CHAPTER XXIV: TRAINING DAY III
Ginseng Clarkson • District Seven Female
Training Center / July 7th, 7:45 AM
A big ol' rock is basically like a tree, if Ginseng ignores that it's leafless, gray, and ugly.
She's been eyeing the rock climbing wall since the first day, but hasn't gotten a chance to throw herself at it until now. It's because she's been hanging with Dottie, who doesn't like heights, not one bit. But right now the girl from Eight is with Yuly, getting some last-minute training in before private sessions. That leaves Ginseng to her own devices, with restless hands and a wall to conquer.
Ginseng doggedly boulders her way to the top, grunting quietly between each movement. Climbing this is both easier and harder than what she's used to. The constructed handholds make climbing much more formulaic, but she misses the challenge of finding her own path up. The smooth, cold stone can't beat the feel of rough bark under her palms, and she can't stab a knife into the rock for leverage like she can with a tree.
The last stretch of the climbing wall eventually becomes so flat and so steep that it feels like scaling a skyscraper. Sweat beads on her forehead, slipping right off her skin. She watches it fall, thirty, maybe forty feet down below. Her arms ache painfully in protest; her knuckles and muscles strain with the weight of her body.
Jo's pep talk from this morning echoes in her head. "You're gonna kick ass, little dude," they had said, giving her a fist bump.
Ginseng's no giver-upper. She is going to kick ass, just like Jo said! Stubbornly, she juts her chin toward the sky, grits her teeth, and hauls herself up to the next ledge.
Several minutes later, she comes out on top like a freakin' champ! She collapses on the blissfully flat surface, whooping loudly as she rolls onto her back. Here, she collects herself for a couple of minutes before she stands to take in the view on the summit, at the highest point of the Training Center. Every corner of the gym is alight with activity, with private sessions looming over the tributes in under five hours. From up here, the other tributes looking like funny little ants as they zip from station to station.
Ginseng smiles faintly. She wishes Dottie was with her — she knows the girl from Eight would have something ridiculous to say, like she always does — but there's no way Dottie could, or even would follow her up here. Dottie likes being able to feel the floor underneath her feet, and prefers to stare at the sky from the safety of the ground.
Ginseng can see Dottie and Yuly at a station right now, looking sort of productive. The days Ginseng and Dottie spent training together, they really only succeeded in distracting each other. Dottie had been more concerned with imaginary scenarios than gaining applicable skills, which made the days pass with lots of laughter, but without much progress on Dottie's part.
It makes Ginseng feel guilty to think this way, but she's silently glad she's not the one falling behind. She's actually ahead, for a change. No more being compared to Min and Bo — here, she's enough.
Still… Ginseng thinks, her throat feeling tight. What does that mean for Dottie?
The summit is quiet with Ginseng as its only occupant. The solitude is both peaceful and strange; she hasn't had a real minute to herself since… well, since before all of this happened. With Lucifer and Dottie and Yuly and Delano and Artan, there hasn't been a single dull moment. But right now she can't tell how this quiet is making her feel. It almost feels like a suspended breath, like everything is about to change faster than she can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
(Maybe everything's already changing, right under her nose. Delano didn't come to the alliance meeting this morning, and Yuly won't tell her or anyone what happened last night. Ginseng doesn't want to believe something's wrong, but…)
Ginseng takes in a deep breath, letting her eyes flutter shut. She finds herself wishing the air was crisper, thinner, breezier, like it would be at this height on a real mountain. Ginseng only hopes the arena will have stuff like that — real mountains, trees, clouds, open sky and birds in that open sky. Except crows. Crows can choke, but every other bird is allowed. In this grey, lifeless gym, the closest thing to a bird whatsoever is—
"HELP!" a girl's voice squawks from below. "Somebody HELP me!"
Ginseng dips her head over the ledge, searching for the source of the commotion. She catches sight of a blonde crown of hair much further below, latching tightly on the beginner handholds. The girl looks familiar for a reason she can't quite place.
"Reach for the next ledge!" Ginseng shouts, as loudly as she can manage (which is pretty dang loud, if she can say so herself). She points at the ledge in question, right above the girl's head. "It's so close — just reach a little further!"
Ginseng doesn't think the girl can hear her over her own screams. She inhales, exhales, cracks her knuckles, and says goodbye to the very comfortable summit before scurrying down the wall, as quickly as she can. Twenty feet later, she's hanging as close to the girl as she can get, one hand bearing her full weight as both her feet dangle over open air.
"It's right above your head!" Ginseng exclaims to the girl, vigorously pointing to the next handhold.
The girl looks at her with petrified blue eyes, her body shaking like a leaf. Her knuckles are gripping the handholds so stiffly that Ginseng can see the bones taut underneath her skin, yellow-white. Staying put against the wall is costing the girl almost all of her energy.
"C'mon!" Ginseng urges. "You can do it!"
