And this is the last chapter of the training arc!
I hope you like it.
~ Meghan
the Tipped Scales.
...
"Without training, they lacked knowledge.
Without knowledge, they lacked confidence.
Without confidence, they lacked victory."
- Julius Caesar, 100 BC - 44 BC, Roman Republic
Darrius Morningstar - 13 y.o. - D8
...
- Training Center Floor 8 -
The apartment was empty when the elevator doors slid open.
Darrius had expected for their mentors to be there, at least. Pazley was in her private training session now.
Over in the dining area, the table was frustratingly empty, which just made Darrius' temper flare. He'd just finished lunch a few hours ago but after waiting so long for his training sessions, well, he was hungry again. And where was the feast to congratulate finishing his training? It was the Capitol, weren't they always feasting?
The only movement in the apartment came from the Avoxes. They were dusting off the furniture - not that it had any dust anyways - and polishing the tables. The Avoxes made him uneasy. Their escort had said they were criminals, punished with lifelong servitude and silence, but Darrius knew his older sister would've felt bad for them. Euphemia would've looked at them with big eyes and murmured said sympathetic.
One of the them, a thin man with scars on his face, turned to Darrius as the elevator doors closed behind him.
Darrius quickly turned away and hurried down the hall to his room.
He was a bit sweaty from the day's training, but was already too tired to shower off. Instead he changed out of his leggings and tunic and into a pair of soft, green lounging clothing. They were the smoothest cotton, the kind that was reserved for Capitol clothing, not the ones that were quickly sewn for the district's clothing.
If Darrius closed his eyes, he could see the gray factories billowing out white clouds from their smokestacks. The trucks that arrived with the bags full of cotton made him think of snow. Sometimes, he'd dream of jumping into piles of it, of sleeping in it. Rubbing his face against his fancy Capitol shirt was the closest he could get to that. Did Euphemia work in the factory that had made these clothes? Maybe she'd been the one spinning the loom that had threaded all the fabric together.
With a start, Darrius went to the pile of his training clothes and fishes around in the pockets. He pulled out his silver ring.
Carefully, he fitted it onto a finger, thankful it hadn't been lost in the gymnasium. The metal was still cool and comforting, even if it still looked wrong on his own hand and not on Euphemia's.
Thinking of his sister made his homesickness pang in his ribcage. Darrius had never actually asked Euphemia which sector of the factory she worked in. Now he sort of wished he had.
He crawled onto his bed and curled up under the heavy velvet sheets.
From here, he had a clear view outside of his windows. The sun was sliding towards the horizon, shining between the colorful buildings.
Darrius didn't remember falling asleep, but it was dark when he woke up to a knocking on the door.
"Time for dinner," the escort's voice chirruped.
Rubbing his eyes, Darrius sat up. A thrill at the idea of a lavish dinner warred with the grogginess making him want to lie back down. The moon glimmered out the windows like it was watching him, painting the room like silver silk.
Darrius pulled himself out of bed and stretched until he was able to blink away the last dregs of sleep. In the hallway, laughter floated down along with the smell of roasted meat and some kind of floral scent. Mouth watering, Darrius walked into the dining room.
"There you are," Spinner said sweetly, brown eyes warm. She motioned to the empty seat across from her. "You should try the violet rice, it's wonderful."
Sitting around Spinner at the table was everyone else. Darrius was the last to arrive, except he didn't mind since there was still plenty of food left on the sideboard. The stylists who had prepared their costumes for the parade were there too, though he couldn't remember their names, but they were nice enough. Darrius liked Spinner the best though, even more than his own mentor - even though Darrius really did like Woof, too - because of how much she reminded him of his sister.
Woof was somewhat of a wonder in District 8. He was their first victor, and had been present in everyone's life growing up in one or another. The old guy was always at the markets, always chatting with everyone, the kind to spin yarn both metaphorically and literally.
Like everyone else in 8, Darrius always had admired Woof. The man was getting gray hairs now and his eyesight was fading, not helped from a head injury during his time in the Games, but Darrius liked the idea of getting old. It seemed nice to be able to lounge around. It seemed nice to be able to rest as much as you wanted to.
Once he'd filled up his plate with roasted chicken, purple rice, and rolls dripping in butter, Darrius joined the table.
"I was just talking about how stuffed the streets were today," Laurel, their escort, said grandly. "It was practically impossibly to get to the millinery!"
Darrius chewed the violet rice, which was actually pretty good, and didn't bother to ask what a millinery was.
Adjacent to him, Pazley sipped a glass of punch and eyed the bright blue hat that Laurel patted. It shone with rhinestones. Or maybe they were real gems?
"The heat wave today certainly didn't discourage the crowds," Darrius' stylist said.
"Tomorrow's supposed to be even hotter," Laurel sighed. She looked at her reflection in a spoon.
"That's good news, then, that we'll be inside," Spinner said. "That's when we'll practice for the interviews."
Woof cleared his throat. "That can wait until tomorrow, though. Now. Let's hear about the private sessions."
Nobody spoke at first. Darrius chewed the roll in his hand slower, feeling like he was in class and hoping not to get called on.
"Pazley, what about you?" Spinner said in that kind I'm-trying-to-sound-casual tone adults sometimes used.
"It went okay," Pazley neutrally.
They all waited for her to go on. Of course she didn't.
