And the training continues.
Enjoy!
~ Meghan
The Arming.
...
Training Day I - Pt. II
...
"The authority of those who teach is often an obstacle to those who want to learn."
- Cicero, 106 BC - 43 BC, Roman Republic
Pazley Steppe - 16 y.o. - D8
...
- Training Center Cafeteria-
Paz ate her lunch in silence.
Eating alone was something she was used to.
"Do you know Corduroy?"
Paz hadn't spared her sister a look waited for the beaten-up train home from school. Despite it being an autumnal month, the afternoon sun shone oppressively from above the gray buildings. Paz pulled at her collar. It was cotton, but it felt too tight in the warmth.
"Paz?"
She sighed, finally glancing over at Twyla.
Sitting together here on the bench, they were almost the same height. Twyla had just turned thirteen and gone through a growth spurt that Paz never experienced. Twyla's long legs were stretched out now to kick a rock nearby. Her own face had a sheen of sweat. "Corduroy Pearle? He's in your grade? Anyway, his sister is in my class. Said she recognized my last name. Her older brother says you always sit alone at lunch."
Paz leaned her head back and messed with a strand of brunette hair. She would need a haircut soon. She hated when it got past her ears and in her eyes. "So?"
"So, you don't want to sit with your friends?"
"I prefer to eat alone. It's not a crime, Twy."
Twyla was quiet. A screech from down the tracks alerted the girls to the approaching train. Their little brothers jumped up from the ground, giving each other playful shoves as they waited.
"I just worry about you," Twyla finally whispered. She leaned closer, her brown eyes wide and earnest. "Ever since you started your... well, all the burglary stuff... you just don't seem to talk to other people as much."
Paz stood up. She adjusted her backpack, the same one she emptied out to use on robberies. "It's been years, Twyla. Besides. I never really talked to many classmates in the first place. I prefer talking to you, anyway. And the boys."
The train rushed to a hissing stop, the wind ruffling Paz's hair. Other people on the platform started boarding the graffitied cars.
"Corduroy is a bit of an idiot, anyway," Paz finished as Twyla joined her and stepped onto the train. "One day I won't have to sit with them them in class. And I can't wait."
The Careers laughed.
Out of the corner of her eye, Paz saw the blonde girl from District 10 - Caroline - jump. Rolling her eyes, Paz returned to her soup.
It was hard to keep her thoughts in the lunchroom. Every so often, her mind would turn back towards District 8, riding on a train of thought. But now she was in the center of all the shining Capitol buildings. Or, technically, underground at the moment. The gymnasium felt like the inside of a factory in 8, though, so closed off and windowless. But she wasn't surrounded by all the workers and textile looms. Twyla was nowhere to be seen.
Paz took a surreptitious survey of the lunchroom and the other twenty-three tributes. The contrast between the Career table and everywhere else was stark.
The four tributes who made up the Career Pack so far were huddled together, talking loudly. It was obvious to Paz that they were putting on a show. Every so often, one would glance up, as if making sure the rest of the lunchroom was aware of them. As if anybody could miss them laughing like that.
The other tributes dropped their heads, staring at their plates and avoided making eye-contact with anyone else. The quiet din of clinking forks made it sound too quiet otherwise.
Paz knew that even right now, when they weren't swinging around weapons or flashing survival skills, she could learn a lot from how a person spent their time alone.
It felt like casing a mark before she would go there at night, stealing whatever she wanted. It was comfortingly familiar.
The nearest tribute, the girl from 6 - Mustang - still wore the weathered leather jacket she had at the reaping. It was too big to be a token, and Paz figured it must've been a big fuck you to the girl's stylist. At the end next table over, the boy from 10 - Nico - had his arm out in front of his plate, looking up occasionally, his face expressionless, as if he was worried someone might come up and steal his food.
Not everyone ate lunch alone, though.
The pair from 12 spoke every now and then, their voices so soft Paz couldn't hear a thing. The pair from 9 would laugh sometimes, but from the way the girl - Azzie - kept looking around, she was definitely hoping someone would hear. The girl from District 4 - was it Merliah? - was also by herself, eating quickly and with her back to the Careers. It was strange, considering she'd volunteered and 4 usually produced trained tributes.
Paz still wasn't sure to make of that yet. Maybe it was some mind game?
Then there was Paz's own district partner, Darrius. She looked across the lunchroom to see him trying to balance a metal spoon on his nose. Paz sneered into her soup. That definitely wasn't a mind game. Darrius couldn't outsmart a potato.
For herself, Paz had the entire table to herself. But then again, she was used to it. If she turned her head to look down at the glossy table-top, she could practically be back in the lunchroom of her school. Alone. Content. Just with fancier food.
Except this time, she wasn't meeting her siblings after to go home.