The girl forces one hand off the ledge like it hurts. Her arm swings in a clumsy arc to the handhold above her head, the motion nearly threatening to swing her off the wall. Ginseng preemptively cringes, prepared to watch the girl fall, but miraculously her hand reaches the handhold. A shrill gasp tears out of the girl's throat — she tries to pull herself up, and—
Her frail body lands with a thump against the foam-cushioned floor. She makes a pained squeak, curling in on herself like a shrimp.
Ginseng sighs softly and hops to the floor, landing with a squat. She jogs to the first aid station, returning swiftly with an ice pack for the fallen girl.
"Here," Ginseng says, handing it to her. "Put it where it hurts."
Gingerly, the girl takes it from her. Her face is already blotchy and her eyes are rimmed with red, on the verge of tears. Yet, at the same time, Ginseng swears the girl looks almost pleased to be attended to. And now that she's getting a good look at her, Ginseng realizes why she recognizes the blonde — it's the girl she saw at the Parades. Artan's District partner.
"You really are one of the good ones." The girl sniffles loudly, wiping her nose against the back of her hand.
"Um," Ginseng says slowly. "Thank you, I think?"
The girl holds the icepack to her knee, turning her nose up. "If you hadn't been here to come to my aid, my family surely would have sued the Capitol for my injuries!"
Ginseng doesn't think this girl or her family is going to win any sort of lawsuit against the Capitol, the very people who put them in here to kill each other, but whatever. She just keeps her lips zipped and gives the girl on the floor a thumbs up.
"Welp," she says, "If you're good, I'll probably just go—"
"Wait!" the girl cries out. "You didn't let me introduce myself first!"
The girl stumbles up on her feet, legs wobbling slightly. She stands uncomfortably close, at eye-level with Ginseng. Sort of. The girl can't be much younger than Ginseng, but she's definitely skinnier, underdeveloped somehow. Her frame resembles a small child's.
"My name is Mavis Marigold, and I come from a proud line of cheesemakers," Mavis exclaims, as if reciting something. "I'm not supposed to be here, as you can probably gather by looking at me. Any minute now the Capitol will realize they made a mistake by Reaping me, and I'll be saved from going into the Games."
"Um, right." Ginseng flattens her lips into something that could maybe pass as a smile.
"But since you've been so kind to me," Mavis continues, "I can put in a good word for you, uh, um… your name?"
"Oh. It's Ginseng."
Mavis is clearly struggling to say her name, definitely more than she should be. "Gin— genie— jeans—" She pulls a face. "Can I just call you Ginny?"
"Uh…"
"Great!" Mavis plasters both of her clammy hands on Ginseng's shoulders. "I think we're going to be great friends, Ginny!"
Ginseng didn't think it was possible, but she thinks she's found someone weirder than Dottie, in a bad way. Ginseng's eyes flicker around the Training Center, desperately trying to find any sign of Dottie or Yuly. At this point, she thinks she might even settle for Artan.
"I," Ginseng starts, shimmying Mavis's hands off her shoulders, "think I'm gonna go find my allies now."
"Your allies? You mean that Eleven brute?" Mavis says, wrinkling her nose. "I don't know how you can stand to be around him."
Question marks flood Ginseng's brain. She stares at Mavis, uncomprehending. "What do you mean? Yuly is really nice?"
"Oh, that just means his deception is working. You see, on the surface, he might seem like he has your best interests at heart, but secretly…"
Out of the corner of her eye, Ginseng catches sight of Artan at the water purifying station. Her eyes widen as they make eye contact across the room. His eyes flicker to an oblivious Mavis, alarm overtaking his face. With a dramatic flourish, he drops the pail in his hand, immediately making a beeline toward her.
Ginseng wants to smack herself in the head. She cannot be sandwiched between both Mavis and Artan right now, or else she will do very extreme things to herself. Think, Ginseng, THINK! ! !
Ginseng abruptly cuts Mavis off in the middle of her rambling spiel. "Hey! Artan's coming this way!"
Mavis looks around wildly. "He is?"
"Yup!" Ginseng says, with more peppiness than she's had this entire conversation. "Don't tell him I told you this, but Artan, uh, misses you a lot!"
Mavis visibly brightens. "He does?!"
"Yes — YES!" Ginseng nods vigorously. "A lot a lot! But don't make it too obvious that you know! You know how he is. He'll be embarrassed. So just keep what I told you to yourself!"
"I won't tell anyone, best friend," Mavis winks, zipping her lips.
"Ginseng!" Artan barrels up, much more out of breath than he should be. "Sweet heavens — I must apologize if Mavis—"
"CAN'T CHAT!" Ginseng exclaims loudly, bouncing on her heels.
"—gave you any trouble—"
"GOTTA GO PEE. BYE!"