"What skills did you focus on?" Spinner went on. Silence followed.
Finally, Pazley shrugged. "I did some agility stuff."
After realizing there wasn't going to be any more detail, Spinner nodded. She turned to Darrius.
So far Pazley hadn't asked for them to be trained separately. Spinner and Woof hadn't asked outright, and Darrius figured they just thought it was better for the two of them to work together. With what Pazley had said on the train, Darrius didn't see that happening.
At first he'd thought that maybe Pazley was changing her mind. Maybe she'd want to ally together. But then she'd kept being her usual odd, cold self. Darrius had realized that she probably just didn't see him as a threat. Well, two could play at that, and he didn't see her as a threat either.
"I-" he started. He took another bite of a roll to give himself space to think.
He couldn't just say that he'd played hide-and-seek for the session.
Woof had tried to work with him about what he should do for the Gamemakers. Spinner had given suggestions.
After searching for a particular strength during training that'd liked, he couldn't pick one that stood out. He wasn't about to eat bugs, he got tangled in the net, and he couldn't tell the difference among the poisonous plants. Darrius hadn't even tried to go towards the weapons, not with the big kids crowded around them.
But he hadn't been worried as he'd gone into his private session. It was just like in school, when he didn't prepare a presentation. He was able to wing it. And then when he was standing before the Gamemakers, thinking about how goofy they looked with all their robes and colorful tattoos, Darrius had his lightbulb moment. He and Cress used to play hide-and-seek sometimes, before she said they were too old for it now, but what else could be better for this?
"I did some stealth work," Darrius said after swallowing his roll. "Escaping from other tributes and being able to hide out."
"That's good," Spinner said brightly.
Woof nodded. "That's resourceful. If there's an arena with plenty of foliage or boulders, that can be a good strategy."
"What if there aren't boulders and foliage?" Paz deadpanned.
"Then you improvise and do your camouflage there," Spinner filled in quickly.
"But what about when we're in the open?" Paz continued. "Like, at a feast or something."
Woof hummed. "Well, a feast isn't usually about staying hidden. You need to be out in the open, if the resources are worth it, and be quick enough that the risk is worth it."
Paz turned to look at Darrius, her dark eyes like a vat of fabric dye. For a second, he thought she was gloating: her skill was better for a feast, and not his. But there wasn't a smile on her face - was there ever? Besides. Feasts happened sometimes, not all the time, so his skill was better.
"But when sponsors give us something we need, then we don't need to go to the feast," Darrius said. "Right?"
"If sponsors give you something you need," Woof said.
"Which is why impressions are so important," their escort piped up. Laurel patted at her new violet bob.
Spinner nodded. "But you've already got the first part of that down thanks to your stylists and prep teams. You both were among the favorites at the parade."
"Really?" Darrius said, perking up.
The costumes had felt so ridiculous at the time. He felt like Cress might laugh about it, if it was something he'd worn at home. Still, it had been incredible to be in front of a chanting crowd, and it was as if he'd heard the crowd all cheering his name. Dar-ri-us! Da-ri-us! Dar-ri-us!
Come to think of it, that was the only time he'd seen Pazley smile. Where she'd managed to get that air-kiss, laughing attitude from, he couldn't tell.
"The ribbons flowing behind you both? The rainbow smocks? The shimmer?" Laurel kissed her fingers. "Mwah! It set the stage perfectly."
"Sponsor scores are one of the components of sponsors," Woof said and took a sip of his sparkling juice drink.
Spinner smiled. "And the interviews are the other part. They're the time when the audience really gets to know you. A memorable interview can change a tribute's impression when the parade doesn't go well, or maybe the scores - but they're going to go well."
"Speaking of which," Laurel said primly, "we should start heading over. Tonight's show starts in ten minutes on the dot!"
Darrius cast a longing look at the dinner. "Do we not get dessert today?"
"We'll have it while we watch," Spinner said. "You can have whatever you'd like."
Perking up, Darrius followed them all to the viewing room where they'd watched the parade.
Outside, the Capitol had fallen into night, stars hidden behind the glare of the city. But inside the viewing room, the television on one wall glowed with the Panem seal.
They all settled on the couch, big enough to fit ten people. Their stylists arrived and sat down to chat with Laurel and their mentors. Darrius couldn't help but feel like a mannequin around them. They'd barely spoken to him so far, like all he was good for was showing off their designs, and Darrius couldn't help but feel smug that his district was the one who made the cloth they used.
The Avoxes brought platters of desserts in and piled them on the round table before them. Darrius distracted himself by sampling one of everything: berries covered in fluffy sugar, a cake stuffed with cream, hard candies that fizzed and went between sour and sweet.
"Want one?" he said, noticing Pazley's gaze caught on the cakes. "They're good."
She turned away, staring at the seal as they waited for the show to start.
Darrius blinked, glancing between her and the cake. He almost took it for himself.
He slid the piece of cake towards her and took several of the candies instead. For once, Darrius was careful to drop any on the couch.
The cushions were covered in soft, purple velvet.
Maybe his sister had woven it before sending it off to District 1. Maybe not. But, whoever they were, they from home.
Hanna Techroe - 14 y.o. - D3
...
- Training Center Floor 3 -
The smell of the savory dinner lingered and mixed with perfume.