The only way home was through the arena.
A bell rang.
Lunch was over. Paz glanced over at the two Avoxes who stood motionless by the entrance. The began to move and collect dishes. Paz left her soup bowl and bread crust on the table, letting some of the other tributes file back into the gymnasium first. Predictably, the Careers hurried to return to the various weapons stations they'd spent all morning at. A few tributes like the boy from 7 - Cin - and the girl from 3 - Hanna - still lingered at the tables, reluctant to go back to training.
Paz couldn't exactly blame them. Maybe she was just a bit jaded.
She had more survival skills bleeding out of her than most of the tributes here combined. For five years now she had kept her family afloat. She could sneak through the shadows like a ghost, take something precious right from under someone's nose - and she never got caught.
But how was that supposed to translate to a gymnasium full of swords?
Paz wasn't stupid. She knew she wasn't as strong as many of the others. It was just difficult to figure out how in the world to show the Gamemakers her own capabilities when she couldn't exactly wave her arms and scream 'I'm a cat burglar! Doesn't that count for something?'
She'd already done the rope climbing and running gauntlet stations. It didn't leave much else she was good at. But this was necessary. So she forced herself to move towards the edible bugs station, no matter how disgusting it sounded. Who knew? Maybe it would make the difference between life and death in the arena. Or should she go to the knot-tying station? She could learn how to catch some food. How many tributes had Paz watched on television starve to death in the Games?
It wasn't about to be her.
Death wasn't an option.
"You're g-going to come home, right?" Charles had sniffled at the Justice Building.
That day already felt so long ago. Rain had started to drizzle, pattering gently against the windows of the ornate room like gentle taps from invisible hands. For one day, the sky above District 8 was devoid of billowing smoke. The factories were mourning, though the Capitol called it a holiday for celebrating.
Paz stared down at her little brother's teary blue eyes. Their dad's eyes. She knelt down and took one of his small hands in hers. Charles was still too young to be in the reaping, and now Paz feared she'd never see him turn eleven. She tried to make him laugh. "Why are you so worried? What, you don't think I can win?"
Charles wiped at his blue eyes. "You... you're smart."
Paz tried to nod. She tried to sound as confident as she needed to. "I'll be the best, Charlie."
Micah had tried to fight his tears and put on a brave face. He gave her a determined look as he nodded. "I'll see you at the train station. When you win. Then you can come watch me win the summer tournament."
For years, Paz had been bored by Micah's baseball games. She'd sat at the squeaky bleachers at the edge of the dirt field where grass refused to grow. The chain-link fence bordering the field had people leaning on it during the various games throughout the year. Even Peacekeepers sometimes joined in. Some of the richer district kids could afford their own sports equipment. Micah used a chipped baseball bat he shared with five other kids, a worn hat shielding his eyes.
Standing there in the perfumed room in the Justice Building, Paz wanted nothing more than to be baking in the sun on the bleachers. She wouldn't complain anymore. She would never complain again if she could just get back home.
When her family had been shoved out of the room, Paz had almost wished - for the only time in her life - that she might have some friends to come visit her after. Harry, the man who ran the factory where she faked employment, came in and said a few words. Even his own terseness was a bit diluted with a sadness Paz hadn't expected. But no one from her school came. When Harry left, the door stayed shut until it was time to go to the Capitol.
Paz had stared out the window at her district, looking at her own reflection in the warped glass panes. She had stared so long she counted her faint freckles twice, scattered over the bridge of her nose like tiny buttons.
Then her breath fogged up the glass and hid her face.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Paz turned towards the knife-throwing station. One of the girls, Azzie from District 9, was laughing with the instructor.
When the man turned to show her a maneuver with the knife, Azzie's hand darted out to the table in front of her. She snatched up one of the smaller blades. Before the instructor could notice, Azzie slipped the blade into the hem of her sleeve, hidden from sight.
Laughter bubbled up inside Paz. It was so unexpected that she froze in the middle of the gymnasium.
This girl from 9 had just stolen from the Capitol - in here, of all places.
Nobody else had noticed, that was clear. But Paz had.
She floated over the station.
Azzie flashed her a bright smile. "Hi," she chirped.
"Hi." Paz gave a neutral nod back.
"Ever thrown knives before?" the instructor asked her. He displayed a fan of silver blades in his hand.
Paz shook her head. The instructor launched into an explanation of the types of knives, spin or no-spin throwing techniques, and some other things Paz had stopped paying attention to. When the instructor turned away again and started throwing knives in a demonstration, Paz looked up at Azzie.
"I saw that," she whispered.
Azzie laughed lightly. "What?"
"Don't worry," Paz said, "I'm not a Peacekeeper. But you might want to be more careful. Wouldn't want to cut your hand next time you take one."
