appearance of drawing the decision out a bit. Ask questions. Prove that the honor was deserved.
"One of my district partners is convinced the Capitol is trying to sabotage Seven this year. Because of the riots and the accident with Serena May and that Capitolite. You don't think that will put you at a disadvantage?"
Clever question. Hades knew it was a show, but it was a good one. "Provided you don't declare yourself the new Mockingjay in your interviews, I don't think so. You were a firefighter right? You fight fires. You don't start them."
Hades then leaned in conspiratorially, "And speaking personally? I've heard of controlled burns. Sometimes things need to be burnt down in order for something new to grow."
It was a strange gambit, to admit to being a rebel. Acknowledging that they needed to tear down their existing system and set up a new one. He also got little from it. To run his coup, he'd have to survive the Games. That meant that Woodrow would die, so gaining his loyalty on that front meant nothing. But it felt good to say it to someone, anyone. It helped change his aspirations from a nebulous goal, into a real plan in motion.
A grimly-optimistic thought occurred to Hades then. Revolutions were important, but they were also bloody, dangerous affairs. Overthrowing the Capitol, and inserting his own government would require death. Most likely more death than a single Games could ever provide. Was Rudy's dark declaration a confirmation that his dream was coming true? Was it possible that he would be the one to finally free Panem from the clutches of the Capitol?
Woodrow seemed surprised, but if he had any real opinion on the matter of hurting the Capitol, he didn't voice them. A neutral party then. At least he hadn't accidentally shown his colors to a loyalist. Perhaps this would be good practice, learning how to work with those who weren't necessarily ideologically motivated.
He was about to accept; Hades could see the words form on his lips. Except… suddenly he grew unsure. His face turned guarded, and the facade of thoughtfulness grew into genuine concern. Hades looked around, trying to discern what had changed, but nothing appeared different to him.
"How many people are you inviting into the group?"
This was a real question, not a perfunctory one. The answer mattered. Hades could only tell him the truth.
"Not many. We decided everyone in District Two and two or three outsiders. Do you have someone in mind?"
"I do. I met her earlier. Millie Oatbratton. The girl from Twelve."
"The forfeit?" Hades tried to remember anything about the girl. The details were vague. He remembered thinking that the arena would eat her alive.
"Yes."
Hades pursed his lips together. If he didn't accept, Woodrow could potentially walk, the way he emphasized the matter. But the girl struck him as a liability. "What are her talents?"
Woodrow laughed, loud and booming, causing several others around the cafeteria to look in their direction. "Allow me to answer a question with a question. How many people are at this table?"
"What do you mean? It's just the two of us."
"Count again."
Hades did. Then he counted once more. It both impressed him and caused him shame that he only caught the girl on the third try, eating her meal casually directly to his right. Even now, she barely seemed to move, her small stature causing Hades to overlook her. She didn't look at Hades, merely ate her food in complete silence. The spoon touched the bowl yet Hades still couldn't hear a sound. How long had she been there?
"Fair enough. I'll talk to the others about her."
"In that case," Woodrow answered, "You can consider me quite interested."
Solomon Cavalier, District Two, Capricorn
Solomon wasn't what others might consider a smart Tribute. Which he didn't think reflected on his intelligence at all, really. His grades were good enough, he could keep up with most advanced conversations and had a fairly firm grasp on reason. But to him, a smart Tribute was more than raw intelligence. A smart Tribute was someone who primarily used their wits to gain advantages in the arena. Lower District Victors were often smart tributes, but Diamond and Ashlar from last year showed just how formidable a smart Career could be.
He respected smart tributes, even envied them a bit. As much as he tried, most of Solomon's talent was in his body. His reflexes carried him to victory faster than his body could keep up, to the point that combat felt like a strange, calming trance where his conscious mind would only know the result once it all stopped, leaving him standing tall or on the floor. He had no head for survival, and leadership was always more of a burden than something he sought out. Solomon was far from the ideal of a smart tribute.
Yet even he could tell that there was something amiss at the training center.
He expected there to be a large selection of weapons to train with. The Capitol loved variety, and different tributes often had a better time handling more obscure choices than the standard sword or bow. But this year, alongside more traditional weaponry, row after row of strange, obscure types of armament were on offer for training. Many of them were so bizarre, Solomon was certain he had never seen them available in a Hunger Games arena before.