Hanna tried to ignore the wave of nausea that passed over her. The Capitol food was too rich, too different.
Still. She knew she needed to eat as much as possible. Hunger was always a factor in the arenas; as much as she didn't want to consider the type of arena they'd be in, it was inevitable. In a few days, she would be thinking back on the Capitol banquets and miss them.
After a dessert of cream, hot caramel syrup, and berries rolled in glittering crystal, they'd all made their way to the lounge room.
Hanna had spent half an hour before dinner with her mentor, Edison Thales, discussing her private session. Speaking to him was like eating dinner: something she didn't want to do, but a necessity if she was to prepared - as much as possible - for the Games. It still didn't pass her attention that Beetee Latier was only one of two tributes that Edison had ever managed to bring home. District 3 wasn't exactly spoiled for choice. But he was better than nothing.
He'd been the one to suggest camouflage for one of her skills.
"Is that brush yours? Or a loved one's?" Edison had said, fiddling with his glasses, and eyeing the paintbrush in her hand.
Hanna had shrugged. "Mine. I like painting. And drawing"
Edison had regarded her carefully, analytically, and then had left the sitting room. He'd returned with a pad of paper and some pencils. "Draw something."
He didn't say it like a challenge. If he had, she probably would've refused. But instead, it always almost curious, like there was a puzzle before him. And Hanna couldn't resist the pencils for long. She'd never seen such a range of rainbow hues except in the most expensive shops. These pencils weren't like the gritty, diluted she used back home. They were perfection.
As she'd bent over the paper, hand moving, everything had fallen away. Edison wasn't there. The Training Center wasn't there. The whole Capitol wasn't there. The pencils moved like they'd had a mind of their own, and all the emotion she'd been holding inside poured out in polychrome, until he hand was awash with rubbed colors and her joints ached.
The picture was of a day like any other. It wasn't a specific memory, but rather a routine, something as easy as breathing.
The evening sun poured into Techna's bedroom in golds and oranges. The rugs glowed in a mismatched teal and purple more vibrant than reality. Techna was laughing, blonde hair framing her face. Engyn was grinning, warm brown eyes crinkled. And then there was Hanna between them, a smile on her face that she hadn't felt since before the reaping.
"It's lovely."
She'd looked up, having forgotten Edison.
He nodded at the drawing. "You're a talented artist."
Artist. The word sounded clunky and wrong being applied to her.
Hanna just liked to draw and paint. It didn't change her, and it had never been part of her identity. It was just something that stole her attention and provided an outlet. She was the one who changed the images, the colors - not the other way around.
Instead of responding, she'd just shifted on the plush couch, and set the paper aside.
"You said you've visited the camouflage station," Edison finally added.
Hanna shrugged again. "I've painted on my arm a bit."
"You should make that your skill during the private session."
Hanna wasn't sure if she was more surprised by the suggestion, or by the certainty in Edison's voice.
The private sessions were meant to show off their best skills. It was meant to be the time when tributes showed how much they'd learning in training, how well they could survive in the arena. Sure, there were ways to manipulate it to appear weaker or hide certain skills even from the Gamemakers, but camouflage had never been part of Hanna's consideration for it. Knives, survival skills yes - but the camouflage station had just been a distraction to help her calm down in training.
"I don't think they'll be very impressed by me painting my arm like a tree," Hanna mumbled indignantly.
Edison raised his eyebrows. "They put the camouflage station in training, didn't they?"
Hanna didn't have a response to that.
"It's a good skill," Edison continued. "It might not be flashy like the weapons or hunting snares, but it's still useful."
Useful. Now there was a word that was familiar. Utility was prized above all else in District 3. Practicality was a virtue, and Hanna's drawings had never really been viewed as providing much usefulness beyond her own happiness. But now it was purposeful?
Once again, Edison didn't seem wavering.
Hanna had picked up her paintbrush again, feeling its uneven and rough bristles.
"I'll try it," she finally said, her eyes on the drawing of her and her friends, a memory caught on paper.
"You can keep the pencils by the way," Edison said. "And the drawing pad."
"I don't want them," Hanna said simply. A lie.
"We can just leave it here, then," Edison said, and Hanna was certain he saw through her lie. And she was grateful.
Even now, as Hanna sat down on the crescent-shaped couch of the viewing room, the paper crinkled in the pocket of her black cardigan.
It was the same cardigan she'd had at the reaping. She'd left her blouse and skirt on the train, forgetting to collect them the morning of their arrival, but she'd had the cardigan on. So now, every evening in her room, she pulled it on. Where the Capitol smelled like artficiality and overly-rich food, her cardigan still smelled like the worn carpet of home. She shoved it into a drawer every day during training to ensure the Avoxes wouldn't wash the smell away.
She wouldn't be able to take it into the arena, but that was a problem for then. Likewise, her drawing couldn't come with her. Edison didn't even know she had kept it. But it remained for now and that was enough.
Edison had let Hanna know that they'd talk after dinner about the training scores. They'd cover her strategy, her position among the group of tributes, how he'd spin her score for the sponsors. The idea of people who might want to bet on her was too immaterial to conceptualize.
Tigris sat down next to Hanna, a soft smiled on her face. "Did you enjoy dinner?"
Hanna nodded once, neutrally. But inside, she couldn't help being a bit glad for Tigris sitting nearby.