For a moment, recognition flashed through Azzie's dark eyes. Then, like she knew she couldn't worm her way out of it, her jaw tightened. She looked away from Paz - but she didn't put the knife back either.
Paz smiled to herself for the first time since the parade.
Newt Littlesmith - 15 y.o. - D5
...
- Training Center Gymnasium -
Power struggled to make the sparks flare to life.
He had the dry grass like a nest in front of him at the station, forming the tinder. He was moving the spindle - made of a branch - between his hands, so much that his palms were hot, but it wasn't catching fire at all. He paused, sighing.
"It can take half an hour or more to finally start an ember," the woman at the fire-making station said kindly.
Power peered at the branch between his fingers. I don't want to spend all my time trying to make a flame that clearly isn't happening. He bit back the words. It felt a bit like a waste of his time. But, then again, in the arena he might have plenty of time. "Thanks," he finally said, offering a small smile to the instructor.
For the past forty-minutes after lunch, Power had been struggling to make some sense of survival. The weapons stations came more easily to him.
The gymnasium was alive with training again and all the tributes were making their way around.
What time was it now? Maybe three o'clock. Back home he'd be getting off from school, walking with Maddie to her afterschool activities. He'd encouraged her to get more involved with school, to stay after for tutoring or clubs, to spend as much time as she could away from their rundown house. Not that he'd said that last little part out loud. But he needed time when he knew she was being looked after so he could work, too. Life was busy for him back in District 5. Life was hard.
Here, in the Training Center, it felt like some ether. Some world so removed from home, he felt like he wasn't even in Panem anymore.
With his stomach full of food, Power couldn't imagine feeling this way back home, wondering if the next paycheck would cover the month's dinners. He'd gorged himself at today's lunch, and breakfast. Dinner the night before, too. With any luck, he'd gain some weight before the Games. He was used to hunger, and he wasn't too concerned for that part of the arena. But for now, he wanted to prepare.
During lunch, he'd felt a flash of guilt.
Maddie could be hungry at home, sitting on that stupid old couch, and here I am just eating whatever I want. He'd hesitated, wondering if he should keep eating the roasted ham, buttered bread, and chilled fruit.
But then he'd remembered.
I'm here so that she never has to feel hungry again.
The idea of arriving home at the Victor's Village made his appetite come back. For the rest of lunch, Power daydreamed the same thoughts that had kept him going the past years as he worked odd job after grueling job in his free time - free time that should've been devoted to meeting up with his friends, not keeping his mother and sister alive.
He daydreamed of the gleaming hall of the Victor's Village manors, and of their crystal chandeliers. He thought of Maddie running through the wide halls, of her laughter bouncing through the light-filled rooms, of her footsteps thrumming through the building like a heartbeat. He'd learn to cook meals there - good meals - in the kitchen that would never stop smelling like cake and baked potatoes, and a pantry that would never be empty. He thought of sleeping in a massive bed that practically lulled him to sleep, instead of the couch that left his neck aching.
He always left the fantasy imagining his mother having a real headstone. She would have the grave she deserved. One with her favorite flower always there, buttonbush decorating it so that no one would never forget her.
By the time Power pulled himself from his thoughts, he still hadn't made a fire.
"Maybe tomorrow," he finally said to the instructor. The boy from 12 had shown up for a tutorial. Power ran a hand through his wavy hair and turned, surveying the gymnasium for his next station.
He'd already spent some time at the sword and knife stations, but they were tempting.
How many days back in 5 had he spent training with scraps of metal and broken mechanical equipment? He couldn't count. It had been years. The same amount as his mother had been dead for, and he'd become an orphan at eleven. By the time his first reaping rolled around, Power was already trying to swordfight and jab a knife. Volunteering had always been in the back of his mind. He'd just finally made it a reality.
"I think I failed her test."
Power had laughed at Robin's admission. He was certain he'd gotten a good grade on the math test last period, but he wasn't about to rub it in her face. Math had always come more naturally to him. "I'm sure you did fine."
Robin had give him a grateful smile.
A tall boy ran up to them as they walked out of the school with the other students. "Caught you guys!" Watt said with a laugh. "Thought you could leave without me?"
"Never," Robin laughed. She glanced around. Newt could tell she was looking for the rest of their friends. "Where're the others?"
"Detention," Watt said a shrug. "Mr. Gauge caught them trying to cheat on the homework. But not me." He grinned at Power.
Power had felt his mouth go dry the way it always did when he was nervous. But he cocked his head and gave a smile he hoped was charming. "Your every teacher's favorite. They probably just feel bad giving you detention."
Watt winked and butterflies swarmed in Power's stomach. "And that means I get to hang out with you two today."
The smile that lit up Power's face faded. "I... I can't. I have to train."
"Train?" Robin had arched a red eyebrow. "You're still on this whole volunteer thing?"