Ginseng takes off lickety-split across the Training Center, not in the direction of the restroom. She runs until she practically barrels into Dottie and Yuly, going ham on punching bags.
"Dottie!" Ginseng cries.
"Root girl!" Dottie chirps in return.
Dottie's glass-green eyes widen as Ginseng throws her arms around her, squeezing tightly. The Seven girl's arms wrap around her without question, warm and snug like a cup of hot cocoa. Everything feels a little more right again.
"Earth to root girl," Dottie says after a moment, poking Ginseng's forehead. "You okay?"
Ginseng sighs, hugging her friend even tighter. "Way, way better."
Orion Amsel • District Three Male
Training Center / July 7th, 8:00 AM
"Private sessions will begin in four hours," Sergeant declares, "so here's how it's gonna go down."
Orion watches as Sergeant rips a paper napkin off of a roll. From his pocket, Sergeant procures a black marker and begins scribbling something on the napkin.
"Where the hell did you get a marker?" Jupiter says.
"I have my methods," Sergeant replies, needlessly cryptic. He holds the napkin up between both hands, now with a black "6" written on it.
"Everyone here must achieve a score of 6 or higher," Sergeant says. "For most of you, this shouldn't be a problem. At all. For others, this might be a higher standard than you're used to. But this is the Careers, and I demand greatness."
Sergeant's face breaks into a sly grin, as if he's said something humorous. If Orion had to guess, it's the irony. Demanding greatness from Fioynder and Orion. Hilarious. Not to mention, a 6 is the exact middle of the road — the very definition of mediocre.
"After every session has been completed, we'll reconvene in my crib for score reveals. Two suite, y'all know where it is. I'll stress again that a 6 is the bare minimum. Anything below that, and you will be dismissed from the alliance." Sergeant surveys the group with cool eyes. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir!" Fioynder barks, giving the Two Male a fierce salute. Orion doesn't bother stopping himself from rolling his eyes.
Orion can hear Kai beside him, almost… growling. Although Kai doesn't say anything, Orion can feel his anger radiating off in waves. He takes a step away from the Four Male. He knows the distance wouldn't necessarily save him if Kai decided to snap, but it puts him just the slightest bit more at ease.
"Yessir," Reverie drawls, doing a mock salute of her own. She has her hair up today, yesterday's mishap obscured in a bun. She stands next to Sergeant, but her body language seems different, not as playful as it had been in the previous days. Observing Sergeant, it seems to Orion that the slight shift is onesided.
After Sergeant calls the brief meeting to a close, Orion follows after Cassia, keen on conversing with the girl from Two. She's made her way to the cafeteria in record time, her plate already fully laden with food.
"Protein," Cassia proclaims happily, shoveling a forkful of ham into her mouth. She flexes one arm, a rather impressive sight. "Good for your muscles."
After Orion finishes filling his own plate, he and Cassia find a vacant table to sit at. "What stars did you see with Jupiter last night?" Orion inquires.
Cassia chokes on her ham. "You — you know about that?"
"Well, yes," Orion says, raising an eyebrow. "It wasn't difficult to overhear. You in particular speak quite loudly. If you were attempting to be subtle, you did not succeed."
Cassia goes pink in the face, coughing weakly. "Oh, jeez…"
Orion makes a mental note of this peculiar reaction. "I digress. I'd like to hear about what stars you had seen. In this approximate location, during this time of year, I believe Andromeda should've been visible."
"Oh, uh," Cassia laughs sheepishly. "I didn't really see that many."
"I suppose that makes sense," Orion murmurs, placing his hand on his chin. "The light pollution in the Capitol can make observation difficult."
"Right," Cassia nods quickly. "Light pollution. That's — that's why!"
Orion squints at the girl across the table. "You're behaving strangely, Cassia."
"Me?" Cassia squeaks. "What makes you say that?!"
"From our interactions, I've noticed you have a tendency to stutter when you are caught off guard. You've done it twice in this exchange alone, as soon as I asked you about the stars and Jupiter. We've conversed about astronomy with no difficulty in the past, which leads me to believe the source of your newfound anxiety lies within—"
Before Orion can finish his line of thought, an entirely unwelcome character inserts himself into their conversation. "Can I sit with you guys?" Fioynder asks, an obnoxious grin plastered across his face.
Orion glares at him, but Cassia doesn't seem to notice Orion's aversion. "The more the merrier!" she exclaims, patting the seat beside hers enthusiastically. Orion suspects she is grateful for Fioynder as a diversion.
Fioynder scoots into the table, his grin not budging for a second. "Thanks, Cassia! You're so much nicer than any Career ought to be!"
"Thanks!" she beams, completely oblivious.
"I wanted to ask," Fioynder prefaces, "what are you planning to do for your private sessions?"
Cassia practically glows. "Well, I think I'm going to—"
Fioynder presses a finger right against the Career girl's lips, shushing her abruptly. He directs his gaze to Orion. "I was asking Orion, actually."