The woman was still a stylist - still Capitol - but had a calmness and self-assuredness about her that was comforting.
It was the opposite of Beetee. As he sat across the couch, he held a spool of copper wire in his hands, turning it over and over. Edison's fixation with touching his glasses was amplified in Beetee, who always seemed to be half-elsewhere and twitchy. And he was only a teenager still. Secretly, Hanna was glad she'd gotten the more experienced mentor.
Kyrie didn't seem to mind, though. He sat down next to Beetee, holding a plate of a few Capitol desserts. Their escort, Cordaye Bell, had called them treacle.
Briefly, Kyrie's eyes met Hanna's.
She almost looked away immediately.
Did I do something? To bother you, I mean?
I'm not mad at you. I'm trying to figure this all out too.
The words echoed in her thoughts and made her hold his gaze.
When Kyrie had asked her that on the first night of training it had taken Hanna off guard. She'd just basically told their mentors that she wanted to train separately, so it made sense he'd thought she was angry with him. But it still surprised Hanna at first - because she really didn't dislike Kyrie.
She was just being practical, like her parents had always wanted. They couldn't be friends because there was only one winner in the arena. It seemed cruel to get close to Kyrie when one of them would have to die in the end. Or, more likely, both of them. She could see herself allying with someone trustworthy, someone intelligent. Kyrie fit both of those things as far as she could tell. He was from home. And that was the problem.
He was the first to look away this time, to the screen that had just flickered on.
Edison and Kyrie's stylist quieted their conversation. Quiet settled over the room to make room for the flourish of the Panem anthem.
Caesar Flickerman appeared at a gleaming marble desk, a stack of notecards before him. His white hair sparkled almost as bright as his lightbulb-studded suit.
"Good evening, everyone, from the Capitol," he announced with a vibrant smile as unnaturally white as his makeup. Of course he would mention being in the Capitol, though everyone knew, because the districts would be watching this broadcast too.
Hanna's parents would be watching this. Techna and Engyn, too. She shuddered.
Tigris reached a striped hand over and squeezed Hanna's arm gently once, then gave her a nod.
Her stylist wasn't smiling, but her cattish eyes were warm all the same. Hanna almost wished Tigris would put her arm around her, just like her mother did when Hanna had nightmares about the fire, but she didn't. Tigris turned back to the screen and so did Hanna.
"As you know," Caesar began, "tributes are rated on a scale of one to twelve after three days of careful consideration. The Gamemakers would like to acknowledge that the skills tributes demonstrated are withheld, and the scores are representative of a consensus among the Gamemaker deliberated this evening."
A picture of the first tribute appeared beside Caesar.
It was the boy with sunset-red hair, his chiseled jaw set, his near-smile charming.
"From District One, Finnegan, with a score of ten."
That was no surprise. The tributes from trained districts always scored high.
The girl appeared, all thick blonde hair and turquoise eyes, like a fairytale princess who played with knives.
"From District One, Amethyst, with a score of nine."
Then the most muscular, pale boy, the glowering one with the scar just below his eye.
"From District Two, Garrick, with a score of ten."
Then the willowy girl, bangs swept above shining green eyes, just a year younger than Hanna.
"From District Two, Princess, with a score of eight."
Kyrie's photo appeared. For the first time, Hanna truly studied him.
He was so pale, his messy hair practically silver, eyes a soft teal. And his eyes - they always looked so tired. His features were so soft, so gentle, that she suddenly wanted to draw him. Kyrie looked like snow, but he didn't have the frigid coldness of Caesar's stark look.
The thought made a lump appear in Hanna's throat for some reason, a reason she inexplicably couldn't find, and she swallowed it down.
"From District Three, Kyrie, with a score of four."
It was the lowest score so far, and it felt particularly bad compared to the high ones so far. But that was just the way it was for 3. They were caught between the most trained, richest districts.
"It's a good score," Cordaye said, nodding at Kyrie, flashing her ruby-studded canines in a reassuring smile.
"Most tributes average a four or five," Beetee added. "With your entrance at the parade, it'll be a beneficial starting point for sponsors."
Kyrie looked sick for a moment, but then he blinked as it was as if Hanna could see the gears in his mind turning, and then he relaxed the slightest bit.
Hanna half wanted to ask him what it was that calmed him. He had his moments of paranoia, but otherwise was fairly placid throughout training. Maybe it was just the realization that nobody was looking at the tributes from 3 when the more interesting tributes were surrounding them. Maybe he realized that it was he was within standard deviation for their district, for any of the industrial districts, and anything beat a 1. Or maybe it was the realization that panicking wouldn't do anything now - it wouldn't change his score.
When her picture appeared, Hanna didn't feel as if she were looking at herself, though. The girl there was a stranger.
I got a two. I got a one. I got a zero, and somehow I'm the first tribute to get nothing-
"From District Three, Hanna, with a score of six."
Surprise washed over Hanna, and then Tigris was squealing and Edison looked at her, a proud expression on his face.
Hanna reached into her pocket on reflex, a hand brushing over her paintbrush. It was an incredible score, but it was more than she'd expected.
They put the camouflage station in training, didn't they?
Royal Kariki - 16 y.o. - D9
...
- Training Center Floor 9 -
Royal tried - and failed - to stop bouncing his leg.