Power had nodded. "Summer's coming up. I need to put in as much time as I can." It was hard to look at Watt. Power wasn't sure if he was glad his friend was disappointed, or sorry he was letting him down. "I'll see you tomorrow in class, though."
He'd almost regretted it when he watched them walking away. A warm spring breeze blew around, tossing Watt's curls.
The boy turned back for just a moment, and lifted a hand to wave to Power.
Power had bit his lip, waving back, and forced himself to not chase after them. He could already imagine his friends hanging out at someone's house, playing board games and laughing as night fell. How many evenings with his friends had he missed out on?
For just a moment, he wondered if it was worth it.
Then Maddie appeared at the school steps with her friends, giggling. She said bye to them and grinned as she ran to Power.
When she hugged him, Power remembered.
It was worth it.
Across the gymnasium, in front of the section of raised stands that the purple-robed Gamemakers stood in, Power recognized a familiar face.
Liz was at the wrestling station, grappling with the instructor. And doing well.
Power sighed, considering his options.
His district partner was a bit more closed off than he had expected. Liz was polite, but it was pretty clear that she didn't trust him. Then again, why should she? They were the same age, but they hardly knew each other.
Still.
They were both from home, so Power had expected a bit of district comradery.
Before he fully made up his mind, his legs moved.
Liz had just finished pinning down the instructor when Power got to the matt. "You're really good," he said, giving his best smile. "Do you wrestle back in school?"
Looking half-surprised to have an audience, Liz glanced up. She didn't return his smile. "No. Just for fun with my boyfriend."
"Oh." Power grappled for something else to say as she stood up and helped the instructor stand. Liz was just as tall as him, but even more muscular. She clearly always had enough to eat back in 5. Power knew he was on the lanky side, but years of malnutrition didn't exactly work in his favor. "I would've thought you did sports at home."
"I did basketball," Liz said, with an edge to her voice that sounded as competitive as the quick gleam in her eyes. She hesitated. "I do play basketball."
Power couldn't help the prickle of sadness. He would've loved to have grown up doing something like that. He wanted something like that for his sister. "It's impressive," he finally said.
"I saw you over at the sword station before lunch." Liz stepped off the mat and tightened her blonde ponytail. "You seemed to know what you were doing."
There was a question there, unsaid behind her words. Power knew it wasn't something she would ask out loud in front of the instructors, but maybe not even if it was just them talking in their apartment: You've trained for the Games. So why are you volunteering?
He didn't know if she would understand. Liz had her name plucked from a bowl of dozens upon dozens of thousands. She was the unluckiest girl in the district. But she hadn't grown up that way, obviously. Could she understand how, after years of fighting to survive, he was willing to throw himself into the arena by choice if it meant he could survive on his own terms?
By the way she stood slightly turned away from him, blue eyes narrowed scrutinizingly, he didn't think she would.
Liz glanced at something across the gymnasium.
Power followed her stare to the tributes who had lunched together, the ones who stood now at the station decorated in maces. The boy from 2 was swinging one at a dummy, taking its head off in one swoop. Power watched as the decapitated, faceless head rolled into a shadowed corner where the fluorescent lights didn't reach. But Liz wasn't watching him. She was looking at the two boys from 1 and 4, who were staring right back at both of them.
No. Not both of them. After a moment, Power realized who they were watching. It wasn't him. It was Liz.
The first thing Power felt was jealousy. He wasn't sure why. Sure, he had volunteered, but he was nothing like the Career Pack. He wanted allies, of course, but not the ones from those districts, not the bloodthirsty ones. He didn't want to go after the other kids, hunting them down one by one. So why was he jealous that they seemed more impressed by Liz?
"I think you have some admirers," Power finally said, and gave a smile.
When he walked away, he didn't look back.
Mustang Lane - 18 y.o. - D6
...
- Training Center Gymnasium -
Mustang cleaned under her fingernails with an ax blade.
What time was it? 4 o'clock now? She wished the room at least had a damn clock.
If there was any kind of joke in the Hunger Games, it was this whole bullshit training period. Only three days to learn how to survive. Weapons, hunting, fire-making, obstacle courses. Mustang knew it didn't really matter. Not when the volunteers had years of this kind of training, at least. What was the point in exhausting herself going around to the different stations if they were just going to drift around showing off?
"Are you going to throw that?" the instructor asked.
Mustang lifted her eyes from the glinting ax blade. "No."
The instructor sighed, giving up.
Sure, Mustang had to be in the gymnasium. But nobody said she had to be constantly training. There wasn't a thing they could do if she just wanted to sit in the corner and wait out the hours until dinner.