"Why?" Orion scowls slightly. From across the table, Cassia's eyes grow shifty, worried.
"Just curious," Fioynder replies. His blue eyes bore into Orion's, both uncannily empty and intense. "Or more like concerned. See, I'm worried our ally here isn't going to meet the required score."
Cassia scrunches her eyebrows. "I'm sure Orion can get a good score if he wants," she insists.
"Key word: if he wants," Fioynder points out. "But he doesn't. Isn't that right, Orion?"
Orion really doesn't want to have to agree with Fioynder. "Um…"
"From a totally objective standpoint," Fioynder continues, clearly not caring what Orion has to say, "I've watched enough Hunger Games reruns to be an officially unofficial expert. Not to brag, but I've gotten thirty-one gold medals on my r/Hunger_Games posts, so I'm basically the most credible source you can find. After this much experience, you get a good sense for what makes a strong competitor. It's just two things, really."
Fioynder flicks up his thumb. "Number one. Skill. If Orion has any of that, I haven't seen it. He hasn't done anything except play brain games and star trivia with you, Cassia." Fioynder raises his index finger now. "Number two. Drive. Orion doesn't care about anything except hot balls in the sky. And complaining. It's like he's not even trying to get back to Three. At this rate, the only thing the Gamemakers will be impressed by is just how astronomically he doesn't care!"
Oh, an astronomy pun. Orion has to admit that was clever.
"There's no reason to be mean," Cassia says, frowning.
"It's not mean if it's just true," Fioynder chirps, way too peppily. "I mean, name a single useful thing Orion can do!"
"He can do lots of useful things," she defends, with much more passion than Orion has for himself. "Like memorizing stuff. Not just stars, but places, too. He takes lots of walks and always finds his way back because he has really good navigation skills. And he has medical experience too, because he had to take care of his sick grandpa for a long time."
"Oh, I see," Fioynder says. "Instead of training like you're supposed to, you two have been exchanging life stories and wasting time!"
"What does that have to do with you?" Orion says. "Why do you care?"
"See! That proves my point exactly!" Fioynder exclaims, pumping his chest. "Fioynder, Orion, 1-0!"
Orion rubs his temples. "Explain, how does that prove your point?!"
"I care, and you clearly don't! I care way more than you do about all of this!"
"What are you trying to achieve?" Orion glowers. "I am not interested in competing with you."
"It doesn't matter if you're not interested, because it's already happening," Fioynder whispers. He hunches over the table to get closer to Orion's face, light eyes wide and startling. "We're both here because Sergeant is assessing both of us. They all are. It's an implicit competition — both of our presences are meant to pressure the other into performing at our very best. They want to see how desperate both of us will get."
"It's clearly working on you," Orion mutters.
"Careers never take two outer-Districts when they can just take one," Fioynder carries on. "It's statistically proven. One of us isn't going to make the cut, and I'm going to make sure it's not me."
"Sure," Orion says. "Go do that, then."
"What's wrong with you?" Fioynder asks, point-blank. "Don't you care about being in the Careers?!"
"Truthfully," Orion says, "no."
"Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now?!" Fioynder bellows, with the fiery passion of five million fanboys. "Do you know how many Careers train every year to be a part of this elite pack?! And you won't even respect the integrity of this honored institution!"
"I didn't ask to be here," Orion scowls. "In the Career pack or the Capitol. So I am under no obligation to 'respect' anything. And I fail to see how this affects you or anyone else in the slightest."
"People like you make the Hunger Games boring, Orion! And there is nothing worse than boring!"
"Unfortunate," is the only response Orion cares enough to muster.
In a flash, Fioynder's fist flings forward, seizing Orion's shirt by the collar. Orion doesn't react — he hardly even blinks.
"Fio!" Cassia yells. "That's enough!"
"Aren't you going to do anything?" Fioynder exclaims, incredulous. "Aren't you mad? Aren't you going to hit me?!"
"No," Orion replies calmly. "You are clearly trying to provoke me into breaking the Training Center's only rule. Causing you injury would incur a damning penalty, and I certainly know better than to do that."
"More like you won't swing because you're scared, because you don't have what it takes to survive," the boy from Five roars. "Just do it, hit me! I dare you. I double-dog dare you! Then we'll all see who deserves to be here!"
The tallest Career comes up behind Fioynder, calmly yanking the boy off the table by the collar of his shirt.
Fioynder wiggles around. "Hey — what?" he says, sounding much meeker than he did when he was screaming in Orion's ear.
"Let's go over there, Fio," Kieran says simply. He sounds tired, but Orion can't tell if that has more to do with the struggling boy from Five or whatever caused the dark circles underneath his eyes.
"But I didn't — where are we going?"