Everyone in the semicircle sat on the couch was focused on the television.
District 9 was still far off, but it was coming closer with every announcement. It was the suspense that Royal didn't like. He hated not being able to move, and almost wished he'd decided to watch this in his room by himself, somewhere he could pace around.
But having the others was grounding. If he had been all alone, he probably would've been a mess by now.
Next to him, Azzie was the picture of tranquility. She had her legs pulled up and crossed, a mug of steaming floral tea in her hands.
Catching him looking, Azzie winked and grinned as if this whole show was a joke. Like it was an inside joke, one of those silly Capitol things, nothing to worry over. She'd had the same effervescent bubbliness as she'd gone into her private session. How did Azzie manage it? She made it look easy.
Royal gave a smile that probably looked like a grimace back. He turned back to the television as the next picture flashed onto the screen. Instead of fighting his leg that wouldn't stop moving, Royal instead tried to commit the images of the other tributes and their names to memory. They'd grown familiar throughout the days of training, after the initial haze of the train and parade. But this is what Meadow would tell him to do. She would be clever about it, analytical - the kind of way he needed to be.
"From District Four, Marlen, with a score of nine," Caesar Flickerman said.
Marlen was one of the loud, trained pack of tributes, of course. He was strong and good with spears, and the loudest of the group.
"From District Four, Marina, with a score of seven."
Marina was one that Royal hadn't noticed as much. She was quieter, but spent time at the knot-tying station, more-so than the weapons.
"From District Five, Newt, with a score of five."
Newt was another volunteer, and Royal had almost expected a higher score. He was lanky, unlike the trained tributes, but he'd seemed intelligent so far.
"Bit of a disappointment," Azzie's stylist sighed softly, seemingly sharing Royal's thoughts.
"From District Five, Liz, with a score of nine."
That was a surprise at all. Liz was tall, muscular, and pretty - a trifecta among the Capitolites - but also seemed fairly independent. He didn't remember her sitting with anyone at lunch, but he did remember seeing her nearly choke one of the wrestling instructors.
"From District Six, Trip, with a score of eight."
Another expected score. Trip had one advantage of being the oldest tribute at eighteen, but also was skilled in hand-to-hand combat.
"He was talking to the boy from Four," Azzie said neutrally.
Royal raised his eyebrows. "If they ask him to join their alliance, that makes six of them."
The thought made his even more nervous, and his knee bounced faster, and he was so distracted by thoughts of a trained tribute horde that he forgot who was next. When her face appeared, it took Royal a second to remember that he had an ally of his own. Her score would impact his own chances now, too.
"From District Six, Mustang, with a score of six."
Royal didn't reveal any of his emotions for once, even as he saw Azzie glance at him out of the corner of her eye.
Six wasn't an incredible score. It certainly wasn't the worst. But was it enough to get the sponsors attention? District 6 hadn't seemed to be a favorite at the parade, not in the way that his stylist had said 1, 4, 8, and 9 had been. How many sponsors would really want to sponsor Mustang when he district partner was there?
Guilt shot through Royal's stomach like ice. He'd decided to pair up with Mustang. He didn't want to ally with Trip, not with how standoffish he seemed. Even Mustang said she and Trip weren't really speaking, even on their own floor after training. Royal couldn't imagine how much more isolating that was.
But even he hadn't mentioned his alliance to Emmer Phox or Amaranth. He hadn't even really told Azzie.
"From District Seven, Caoimhin, with a score of seven."
Royal tried to shake off his ruminating. Caoimhim was another of the quiet tributes, but he had always seemed in upbeat mood when speaking to instructors.
"From District Seven, Evlin, with a score of six."
The redheaded girl was one that Royal had almost forgotten about. She mostly walked around with the girl from 2, but something about Evlin made Royal steer clear. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but there was something shifty about her. Still - a younger tribute getting the same score as Mustang wasn't the best look for sponsors, right?
A cold sweat broke out on Royal's palms. He tried to surreptitiously wipe them on the couch cushions.
"From District Eight, Darrius, with a score of five."
Darrius was one of the three younger tributes, and his score wasn't a shock. Royal couldn't remember him particularly standing out in his memory.
"From District Eight, Pazley, with a score of six."
A bead of sweat snaked down Royal's back. Pazley marked the last tribute before him.
He didn't even have a memory from training to distract him. He hadn't ever heard Pazley say a word, couldn't really remember her at any station. Her score was average, but she and Darrius at least had their parade to help their impression on the sponsors.
Royal blinked and then he was staring at his own picture.
It looked like a school photo, except for the lack of a smile. He didn't know if that made it more disturbing or not.
Emmer Phox said something, but Royal couldn't even hear her over the beat of his heart in his ears. Was that normal? What if he passed out right here?
"From District Nine," Caesar said, and it felt like he was drawing it out forever, "Royal, with a score of eight."
Royal felt numb. He still could barely hear. At some point between his picture appearing, and his score being announced, his leg had stopped bouncing.
Eight. A damn eight!
Emmer Phox cheering brought him back to the present.
"Wonderful job, sweetheart!" she said, clasping her hearts to her heart. "You did incredible!"
Even Amaranth gave him a nod and a smile. The stylists were both applauding, and for once their escort Florius didn't look on the verge of a meltdown.
"Very respectable," Florius with a celebratory wave of his pink hanky. "We'll have plenty of room for sponsors with that."
