"Oh shit." I breathed taking in the large white room filled with weaponry, obstacles, faux trees, vast ribbons of stone, and more than a half dozen different patches of terrain scattered about the great space in which many were already gathered and training. It wasn't my finest moment, I'm willing to admit to that, but I hadn't expected the sheer magnitude of it all, nor the deep foreboding sense that washed over me as I focused on taking the more important details in.
Then I heard it, in the back of my mind, steady as a heartbeat, aggravating as a gnat, my mother's voice: "Make sure you win for me."
I wanted to, needed to fulfill this order which seemed at once so simple, yet so daunting. Those words were harrowing in a way that hollowed me out to the core, leaving only an empty wind torn space where thought, feelings, everything that made me, me should have been. At first I wondered if my mother knew what she was asking of me, but deep down the knowledge that she did burned. It was with a self indulgent level of audacity that I felt barbed against the woman who had given me life. I would do it though, kill any number of people to keep her safe, but that didn't mean I had to like it, it was just difficult for me to remember that it wasn't her fault in any way, merely that her request only gave the illusion that it was.
I think, deep down, that the reason I wanted to blame my mother for all of this, was because she had always been the single strongest and most constant driving force in my life. A single, overly protective mother, she had always been the one to push me into anything, everything really, be it waking to working, even socialising took direct inspiration from my mother. I mean, I like people just fine, I like talking to them, hanging out, making friends, playing the clown every now and then, but I'd still prefer books to other things children my age seemed to enjoy and she to a point encouraged this, but always made sure I got out of the house.
Eventually however, the more widespread activities of my peers crept it's way into my life, skulking around in abandoned tunnels, risking your life by leaping across tracks while a train was bearing down on you, zapping things on third rails, and of course morphling.
I tried it once and was hooked regardless of the side affects. It wrecked me worse than a maglev taking a sharp bend with a drunk air-monkey, or one of those old coal burns with an over enthusiastic ash-cat who feeds them straight into the angle bar. Everything was just wrong. Paranoia fueling my actions as everything became a threat, my movements felt impossibly slow, my body feeble, even as I began to feel airy and hollow with an intangible darkness taking over my mind. I'd wanted to tell my mother, or my best friend, my sister Nadia, more than anything, but found myself mute, besides using made the day go by faster, my work as a mechanic easier, safer, or so it seemed. Nadia, who knew me better than anyone noticed the change almost immediately though and gave me an ultimatum: either I tell mom, or she would, and if she did, she'd make it sound as ugly as she could, for my own good, she asserted.
For the first time in my life I could have honestly said that I hated Nadia, but that was just the drugs talking, she'd rescued me as I would later come to find out she had to be rescued before. In reality confessing not only saved my life back then, but it might also save my life now, because of the way our mother handled it.
"Morphling?" she'd asked with a sigh, rubbing slow circles into the sides of her forehead with dry cracked fingers. She was a beautiful woman, even if she was my mom, but the cracks were a constant, as well as the dirt. There was a small wooded area kids my age liked the call "the park" only a short distance from my home. Being at a disadvantage among Districts when it came to practical knowledge that could help our Tributes survive our family, like many had used the area to set snares, or crude traps a practice my mother never gave up. Honestly it was the best someone from Six could hope for.
When my mom was upset I could always see a little fire in her eyes, this time had been no different. "I should have experienced as much, it's practically a rite of passage!" she muttered darkly under her breath motioning for me to follow her outside. "Take this," she said holding up an old dull bladed axe that had a thin layer of rust where the head joined its wooden neck. "Go to the park and chop."
I'd looked at her dumbfounded, but relieved at how easy I'd gotten off, obeyed. That night I woke up in a cold sweat, and it felt like bugs were crawling just beneath my skin, however she was there, holding a flashlight in one hand, the axe in the other, glaring at me when I'd located the needle.
"Let's go." Was all she said, it was all she ever said whenever a craving hit, and she would stand there and make sure I chopped until it passed, the sweats, the shaking, the rages. She would make me chop at trees until they passed, or I couldn't stand anymore, which ever came first, and it worked. Soon, it became my new addition, the tired, spent sensation of a good day's work, it helped me sleep at night, and gave me something to do during my free time, and kept me feeling clean, and healthy.
I only prayed this new found skill could help me in the Games.
Taking a breath, hands clapping together with enthusiasm I returned to the now and built myself up with positivity. Oh yes, I thought, I could do this! My first stop was to weapons, I'd no true intention of trying any of the formidable killing tools, at least not at the moment, what I really wanted was to appraise those who prioritized them. There seemed to be a good number of individuals practicing their swings, throws, shots, and pulls, and they all, for the most part seemed experts at whatever they tried their hands at.
Standing there with a little chip marring my optimism the only bright side in my mind was the row of gleaming axes. Some were varying sizes of the wood cutting variety, the type I was most accustomed to, some were double edged, some looked like monstrous hybrids, half axe half pick, or half axe half hammer, but they all looked lethal.