Well. Obviously the Gamemakers would have noticed her not doing much so far. And that meant a low training score, and that meant less sponsors, and that meant less gifts in the arena, blah, blah, blah. That was fine by her. Let the Capitol bastards keep their money and give it to the rich volunteers, just like they always did. She would survive on her own. She didn't need any of them.
"I don't need anyone but you guys," Mustang had said to Roaden and Hina one summer after forming the Lost Souls. They already had a few members join in with them, hanging out at warehouses to smoke and play music and whatever else they felt like doing.
"And what would we do without you as our fearless leader?" Hina had said back with a smile. She held a paper in her hand, making a list of things for the gang to do. Mustang could just make out some of the scribbled words: rooftop tag, tire bowling, get more whiskey...
Mustang had smiled back at her two best friends. "At least someone appreciates me."
She hadn't remembered the last time her mother or father looked proud of her. Their faces didn't shine like Hina's or Roaden's when Mustang came home. They just gazed at their eldest child with an exhaustion that was different from the kind brought on by years of factory work. It had stung at first. Mustang wanted those moments back, the ones of an innocent childhood. She wanted days at the market with her mother, shopping for groceries, and she wanted to feel the laughter she used to when her father would pick her up and spin in dizzying circles.
"You need to stop involving him," her mother had said one day when Mustang woke up. She had just wandered into the kitchen, eyes still bleary with sleep, mouth dry. It was back when she was still going to school - not that her grades reflected that, though.
"What?" Mustang mumbled. She reached into the cupboard for a bowl.
"Ford," Anya Lane hissed. Her eyes flashed with irritation. "He came back last night with a scrape on his knee. Said you took him out yesterday after class to throw dye on some of the city signs."
Mustang snorted. She dropped a spoon in her bowl loudly. Her little brother had been excited to tag along with Mustang and her friends, to run with the big kids. Mustang had been happy to see him happy. "It was fine, Mom. Nobody saw us. They were old signs, some poster for Snow's election anniversary. No one cared. Ford tripped and fell, but that was it. It was just a little bit of fun-"
"Fun? That's what you call risking breaking the law? Dragging your little brother into it?"
"He asked me to-"
"So you said yes? To taking a ten year old along with those low-lives you call friends?"
Mustang spun on her mother. "Don't call them that."
Her mother's voice grew quiet, and for a moment Mustang saw desperation and sadness in her eyes. "I don't want you to end up like them, Mustang."
"Well I don't want to end up like you," Mustang snapped. She saw her mother flinch, and she tried to ignore the guilt that needled at her. "I'd rather enjoy my life than waste it working it for a future I'll never enjoy. I don't want to spend my life slaving away for the Capitol." She took her bowl of cereal out of the kitchen, heading towards her bedroom.
A twelve-year-old girl appeared from around the corner. "You upset Mom."
"Stop eavesdropping, Vespa," Mustang said.
Vespa leaned against the wall as Mustang passed. "She's right, you know."
"No," Mustang responded, "she's not." She slammed their bedroom door like a punctuation mark stabbed at the end of her sentence.
Her family couldn't understand. They were all the same, the type that kept their heads down in the hopes that the Capitol wouldn't strike them first. They were afraid to live. But Mustang wasn't. She was happy at least her little brother was able to see things her way.
"Mind if I join?"
Mustang glanced up. She hadn't realized she was zoning out, running a finger along the sharp edge of the ax. "Huh? Oh. Yeah, go ahead."
It was the boy from District 9, the tall one with honey-colored hair. He smiled at Mustang with a kindness that seemed genuine, the type that touched his dark blue eyes, and his voice was gentle. "How's the station so far? Have you ever thrown axes before?"
For a moment, Mustang stood there, silenced by surprise.
So far, her experience speaking with other tributes was talking with Trip. He'd turned out to be a massive disappointment. She could see him now, getting a spear-throwing lesson. She had expected him to be more... more. The whole running-a-fight-ring in District 6 had made him seem interesting, but in the end he turned out to be as spineless as her parents.
To have this random stranger - this boy from 9 whose name she couldn't even remember - speak to her so nicely, it threw Mustang off. Weren't they all supposed to be at each other's throats? Then again. The idea of actually befriending another tribute seemed like the antithesis of what the Gamemakers wanted. Suddenly, Mustang wanted nothing more than to talk to this new face.
"I haven't thrown them before," Mustang said with a shrug. She held up the ax in her hands. "You?"
He shook his head, looking a little shy. "Just gardening stuff back home during harvest."
"Right," Mustang hummed. She glanced at his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He definitely looked like he did manual labor. "District Nine does grain, right? What's your name?"
"Royal. Royal Kariki."
"I'm Mustang." She turned to the instructor. "Can we have a lesson?"
The man peered back at her in shock, raising his eyebrows at her change of tune. "Of course." He picked up one of the lighter axes and began explaining the parts of the weapon, naming them, and demonstrating the form to throw one at the human-shaped dummies on the floor.