Royal couldn't help the smile that blazed across his face. He'd even gotten a higher score than Marina from 4.
"From District Nine, Alstroemeria, with a score of seven."
He glanced back up at the television to find Azzie's photo beside Caesar.
Azzie wasn't smiling in her photo but, even there, her brown eyes glittered with a tenacious laughter.
They celebrated all over again, and Emmer Phox even gave Azzie a hug.
"You both are going to be the darlings of the Capitol," Florius said grandly.
With all the initial nervousness of the evening gone, Royal felt like he could actually breathe. Since yesterday night, he'd been worried about the private sessions, then worried about the scores. It had practically dominated all his thoughts. Now he almost felt relaxed.
"From District Ten, Nico, with a score of five."
They turned back to the screen, listening to the final scores.
"The last three are usually a write-off," Azzie's stylist sighed, waving an Avox over to order a drink.
Though Royal wasn't invested in the last scores, the comment made him stubbornly sit quiet, listening.
Azzie seemed to do the same, sipping her tea quietly, offering no extra smiles to her stylist. It was out of respect, Royal thought, that they listen respectfully to the outer district's scores. Even if the Capitol decided they didn't matter, they were tributes just like him.
"From District Ten, Caroline, with a score of four."
The pasty girl's cheeks were red in her photo, her blue eyes piercing.
Royal remembered with a sinking sadness that Caroline was a volunteer. She'd clearly gone instead of someone she loved. It wasn't a common thing to happen, and it made Royal resent the way their stylists and Florius chatted during her score.
Caroline was stronger than these people. She deserved to have someone sit and shut up for her. She deserved to be at home with her family.
They all did.
"From District Eleven, Lewis, with a score of six."
Royal's elation from his own score seemed wiped away.
Lewis was one of the youngest tributes, but he seemed even younger, small as he was. There was a determination in his brown eyes, though, and it just made hot anger surge through Royal.
He'd never been a violent person, had never yelled at someone, but suddenly he wanted to punch Florius, to shout at their stylists.
"From District Eleven, Juniper, with a score of five."
"She's so gorgeous," Azzie's stylist said, twirling a lock of blue hair. "She would've had a great modeling career here."
Royal bit his tongue until he tasted blood.
"That's enough, Caesonia," Emmer Phox said with finality.
"From District Twelve, Darien, with a score of seven."
That score, at least, was a welcome good one.
Royal didn't know very much about the other districts, but he figured that their mining industry helped with some form of training.
It was an unsaid advantage that certain districts had over others. Whereas ones like 3 or 5 were factory-focused and struggled with weapons or foraging more in the arena, tributes from tributes like 12 had natural experience with weapons from work.
Darien seemed well-fed too, which was somewhat unusual among the tributes from 12, which helped.
"From District Twelve, Raven, with a score of six."
As the final tribute, Raven's picture stayed up for an extra moment.
Royal had barely noticed the scar she had before, running down her face and neck.
Then Caesar was making his closing remarks. He promised more 42nd Hunger Games coverage the next day, including score analysis, an interview with a Gamemaker, and fashion trend predictions inspired by the tribute parade. When the television was finally turned off, Royal realized how exhausted he was.
The nerves had been like a string, holding him up, pulled taut. Now he was able to be cut free, to feel the weight on his eyelids, the lull of sleep.
"You both had better get some rest," Emmer Phox said gently, standing up. She smiled kindly at Royal and Azzie. "You both did wonderful today. Tomorrow with be focused on your interview prep, but enjoy sleeping in first."
"But not too long," Florius cut in quickly.
Emmer patted his shoulder and quickly distracted him with a scheduling question.
As the adults all spoke among each other - while Amaranth listened - Royal took a deep breath.
Meadow would've watched tonight, surely. His parents and siblings would've gathered around the television, maybe even celebrated his eight, held one another. He hoped Meadow was with them. His family loved her, but then again everyone did, and he wanted to picture her surrounded by them - all safe and together.
"Nice job, Kariki," Azzie said. "An eight is a impressive."
Royal glanced over at her.
She was beaming, setting aside her empty mug.
"Thanks," Royal said, finally giving a genuine smile back. "You too. You're sprinting must've been fast."
"And you must've lifted some heavy stuff." Azzie laughed. She reached up absentmindedly, tugging on a piece of light-blue fabric tying up her dark hair.
Royal hadn't forgotten on the train. He still had Meadow's flower in the cup of water Azzie had gotten, and he remembered that Azzie had told him about her token, the one that was her cousin's hairband.
"I bet your cousin is proud of you," he said, nodding at the fabric.
Azzie blinked in confusion for a second before she smiled, dropping her hand. "Ellie is probably just mad I didn't score higher... So, what did you think of Mustang's score?"
Now it was Royal's turn to be surprised.
"You're allies, right?" Azzie said, just quiet enough for the chattering mentors and stylists to not hear. "The girl from Six."
Royal tried to gauge her tone, but Azzie didn't sound any less blithe than usual.
He hadn't gone into training looking for an ally. He knew he wouldn't want to ally with the trained tributes, though. He would want someone... trustworthy.
And then Mustang had talked with him, someone not even from her district, like they were old friends. She'd asked about his girlfriend, and then Mustang had spoken about her own grandmother. It had been so vulnerable, so honest, that when she asked him to ally with her, Royal didn't even hesitate.