Cassia shoots Kieran a grateful smile as he drags Fioynder away. Kieran nods back. Their table resumes its beautiful, Fio-less silence, but Orion can't overlook the guilt that consumes Cassia's expression.
"I'm sorry Fio said all those things to you," Cassia mumbles, aimlessly pushing food around her plate. She seems to have lost her appetite. "I didn't know he was going to be mean. None of it's true, you know."
"It is true, though," Orion shrugs.
Cassia casts her glance down on the table, eyes struggling to meet his. "Don't say that. It makes me sad."
Orion blinks, perplexed. "Why would it make you sad?"
"I don't know," Cassia admits. "It hurts hearing you sound so okay with stuff people shouldn't say about you."
"I'm apathetic toward what Fioynder thinks of me. In the same vein, I'm apathetic about how the Gamemakers will evaluate my performance. The score they'll assign me will have no bearing on my assessment of my self-worth."
"But I don't want you to get a bad score," Cassia says, her bottom lip trembling. "Not even just for Sergeant's standard, but in general. Tributes that get low scores, they, they don't—"
"I've considered the likely possibility I will die," Orion says simply. "I have mostly come to terms with it. I should be prepared by tomorrow morning."
"Oh, Orion," Cassia whimpers.
"The odds are twenty-three to one, not even taking into account individual deviations. If we include that factor, my chances…" He trails off, realizing too late that Cassia's eyes are flooding with tears.
"I—" he stutters, struck. "Why—?"
He doesn't even know what he wants to say. Why are you crying? Why do you care?
(Why do I care? Why does looking at you like this… hurt?)
"I don't want you to die," Cassia whispers. Orion is uncharacteristically speechless, unable to will his mouth into making the retorts he should.
It's hopeless. Twenty-three of us will. You probably will, too.
(His chest hurts again.)
"I can't make you do anything and I know you don't want to, but please try." The Career girl's voice breaks. "Please?"
It's irrational to do so. Orion's always believed that there's nothing on Earth worth getting disappointed over. Not the Games, not interviews, certainly not private sessions — or anything else. But he can't bring himself to say any of this — not to Cassia — and he can't explain why.
Something radiates so earnestly through the Career girl's face, and it hurts to look at. Cassia Cosmos is foolish. She is foolish for wanting him to live, for believing he can succeed. Most of all, she is foolish for c— thinking about him, when she should only be thinking about herself.
He knows this, and yet…
"Okay," Orion whispers, unable to look at Cassia. Stiffly, he nods, the movement betraying every rational bone in his body. "Okay."
Crossland Vectra • District Six Male
Training Center / July 7th, 11:12 AM
In the middle of a strenuous deadlift, Crossland lifts his head to check the large digital clock that hangs high on the wall of the Training Center. A small sigh escapes his lips; there's less than an hour left before the first private session starts, and approximately two hours before his own.
Twenty-five hours. Ten on the first day, another ten on the second, five today. Crossland works double that every week just to afford rent, and the Capitol expects him to acquire skills that will save his life in just half that time.
A joke is what it is, he grumbles to himself, straining under the weight of the barbell. And yet, he's invested a ridiculous amount of effort into the Capitol's game anyway. Growing up in Six, Crossland has never had to worry about any elements outside of metal, cement, and sulfur rain. He's studied harder here than he ever had in school, reading up on how to survive in natural biomes. What to do in case of an avalanche, a sinkhole, a wildfire. How to obtain food. How to tend to a severe injury with limited resources.
He hasn't let up on his physical regimen either. Both of his arms were achingly sore from repeatedly throwing axes at targets, over and over until all he could see behind his eyelids was that glaringly red bullseye. Crossland's also tried swinging at closer targets; he likes the momentum of melee combat, the way he can use his own weight to deal a more forceful blow. He's not sure how effective he'd be as a ranged fighter, but he is rather confident about his odds in close quarters.
Even so, all that preparation matters little when Crossland doesn't know what will impress the Gamemakers. He hates the vagueness of training scores, and of course, neither of his mentors could possibly be helpful in this regard. He thought there would be some sort of guide or criteria on how to achieve a specific score, but after scouring tapes of past Hunger Games seasons, he's found nothing of use. It all seems frustratingly subjective, based purely off the whims of that year's Gamemaker crew.
Work is stressless in this regard; he doesn't need to make any special effort to impress anyone. He just does what he's told, and then he leaves. The only thing he needs to be is another factory automaton, and repeat the cycle the next night.
Crossland exhales through his nose, grunting as the burn in his shoulders and thighs grows more painful, more familiar. Sweat streaks down his face and his neck, the fans in the Training Center bringing much-needed relief. With less than an hour to go, there's not much more he can do besides hefting these dense weights. He intends to go until failure, to see just how heavy his burden has to be before he can't take it anymore.
He slowly leans over, attempting to hover the barbell back over the ground. But something excruciating twists in his lower back — he hisses and jerks sharply, dropping the barbell with a resounding clang against the floor.