Royal took a shaky first try. The ax managed to hit the dummy, but handle-first. He gave Mustang a sheepish smile. "It's tough to get the hang of."
"You'll get it," she said with a firm nod. She managed a smile back.
They practiced throwing the axes, one after the other, and adjusted based on the instructor's form. For the first time that day - aside from lunch, naturally - Mustang found herself enjoying it. Actually having fun. Why hadn't her and the Lost Souls ever done some kind of weapon throwing with the old tools back in 6?
She watched Royal as he took his turns. He was strong, and as he got confident, the axes slammed blade-first into the dummies more and more, hard enough to almost knock them back. Mustang chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. He wouldn't be bad to have around in the arena.
The thought made her pause.
She hadn't really considered allies yet. She hadn't thought she'd speak to anybody, really.
It wasn't that she was opposed to having an ally. It sounded like a good idea to have someone around in the arena to talk to, someone to keep her sane. Loneliness wasn't something Mustang was fond of. She wouldn't want anyone in the arena with her who wasn't from an outer district, too. Nobody from 5 or even 3. But someone from 9... that was someone Mustang could see herself with.
"Nice job," she said as Royal landed three axes in a row for the first time.
"It's not as hard it seemed," he said. "I just pretend the dummies are my old harvest boss. Makes for good motivation."
Mustang laughed - a real laugh. "Maybe I should picture the teacher I used to have who loved assigning me random detentions."
"Were you a troublemaker?"
"I'm a free thinker. Some people just aren't as imaginative."
"My girlfriend is like that, always busy thinking and imagining," Royal said. He looked a tad sad, as if mentioning his girlfriend had reminded him of where he was.
If Mustang was dating someone, she would probably be upset too. Dating was one thing she never considered fun enough to do. She had forgotten that some people in the gymnasium were in relationships, torn away from yet another person they loved. It just made her hate the Capitol more.
She tested two of the axes, comparing their weight. "How long have you two been together?"
"A couple years. But we've been friends since we were eleven." He nodded at her neck. "Is that your token?"
"Hm?" Mustang looked at him in confusion before glancing down. Her silver locket was out, gleaming under the gymnasium lights. She immediately slipped it back under her shirt, suddenly self-conscious. She hadn't realized it had come out. "It's nothing."
"Oh." Royal smiled apologetically, seemingly sensing he'd hit a nerve. "Sorry."
Mustang moved back towards the table of axes. If I want him as an ally, I can't ice him out already.
"It's fine," she finally said. "You're right, it's my token. My grandmother gave it to me when I was little. She passed away a month or so later." She paused before continuing. "I was really close to her, and I'm not so close with my parents now. So it's special to me."
She expected him to seem disinterested, or to awkwardly change the topic, but instead he nodded, seemingly enraptured.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Royal said. "One of my friends has a difficult relationship with his parents. It's nice you got to spend some time with your grandmother. Having heirlooms passed down seems really special."
If she had any hesitation before, it was gone now. And Mustang made it a habit of trusting her gut instinct. She wanted Royal for an ally. For a moment, she wondered how to approach the subject. Did she have to ask someone first? Get her mentor's permission? Well, fuck that. Should she talk to Royal more, though, and introduce it slowly, to not scare him off?
She picked up an ax as she thought. When she threw it, just like the instructor taught with her elbow away from her body and up high, the ax embedded itself in the chest of the nearest dummy. Her fingers tingled with the kind of power that she felt when she was with the Lost Souls.
Screw the hesitating.
"Royal," she said, turning to him. "Would you want an ally in the Games?"
"An ally?" he asked.
For just a moment, she thought he was about to reject the invitation. She was surprised to realize she hoped he wouldn't.
"You mean me? As an ally?" Royal seemed just as surprised.
Mustang smiled. "Of course."
When he smiled back, she wished she could tell Roaden and Hina.
"Then... allies." Royal held out his hand.
Mustang shook it firmly. For now, just the two of them could be the new Lost Souls.
Kyrie Dirge - 15 y.o. - D3
...
- Training Center Floor 3 -
Kyrie occupied his thoughts with magnet wires and inductors.
Every now and then, he would peek up from the roast duck to see his mentors or escort murmur something. Hanna, who sat at the other end of the table, never looked up from her food. His mind turned back to wires - tinsel wire this time, better for carrying low currents. Picturing them occupied him, kept him from worrying about tomorrow, and he missed the feeling of the waxy insulating layers of a wire in his hands. He missed the feeling of figuring out a technological puzzle that always had an answer.
He didn't have an answer for how to talk to this table of near strangers.