That second day, he'd been waiting at lunch to invite Azzie to sit with him and Mustang. When Azzie had noticed them sitting together, though, she'd just smiled quickly and gone off to a different table. When Royal had mentioned that she could sit with them the next day, Azzie had just said something about needing to focus for her private session.
"I think she did good," Royal finally said neutrally.
Azzie smiled and got up, stretching. "That's nice. Well, goodnight. Sweet dreams."
Royal sat there a minute longer. Whatever excitement he'd felt as his score, it was forgotten.
Caroline Lile - 14 y.o. - D10
...
- Training Center Floor 10 -
How long had she been laying here?
Caroline opened her raw eyes, but it didn't make a difference.
Underneath these Capitol blankets, everything was pitch-black, and she couldn't see a shard of light.
Hidden here, she could try to pretend that the Capitol was far away. Caroline had laid there curled up and hadn't moved since. She tried to imagine that she was one of the chickens in the coop, all nestled in for the night, warm and content. Or maybe she was in her own worn bed, in her creaky room, back home.
But these sheets were too silky to be straw, too thick to be her old quilt. They smelled overly clean, nothing like the soil of the chicken coops or the wood of her room. Here there wasn't the soft cooing of the animals or whistling wind past her window; cars far down below and a distant televised broadcast filled the silence.
She'd stopped crying a bit ago. Her face felt stiff with tears, and her eyes burned. Caroline almost wanted to keep crying, but the tears wouldn't come anymore.
A four.
She'd tied for the lowest score out of all the tributes.
Her throat constricted - humiliation, anger, fear, all whirling together like a twister that threatened to blow her away.
The Gamemakers had given her a four, a measly four, to be what was supposed to represent her chance of survival. Sure, the Gamemakers said that it was based on their learning and skills during training, but it was a survival prediction and everyone knew it. That's why the sponsors relied so much on it. It didn't matter how their mentors had tried to reassure her that it was okay, that the interviews mattered too. The Gamemakers had already told the truth. No sponsors would want to help her now.
And they'd as good as set off a cannon for her.
The worst part was that she'd tried. She had really, really tried.
She'd gone to every station, trying to learn anything and everything to help. She wanted to learn what she didn't know. She gagged on insects, she identified poisonous plants, she tried to swing an ax, she learned to make a fire... and none of it had been enough.
More than ever, Caroline felt stupid and naive. How could she be so dumb as to believe she actually stood a chance? Compared to those tributes who could throw spears, who can handle spiked mices, who could cut through a dummy with a sword - how could she ever think she could survive that?
Caroline had been scared of the arena before. She'd fallen asleep every night in terror to thoughts of freezing wastelands piled with snow, or thick jungles with prowling mutts, even deserts of searing sun that melted the skin off her bones. The arena had seemed bigger and more unknown then. She'd seen her fellow tributes, but she didn't know yet what environment they'd be thrown into, and she'd seen enough kids from 10 die deliriously or thirst or be ripped open by a beast.
But now she was terrified of the other tributes more than ever. Almost all of them scored better. They were bigger, faster, stronger; they were deadlier.
Welcome. My name is Iasus, and I'll be overseeing your training. Over the next three days, you will have chance to learn the art of survival. How much you retain is up to you. But within three weeks, twenty-three of you will be dead. One of you will be alive. Who it is will depend on how well you listen to what I have to say. Most of you will die from combat, but twenty percent will die from exposure, and ten percent from infection.
Caroline pressed her hands over her ears like she could block out the words. But they continued in her mind, branded into her memory, and she couldn't stop imagining herself shipped to District 10 in a coffin while the Gamemakers laughed.
They'd been there in the gymnasium, all cloaked in shining purple, looking inhuman. It wasn't their colored hair or piercings that made them look so unnatural anymore. It was the bored way they had eventually looked away from her, uncaring as they wrote away her life, seeing her as just another opportunity for blood to an audience. Was it worse that they were just as human as her?
She'd seen them before, people without any kindness behind their eyes. Caroline had seen them in her own district. Bullies were the same, no matter what they wore.
Recess was Caroline's least favorite time of the day.
She loved the days when her teachers let her go to the animal husbandry classrooms instead.
Then she could spend recess watching chicks hatching in their incubators, or sitting on a fence while older kids learned to ride horses and train as farriers.
But sometimes, when the older students were away or her teachers were in a bad mood, she had to stay with everyone else for recess. The field outside the school was full of overgrown grass most students didn't mind. There were trees for shade, but they were always claimed by the groups of friends.
Caroline had wandered too close to one, seeing how well she could balance on the line where the shadow met the gold grass.
"What do you think you're doing?" Buckley had snapped, getting up. "Are you stupid?"
Startled, Caroline froze, stammering out an apology.
"She is stupid," Colta had laughed, shaking her head.
"And ugly," Farraday said, making Caroline jump as she appeared behind her.
Farraday tugged a lock of Caroline's straight blond hair.
"It looks like hay," she said, and the other kids laughed.
"Look at her face," Buckley said. He pointed at Caroline's cheeks. "She's turning so red!"
The other kids, even the ones who didn't normally laugh or call her names, giggled. Caroline could feel the heat in her face.