After a few minutes of being completely engrossed in the gleaming new tools I could scarcely wait to get my hands onI turned to continue exploring the room and its stations, but stopped when I noticed a few more of my fellow Tributes watching the group of mostly Careers showing off. Clearly I wasn't the only captivated audience member. A boy and girl who were watching just beside me, whispering every now and then, already they seemed like they had a plan, but what struck me funny was the girl observing from a distance. She had a wide eyed stare and her face was kinda pale as she watched first one dummy, then another hacked, chopped, and stabbed to pieces.
Then she did it, a funny little thing with her hand. Bringing it up to her mouth it sort of looked like the auburn haired girl kissed it, before touching her chest, then first one shoulder followed by the next. My brow furrowed, what the hell was that?
Immediately my mind flew back home. The three fingered salute from Twelve had lond since been outlawed for its association with the Rebellion, as had the work day's end whistle from Eleven for the exact same reason. That didn't stop kids from being kids however, and walking home from school I could remember hearing the telltale notes tumble from someone's lips in a faint tune. Then, inevitably someone else would chirp though louder, and the game would begin, and we would all take turns whistling louder and louder, each of us toying with our own lives should a Peace Keeper overhear us, the ones who chickened out always getting pelted on for cowardess.
This was different though, the girl, judging by the looks of it was likely from Seven, I dunno, something about her screamed "forest" to me, maybe it was her too green eyes. From what I knew about Seven though, from the displaced few, remnants of the war and migrants relocated in my area afterwards, they really didn't have any gestures, their signs typically reserved to gifting leaves of various trees to people each with its own meaning, which by all means was better than all my District seemed to do, share needles.
So, captivated, I walked straight over to her.
"What was that you just did?" I asked waving a hand in her direction.
"Huh?" she asked blinking rapidly as her fearful trance was broken. "What was what?" she went on, then a healthy amount of suspicion crept in, her brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and she stepped away.
"That thing you did," I explained with a smirk, she was looking at me like I was snake. Trying to help I mimicked the motions briefly, debating whether or not to have a little fun with the given situation.
"Oh," she murmured, a glaze of perplexity washing over her eyes. "I-I dunno, it's just something my mom does, ...I guess I picked it up..."
We regarded each other for a long moment, she was defensive likely trying to figure how easily I could kill her, or better yet, how she could kill me. Honestly, I was considering the same things, though far less seriously than I should have, considering where I standing. How any alliances were formed was beyond me, but since we were talking, and since she seemed a decent enough person I thought, why not?
"My name's Casey." I smiled, thrusting my hand out, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, seeing how she startled.
"Eve." she replied giving a tentative smile in return. We shook, and I was quickly surprised.
"That's weird," I found myself muttering.
"What?" she asked pulling out of my grip.
I shurgged, it wasn't much really, just an acute observation, "Most people in Six, my District, don't have callouses on their hands, so it's weird to feel them. Sounds stupid, to say out loud though, sorry."
"Oh," Eve laughed as she turned to walk away. "Well," she went on as I followed. "Almost everyone I know, from Seven, has really rough hands." She seemed to think for a minute before asking. "Why are your hands calloused then, if it's such a strange thing?"
"Oh, that." I grinned, rolling my eyes with exaggerated evasiveness, a playful mischief creeping in, after all what better way to break the tension than with a laugh? "Well I'm really addicted to morphling and I chop wood to help fight the cravings, but every once in a while I just, ...sort of, ...SNAP!" I shouted with a laugh as I pounced, arms locking about Eve's abdomen.
The girl screamed shrilly, and reacted faster than could be anticipated, her hand flying wildly. Somehow the sting seemed to come before the resounding "smack" which I'm sure everyone heard. In a state of shock I let my arms fall to my side and I stood up straight and rigid. We looked at one another. Eve's hands were cupped together over her mouth and nose, her very green eyes wide with horror, she wasn't breathing.
"Did, did you just slap me?" I asked as simply and clearly as I could. Eve nodded. "In the face?" She nodded again, tears already welling.
"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed in a rushed whisper. "I'm so sorry, I-I've never slapped anyone before!"
"Well you could have fooled me!" I said pawing at my face.
"Oh-my-God-it's-turning-red!" Eve yelped looking at me. "I can see my fingers!" Then it happened, the first nervous giggles ran through her, followed by a hasty intake of breath, resulting in a snort.
"Did you just snort?" I laughed, caught off guard.
"No!" she protested, continuing her hog-like snickering, her hands waving in front her face like tiny fans as she struggled to breathe she was laughing so hard.
Before I knew it I was laughing too, "Well that's one hell of a way to make friends!" I managed to get out after a while, my ribs aching, but the remark along with the absurdity of the situation only made the fits worse. She pushed me, and I pushed back, there was something strange and remarkably familiar about what haf just happened, it was like be home, like fooling around a third rail. Bleary, through tear clouded eyes I looked at the pretty girl from Seven who was a fast made friend, and wondered earnestly, for the first time how I was going to do this.
An "air monkey" is locomotive slang for an individual who mans the air brakes
An "ash cat" is locomotive slang for an individual who feeds the fire in a steam engine
An angle bar is a place where trains are meant to stop, they indicate the end of the rails
[[Author's Note: Sorry again all for my inability to post within a decent amount of time, but I hope your all still with me, heaven knows I still love this story and always will! Thanks to everyone for their on going support and to those who submitted Tributes! Happy Hunger Games!]]