Gracelessly, he stumbles to a taller piece of equipment, leaning against it for support. This does little to relieve the spasm in his back, incessant and angry. Crossland screws his eyes shut; he clenches his teeth so hard they shake, determined not to make a sound.
"You all right?" a boy's voice asks, sounding concerned.
There's a certain peculiarity to the stranger's voice, his vowels warm and drawn out. It's a far departure from the clipped articulations of the people in Six. Just Crossland's luck to catch the attention of some over-friendly bumpkin. Crossland scowls, forcing himself to open his eyes.
The boy that stands a couple feet in front of him is tan-skinned, sturdily built. Crossland can see a 10 stitched on his jacket. His eyes are brown, warm, open. Earnest. Eager to help. The boy looks like he'd be exceptionally easy to take advantage of.
(He wonders if this is how Zhaust saw him when they first met.)
Crossland quickly looks away, scowling even deeper.
"I'll just take that as a yes, then," Ten says, laughing a little. "If you're well enough to frown, you're well enough."
"Do you need something?" Crossland mutters.
"Not really," Ten replies. He gestures to the barbell on the ground. "One-seventy-five? You used to lifting that much?"
"Of course," Crossland responds, clipped. "I work in a factory."
"What kind of factory?"
"Does it matter?" Crossland snaps.
"I suppose not," Ten replies, with a small shrug of his shoulders. "Just curious is all."
The only thing Crossland is curious about is whether the rest of the people in Ten are just as invasive. Crossland falls silent, hoping the boy will walk off and leave him alone. But Ten just stands there in front of Crossland, perfectly content to idle around and wait for a response. He gives zero sign that he's apt to leave.
God damn countryfolk.
"It's nothing special," Crossland forces out at last. "I assemble heavy-duty parts. For automobiles."
Ten's expression is piqued with interest. "So you could build a car, if you had all the pieces?"
Crossland shakes his head. "Just the frame. I know nothing about the fine-tuning or how any of it runs. And even if I wanted, I couldn't get the pieces. Peacekeepers search every worker that leaves the plant."
"Strict," Ten comments. "But I s'pose it makes sense. Wouldn't want all the factory people to get unfair advantages."
"Sure," Crossland says, though he knows it's less about unfair advantages so much as it's probably about District suppression.
"Still," Ten says, his voice wistful. "Always wanted to drive one of those things."
"You'd have to be extremely well-off," Crossland replies, "at least by District standards."
"Yeah," Ten murmurs. "It's too bad."
There's something in his tone that isn't lost on Crossland. But Ten doesn't linger on it for long, smoothly switching gears. "You got anyone to come back to?" he asks.
Crossland doesn't know why he hesitates when he already knows his answer. "No."
Ten nods, a distant look in his eyes. He exhales. "Makes it easier."
"Does it?" Crossland asks wryly.
"Maybe not. Never mind," Ten says, forcing out a laugh. He smooths down the nape of his neck with one hand, like a soothing gesture. "Anyway, there's not much time left, so you probably wanna get the nurse lady to look at you before private sessions start."
"I'll consider it," Crossland says, knowing he'll just grit his teeth and bear it.
"My guess is you pulled somethin', so try not to put too much strain on yourself," Ten advises. "You're too young for your back to be givin' out already."
Ten laughs. Crossland watches him stonily until he stops.
"Well," Ten says awkwardly, slapping the front of his jeans. "I've gotta check on my, uh, partner, but good talkin' to you."
"Right," Crossland says.
"Good luck with your session, man," Ten smiles. "And, y'know. Everything else."
"…you too," Crossland manages, watching Ten wave as he walks off.
Crossland watches for longer than he should — it's a couple of seconds before he realizes and makes himself stop. Crossland closes his eyes, frowning deeply. The spasm in his back is nothing more than a dull ache at this point, nothing worth checking out.
The nerve of that tribute to disturb his peace, interrogate him about his personal life, and give him unwarranted advice. That wasn't quite small talk, but nonetheless, Crossland found it just as ridiculous and pointless. As if Ten was truly invested in the well-being of a stranger.
No one does a good deed for free.
It frustrates Crossland, not knowing what the boy's intentions could be. But there's another possibility, one he finds incomprehensible: perhaps Ten had no motive at all. Perhaps he just had the nerve to be friendly for the sake of it, despite knowing where they're all going, where they'll all end up.
It takes a certain kind of bravery to be so reckless with kindness. Or, as Crossland thinks of it, naiveté.
Emilio Carver • District Nine Male
Training Center / July 7th, 2:20 PM
There's nothing that makes Emilio more nervous than an audience of uncaring eyes.
Over the past couple years, he's gotten accustomed to performing in front of people: parents and children and other ambling passersby in the plaza, people with kind eyes and appreciative smiles. He'd sit behind his cardboard box stage, open his quilt curtains, and let pure instinct overtake his hands and vocal chords. Emilio knew how to puppeteer better than he knew anything else.