Solomon knew the names of most';/,
though he suspected he was unique in that regard. He hated to have a singular style, opting instead to study a wide range of martial skills, rather than focusing on a specialty like so many of his fellow Careers. There wasn't a single weapon at the career academy that Solomon hadn't at least gained a basic mastery over. He remembered his brother Judas grinning about it one day, early in Solomon's training, before his bright eyes became clouded.
"A modern day Jack-of- all-trades, aren't you? I like it."
Staring at the baffling variety of weaponry, Solomon decided he liked it too. It left him disconcerted, though. Why were there so many alternative weapons to study here? Was it a hint of some kind? His eyes wandered up to the high vaulted ceiling of the weapons floor, where there was a painted mural of various constellations. Was the building itself some sort of hint for what they might face in the Games?
If it was, the riddle was beyond Solomon's deciphering. It was best to just practice, and hope that all of his previous training gave him the right advantages to win. He ran a hand across a few of the polearm options, of which there were many, and finally stopped at a Ji. It was one of his favorites, a flexible Chinese spear with a single crescent blade on one side. He grasped it and walked to the main practice room.
'Simulation begin,' a voice echoed from speakers nearby, as the world around him vanished until he was standing in a wide, grassy plain. There was a holographic deck at the training center in Two, but not quite as sophisticated as this one. Solomon could feel the wind on his cheek as he heard a rustling behind him and turned to face his attacker.
There was one assailant, large and stocky, which made them about Solomon's size. He wielded a morningstar on a chain. Yet another unconventional choice. Solomon took a step back and let his instincts take over. Block, block, riposte strike.
Combat was one of his favorite things. It allowed the complicated circumstances of his life to fade away. He didn't need to worry about the high expectations of his parents, or how well his brother's recovery was going, or the logistics of how he was going to live with Judas once all of this was over. All he needed to focus on was his form and the moves of his opponent.
He forced the holographic boy to the ground, and as the simulation ended, Solomon heard the sound of applause. Another boy was waiting for his turn to use the simulation, sword in hand. He looked at Solomon with a beaming smile, and he distantly remembered his name was Lustre, one of the boys from One.
"Excellent. Absolutely excellent," Lustre said, "Which of course you are. Shouldn't expect anything else from a Two, after all."
"You're poaching," Solomon answered simply. He knew it on an instinctual level. The boy's smile was too wide, his compliments too freely given.
"Might as well try, right? District pride is all well and good, but everyone wants the best team."
"And you think yours is the best?"
"Stay and watch my sim. You can make that decision yourself."
There weren't a lot of reasons not to, so Solomon decided to stay. This satisfied the boy, who gave him a soft smile before the simulation turned into a lava-spewing mountain top. He was definitely talented. The simulation had multiple assailants, in addition to environmental hazards. A much harder program than Solomon's. Lustre was trying to show off. However, even as he did his moves were precise and methodical. Even through his physicality, Solomon could tell that he was thinking the entire time.
A smart tribute.
"So what do you think?" Lustre asked him once he was finished.
Solomon found he had to think about it. No one knew what kind of arena you would end up in. Careers tried to prepare for any situation, but there were too many variables. The best thing you could do was find allies that covered your weaknesses. Allies you could trust to not kill you in your sleep.
That second part was what was giving him pause.
"I appreciate the offer, but I think I'm going to decline."
"I see. Well, I wish you luck Cerberus. I think your master's calling."
Solomon was well educated enough to recognize the reference. Hades' dog. If that was what the boy wanted to think, he wouldn't refute it. But the One boy's name calling reassured him that he was making the right choice.
Suddenly, the lights of the training center started to flicker. Slowly at first, then faster until it was unignorable. The boy from nine, who was looking at a row of weapons nearby, looked nervous and wrapped an arm around his eyes before sitting down against a nearby wall.
"Attention tributes," a voice said from the loudspeakers in the ceiling, "Exploratory is about to begin."
The lights returned to normal and Solomon could hear the hiss of hydraulic pipes as part of the walls fell away to reveal stairs and corridors that were previously hidden.
"Good luck." Solomon said to Lustre, and without giving the boy the satisfaction of reacting to his jeering, walked into one of the nearby exploratory chambers.
AN: New chapter, yay! Training is always so fun because a lot happens. And a lot definitely happened! Exploratory is a new thing the Capitol is trying this year, because they have no attention span. We'll get more into it next chapter. But for now, thank you very much for reading. Please review!