"So," Cordaye, the escort, mercifully piped up. She dabbed at her lavender lipstick with a silk napkin. "Now that we've all had a chance to fill up, why don't we discuss training today."
Kyrie could tell it wasn't a question.
He glanced over at Hanna, hoping she might talk first. Predictably, she was suddenly very preoccupied with some invisible thread on her shirt. Her light-blonde curls hid her face.
"What stations did you do?" Edison Thales, Hanna's mentor, asked. From his hopeful expression, it was pretty clear he was aware of the challenge ahead. District 3 had a reputation for being reticent people, and Kyrie hadn't really believed it before. But sitting at the table pretty much confirmed it.
Kyrie sighed inwardly. If Hanna wasn't going to speak, he'd have to. "Umm... I did the edible plants one. And fire-making. I tried climbing."
Edison nodded encouragingly. "That's excellent, Kyrie. The edible plants station is important, try to go again tomorrow. Hanna? What about you?"
She peered between him and Beetee Latier uncomfortably. Finally, "camouflage. And snares." She paused. "Is Tigris going to be at dinner? I mean, are both stylists going to be?"
"They'll join us for dinner the night after your interviews," Cordaye answered with a smile that revealed canine teeth set with rubies.
Hanna looked back down at the table in clear disappointment.
"Why don't we talk about some of the other tributes?" Edison started. "Did either of you talk to-"
"No offense," Hanna cut in, "but shouldn't we be talking separately about this? Kyrie and I aren't training together."
Embarrassment ran across Kyrie's skin in a hot prickle. He could already feel his face turning red.
It hadn't really been his idea to not train together. But Hanna had made it pretty clear last night when their mentors asked. It didn't take a genius to figure out Edison had been hoping they'd get along. Neither one of them was physically strong with no desire to learn weapons, and Kyrie knew it. Sticking together probably gave them a better chance of surviving in the arena. Hanna had made it obvious that she didn't want anything to do with Kyrie, though.
Edison glanced at Beetee. "Oh. Well..."
"She's right," Kyrie said, trying to keep his voice even. "Can we talk alone?"
After a moment of tense silence, Beetee finally stood up. "Of course. Kyrie, why don't you follow me into the lounge? Hanna, you and Edison can stay here with Cordaye."
Kyrie stood up from his empty plate. Any thought of dessert was gone. Now he just felt sick.
Beetee led him into the plush lounge with its large television, the one they'd watched a replay of the parade on yesterday. Beetee sat down on the crescent-shaped couch. Kyrie followed suit, and watched how his mentor fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of nose, like he wasn't used to being alone with a tribute.
Kyrie nearly blurted out that the whole thing was strange for him too.
"Well then. I suppose we should discuss how you felt about the first day," Beetee began. He blinked at Kyrie expectantly.
There were a dozen ways Kyrie could answer. What should he say? What would be the best thing to say? He could tell his mentor that he'd been too afraid to try the ropes course. He could say that he'd spent a lot of time studying the sub-millimeter light-emitting diodes used in the various digital screens at the gymnasium. He could talk about how he'd watched the volunteers laughing as if they'd been friends forever, chucking weapons around the gym. Or he could even talk about how Hanna had avoided him like the plague.
Maybe he could even tell Beetee that he'd stared at the Gamemakers when they'd first arrived in their purple robes. That he'd wondered for a brief moment if they had hand-selected his name for the reaping. That he was here as a punishment.
"It was okay," Kyrie finally said.
Beetee watched him for a moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate. When Kyrie didn't, and the silence grew too suffocating, Beetee fidgeted. "Are... well... have you considered forming an alliance with any of the other tributes?"
Kyrie had thought about it. Everything in the fear-oriented part of his brain told him that the kids in the gymnasium - the other tributes - weren't his friends. But foresight was more important than his emotions. Having someone to be on a team with would be the strategic move. Problem was, he didn't even know where to start. It wasn't like he had a set group to be with like the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 did, and any chance of being allied with his district partner was squashed by Hanna.
"I think it sounds nice," Kyrie finally said. "If they're like-minded people. Someone I could trust."
Beetee nodded encouragingly. "That's good."
They sat in silence again.
A memory surfaced, back nearly three years ago. Beetee had just won the Games and was featured in his first Capitol interview with Caesar Flickerman. District Three had been in an uproar from the moment his victory was announced. In all forty-two years of the Hunger Games, District 3 had managed to bring home just three victors: Edison Thales, in the 16th; Electra Onduit, in the 25th; and now Beetee Latier, in the 39th. Electra had died sometime around when Kyrie was born, and that left just Edison. Until three years ago.
"He's a bit strange, don't you think?" Vinyl said as they watched the interview.
"I think he's brilliant," Lyra replied.