Unfortunately, he doubts that's a skill he can bring before the Gamemakers. Thinking about them taking notes on his every move makes his stomach flop back and forth. Emilio's no fighter, but he's about to get a grade on how well he can fight — if he disappoints, it is quite literally life or death.
Every ten minutes, the Gamemakers take another tribute. The minutes go by too slow and too quick at the same time. Emilio blinks, and nobody has moved a breath. He blinks again, and suddenly, five more tributes have disappeared around the corner, into the gaping maw of the Training Center.
Time passes, ruthlessly. Slowly but surely, the number of tributes who wait with him start to dwindle. Peering around, nobody else seems as nervous as Emilio feels — and that makes him even more agitated.
His breaths quicken. His pulse begins to race. He doesn't know how much air he's getting inside this room — his vision has been reduced to blurs of motion and it's hard to focus on anything.
The intercoms call for Lucifer, the sound piercing and crackly in his ears. Then Emilio's watching Lucifer getting up, and Lucifer's waving and Lucifer's gone and Emilio realizes with stones in his stomach there's only three more people before it's his turn and that's thirty, hhah, onlythirtyminutes — - - Emilio stares into his lap trying to calm himself down but the tremor in his hands just gets worse and worse as the seconds tick on and onandon - - - his chest feels constricted and tight and bad everything's tinny he can't hear anythinghecan't ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ
Something warm closes around his hand. He nearly jerks away until he realizes the pressure is acting like a dampener, making his mind quieter. Emilio blinks until his vision returns slightly more into focus — he can see a hand on his, as well as the girl it belongs to. Wisteria is tightly gripping his hand, gently releasing, and then squeezing, again and again.
Unconsciously, Emilio's breaths follow the pattern. In, out, in, back out again. After several minutes, Emilio feels somewhat stable again — still rattled, but stable.
"You're gonna be fine, Emilio," Wisteria whispers. "You'll get in there, get out, and then it'll be over."
Emilio tries to concentrate on what Wisteria's telling him. Hearing these words outside of his own head helps him visualize after better, helps him imagine that it won't feel like this forever. But he also can't help but start to become more aware of himself, of his empty stomach and clammy palms and how downright pitiful he must look right now.
He wishes he was stronger. A stronger Emilio would have kept this contained until he was alone, in a place where no one would have to see him and waste their sympathy. How sad that a boy of his age needs someone to comfort him like a small child.
(If Corvus could see him now…)
"I-I'm s-sorry," Emilio chokes out.
Wisteria soothes her thumb over his fingers. "What for?"
He shakes his head forcefully, trying to form the words. "I — calm. Should, sh-should be."
The brown-eyed girl is quiet for a moment. "You don't have to be anything," she says at last. "You're doing the best you can. All of us are."
But everyone's best is better than mine, is what Emilio thinks, but doesn't say. He makes a clumsy gesture toward her direction. "H-h-how are y-you so…?"
Wisteria answers, already knowing what he's trying to ask. "I've accepted whatever happens," she says softly. "Whatever score I get, I'll try to make it work."
"B-but i-if you get a b-bad sc-score, i-it's over."
"Not true," she retorts. "Whatever happens in these sessions, life doesn't stop after that. The world's gonna keep on going. Our only way is forward."
Wisteria's voice is soothing and serene in his ears, like a trickling river. He lets out a shaky breath, trying to hang onto her words. He feels quite grounded with the weight of her hand on his.
"W-weirdly," Emilio murmurs, "I-I-I think that h-helps."
"Thanks." The girl grins slyly. "Read that in one of Ester's self-help magazines."
Emilio blinks. "S-she let you—?"
"Nope," Wisteria says breezily. "Let's just keep that our little secret."
"W-won't tell any-anyone," Emilio replies, the corners of his mouth rising despite… everything.
Wisteria smiles, her expression mirroring his. "Feeling any better?"
Emilio nods, sheepish. He's embarrassed that somebody noticed his distress, but he's thankful it was Wisteria.
"Good," his District partner whispers. "I was just saying stuff, but I'm glad it's working."
"Y-your voice," Emilio explains. "It's n-nice t-to listen to."
Wisteria laughs, a light and airy sound. "No one's ever told me that before."
"I-I mean it," Emilio says.
"Careful. Keep up the flattery, and I'll be talking 'til your ear falls off," Wisteria shoots back.
"N-nice ch-ch-change of pace," Emilio responds. "M-my allies a-are very qu-quiet."
Wisteria raises an eyebrow. "Allies?"
Emilio must admit that him, Lucifer, and Jillion are quite the unorthodox bunch. Neither the Seven boy or the Eleven girl are talkative at all, so strangely, Emilio became the de facto initiator. Emilio knows very little about the two of them, but he's hoping that might change eventually.
Lucifer has revealed virtually nothing about his life so far; everything Emilio's gathered about him is purely assumption based on his behavior. Lucifer never sits, not even when he eats. He fills his plate to the brim with cafeteria food, like every meal is his last. It gives Lucifer a headache to read more than a sentence at a time, so Emilio's not sure if Lucifer goes to school.
Emilio's not sure if Jillion goes to school, either. Certainly not for any lack of intelligence — the thirteen year-old is surprisingly shrewd, much more so than Emilio expected from someone her age. Something Jillion mentioned led Emilio to believe that she dropped out — for what reason, he doesn't know. He's hoping she'll stick around long enough for him to find out.
Despite the two's eccentricities, their actions certainly speak much louder than words. Both Lucifer and Jillion applied themselves fully during Training, never leaving a task half-finished. They're both hardworking, reliable, and frighteningly determined. Emilio feels out-classed between the two of them, but… safe, as well.
"Yeah," he says with a small smile. "L-Lucifer. A-and J-Jillion too, s-sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Temp-temporary tru-truce."
"Oh, I see." Wisteria nudges Emilio with her elbow. "Tell me about them."
Emilio hesitates. "Th-they… are n-not very—"
"Normal?" Wisteria finishes.
Emilio flushes. "W-well…"
She laughs, but it doesn't feel like she's laughing at him. That's what Emilio likes about her — Wisteria can poke fun without being mean, and she laughs like it costs her nothing. "It's okay if they're a little not normal. I mean, look around. These aren't exactly normal circumstances."
A laugh flutters out of his chest. "Tr-true," he admits. "I l-like them, though. And they s-seem tr-trustworthy."
"That's all you need, then."
"What a-about y-you?" Emilio asks.
"Me? I don't think I'm abnormal, but I don't think I'm normal, either."
Emilio shakes his head. "D-do you h-have a-allies?"
"Oh," Wisteria says. "Mm, no. I'm sticking it alone, it looks."
He blinks, surprised.
"I know Ester's been telling us to make allies," she murmurs. "And I've been talking to people, but nobody really feels right."
Wisteria looks as if she's about to say more, but thinks better of it. This only intrigues Emilio — he stares at her expectantly.
His District partner's lip quirks to the side. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Y-you didn't f-finish y-your sentence."
Wisteria sighs, lowering her voice until it's barely a whisper. "There's one girl, but she's already in an alliance."
Emilio hums in understanding. "Do y-you know the o-o-other members?"
"It's just her and her District partner, but I didn't talk to him," Wisteria reveals, hushed. "It's fine, though. I like being by myself. I'll get by."
A pang of loneliness ripples through his chest. These phrases are familiar to Emilio; they're the words of someone so used to being alone that they don't know anything else.
"Y-you could come w-with us, I think," he offers, looking at Wisteria. "I-I just need to t-t-talk to Lu-Lucifer..."
"You don't have to do that," Wisteria whispers, widening her eyes. "Seriously, I'll be fine. I don't want to throw a wrench in your alliance."
The growing lump in his throat makes the words hard to get out. "B-but I d-don't want you to b-be alone."
"I've always been," is her response. "Not in a bad way — it's just — I don't wanna force anything, y'know? Whatever happens, happens. I'm okay with that." She pauses. "I'll be okay."
"Are y-you s-sure?"
"Positive," Wisteria says, and Emilio wants very badly to believe her. "Don't worry about me."
He can't stop his voice from wavering. "I-I will a-anyway."
Wisteria gives him a sad smile. She squeezes his hand. "You, too."
The girl sighs, leaning against Emilio's arm. He sits still, very still, to keep her comfortable. They sit side-by-side and let the minutes crawl in shared silence. With someone to keep him company, the spilling hourglass feels significantly less daunting. Occasionally, Wisteria's breaths flutter against Emilio's arm, and it feels as if his heart is attempting to crawl out of his throat.
Emilio doesn't know much about Wisteria past the kindness she's shown him, but he thinks it would've been very nice to get to know her under different circumstances. Maybe in another life, she lived just a block down the street, or they crossed paths in the city square.
How cruel it is, to have met her like this. How lucky it is, that he gets to be here, right now, with such a beautiful soul.
"Hey, Emilio?"
"Y-yes?"
It's as if she heard his thoughts. "I'm glad you found people," Wisteria says, sincerity clear as summer rain.
Emilio gives her a small smile. "M-me, too."
a/n: this is a part of a double upload with laney! [head in hands] this is the first update of two in april, god be willing! a bite-sized chapter after the last two chunky ones.
as always, a big phat thank you to logan and goldie for betaing :3 yes beta we don't die like men
today's title comes from the uncomfortable feelings associated with phasing into the next stage of life.
qotd: how do i advertise this fic? wrong answers only
deuces,
bonkies