"He won," Kyrie sighed. He had glanced at the clock above his small television out of the habit - not that it mattered. His father probably wouldn't even come home from the office tonight with all the broadcasts needing monitoring. He felt silly for hoping. Kyrie looked back at the screen and the nervous face of the boy who had just come out of the arena. "He won the Games. That's all that matters."
Beetee meant new blood. He was the symbol of hope that finally meant that, after so many long years, not every child reaped from 3 was destined to die in the arena. Or, at least that's what people said. It didn't change the fact that the kids who got picked the next year never made it back home.
Now it struck Kyrie, sitting across from this legendary man - who, honestly, was still just a teenage boy - that his mentor had absolutely no clue what he was doing. Beetee hadn't asked to be anyone's beacon of hope. He had just wanted to survive - just like Kyrie.
"Mr. Latier," Kyrie began carefully, "you... you're still getting used to this too. Aren't you?"
For a moment, Kyrie thought he saw Beetee's eyes flicker with the same fear they had when he first went into the arena. Back before he had the victor's crown. Ice dropped down Kyrie's spine. It was like seeing the inside of a screen for just a second, a glimpse of the wires and boards behind the pretty images. Something no viewer was meant to see.
"I want to support you the best that I can, in the highest capacity I can," Beetee said. He peered at his brown, shiny Capitol shoes, then back up. "I have to apologize. It's still somewhat new to me. But I intend to help you, Kyrie."
Kyrie knew his mentor meant it. He just wasn't sure yet if he'd be able to.
They talked for a bit longer about tomorrow during training, and Beetee suggested Kyrie speak to some of the other tributes. When they said goodnight, the fatigue of the day hit Kyrie hard. His shoulders slumped in the way that his father's did after long periods of work, and all he wanted was to crawl in bed. He was thankful for his decision to change into pajamas after training.
As he rounded the corner to his room, he nearly ran into Hanna.
"Oh-" Kyrie stumbled to the side. "Sorry, didn't see you."
"Clearly," Hanna mumbled. She went to walk back towards the dining room.
Kyrie couldn't help blurting, "did I do something? To bother you, I mean?"
Hanna gave him a confused look. "Huh?"
"Umm... I mean... I know I made us a bit late to training this morning, and I'm sorry. But I just feel like I might've done something to upset you... or..." he trailed off, feeling stupid. He shouldn't have brought it up. "Never mind. Goodnight." He turned on his heel and moved to go to his bedroom.
"Hey," Hanna called.
Kyrie glanced back over his shoulder.
Hanna's face had melted just the slightest bit from its usual cold indifference to something almost apologetic. For the first time tonight, Kyrie noticed the paintbrush in her hand that she had on the train. She hadn't been allowed to take it down to training this morning, of course. Now it was back in her fist.
"I'm not mad at you," Hanna finally said. "I'm trying to figure this all out too."
It wasn't an apology, or much of an explanation, but Kyrie understood. He understood what she meant just like he understood Beetee. When Hanna walked away, Kyrie headed in the opposite direction and closed his room door so softly he almost didn't hear the lock click. Alone, he stared out the wall-sized window at the sparking lights of the Capitol - at all the lights and screens that his district designed. It was ironic.
District 3 didn't look at all like this. But they had practically created it all.
The Capitol had felt immense and threatening when Kyrie first arrived on the train. Now, all he could see were the fingerprints of home, touched by the minds of people back in 3. Even his father might have had to work on the connections to some of the feeds he was seeing.
Kyrie breathed out deeply. He took his time to crawl into bed, nestling down and bringing the thick covers up to his chin. When he lifted his eyes and met the silver circle in the ceiling, he wasn't nervous this time. At first, last night, he'd had trouble sleeping under a camera. It made his skin crawl to know that someone here in the Capitol was monitoring his every movement.
Now he just stared at the camera and pretended he was staring into the eyes of some attendant somewhere in the city.
Maybe they already knew his face from before. Maybe there was a report written about Kyrie in the Capitol, about what he and his friends had done. But that was tomorrow's problem now. He'd had enough for one day.
Kyrie turned off his lamp and watched the camera disappear into the darkness.
Hi! So I know I haven't updated since March - and that makes 2 months. I'm so sorry for the lack of updates. I got a new job, then I had Covid, so it's all been a little bit busy lately. But I'm still working on this story. I want to write quality chapters for you guys and I hope my writing reflects that.
Anywhooo, this finishes up the first day of training! *confetti* The next two chapters will be Day 2 of training, and it'll follow a similar format.
I hope you all enjoyed! Please drop me a review telling me what you did like/did not like/want to see/anything else. Especially if your tribute was featured in this chapter - let me know how I portrayed them. :)
Thank you bunches to Annabeth777 for reviewing the last chapter!
I should be updating sooner next time, hopefully by early June. Happy nearly-summer everyone!
~ Meghan