"Ew, it might be contagious!" Colta said, and pushed Caroline towards Farraday, who shrieked and pushed her again.
Caroline felt down, scraping her elbow in the dirt, and gasped in shock. They'd called her names since she'd started school, made fun of her, but never shoved her.
She gazed over at the teachers sitting on their bench by the school door. But they just called out half-hearted instructors for the kids to play nice, to be kind to each other. None of them bothered to get up. They just kept talking to each other, and ignored her.
"Is she going to cry too?" Buckley said. He laughed with delight.
And Caroline thought she was going to cry, right there in the dirt, and they'd laugh more.
Instead, a girl appeared, hands on her hips. "What're you doing?"
Caroline thought the girl was yelling at her, but realized that the girl's gaze was on Buckley, Colta, Farraday - and all the other kids who were just watching.
"Don't ever push her again," the girl said, and brandished a fist. "Or you'll have to deal with me."
"Yeah, right," Colta started, and took a step towards the girl.
"Hope you like centipedes," the other girl said, and opened her fist to throw a bug on Colta.
Screaming, Colta swatted the bug away, and ran shrieking away. Farraday wasn't far behind. The other kids gaped.
Buckley stared at the girl. "I'm not scared of bugs." But he didn't sound so sure.
"Really?" the girl challenged. She jumped at him, and Buckley turned tail, running away.
"Here, let me help you up," the girl said, and carefully pulled Caroline up. Her smile touched her brown eyes. "I'm Shelby Monta, by the way."
She was the newest girl in class, part of a group transferred from another set of classes for the year when a teacher left. Caroline had admired the girl's black hair and olive skin, the opposite of her own, and the way Shelby had stood with her spine straight when she was introduced to the class.
"It's Caroline, right?" Shelby said.
"Yes," she answered shyly. "Caroline Lile."
"Nice to meet you," Shelby said. She winked and picked up the centipede off the ground.
And Caroline realized that the "bug" was just a small piece of wood with grasses tangled on it. But far away, it was a realistic centipede. Shelby had tricked them. Caroline couldn't help laughing then, and Shelby grinned back.
"Bullies are just cowards when it comes down to it," Shelby said. "They're all the same."
Caroline squeezed her eyes shut.
Shelby wouldn't want her cowering here, terrified.
They'd been best friends for five years now, and Caroline knew exactly what she would say, and Shelby's voice was in her head then.
"You need to get up," Caroline whispered hoarsely. She listened to Shelby, to herself, and pushed off the blankets. She was on her feet.
"You need to open your eyes." Her room was bright, the lights of the streets and colorful buildings outside too sharp, and she turned away from it.
"You need to calm down." She took several deep breaths. Her pulse eventually slowed, the panic ebbed away, and she pushed thoughts of the Gamemakers away.
It was with that calm that she realized the television was a screen outside. The muffled noise was coming from down the hall. But everyone was supposed to be asleep? Then again, so was she. And was that noise...
Caroline walked to her room door, barely thinking about it first. She padded barefoot down the hallway, cold tiles biting at her, until she was almost to the viewing room.
Crying.
She'd thought she'd heard someone crying. But it wasn't the television, it was too close, overlapping Caesar's voice.
When Caroline stepped into the viewing room, there was a dark shadow, hunched over, shaking on the giant couch. They were bathed in the glow of the television. Caesar smiled down as he read off their scores.
"Nico-" Caroline started, voice uncertain.
He whipped around, and she jumped.
"I thought that was you," Caroline said, nerves tangling in her stomach. "Are... um, are you alright?"
He didn't respond, staring at her like he was confused that she was there.
"Should I go get Rumen? Or - or Lovis?" Caroline said.
Then Nico laughed. There was no humor in it. He stood up, and she noticed the bottle on the floor by him. He accidentally knocked it over as he laughed, and the bottle clattered onto its side, sloshing out clear liquid onto the rug.
Caroline darted forward and picked it up, setting it on the table. Caesar's reflection glimmered in the glass bottle's, all teeth and flashing eyes.
"You know you're dead, right?" Nico said. His laugh was gone. In its place was a darkly serious tone, one Caroline hadn't heard him use before.
She turned, mouth going dry. "What?"
He sneered at her. "We're both dead. A four and five. A five and a four. We won't even survive the cornucopia."
She could smell the alcohol on him. Had the bottle been full when he started drinking? How did he even get it?
"You need to go to bed," Caroline said as evenly as she could. "You're drunk."
"Are you telling me what to do?" Nico said with a bitter laugh. "That's funny. Try that again."
Caroline hurried towards the doorway, but then Nico was blocking her way.
"At least you have people who'll miss you when you're gone," Nico said. "Do you think our mentors will cry for us?"
"Move," Caroline said, glaring at the floor.
"You can't even look at me," he laughed.
Caroline clenched her fists as her sides. "I can't look at someone when they're like this." Even you.
Nico leaned closer, and Caroline finally looked up. She could see the tears in his eyes.
"Am I scaring you?" he said softly.
She didn't answer, but she knew it was on her face.
"Good," Nico sneered.
Bullies are all the same.
Caroline shoved past him, running to her room.
"At least I can accept who I am. I know I'm a thief, a lowlife, I know I'm scum," Nico called after her. "But you threw your life away volunteering, and you can't accept that's who you are."
Caroline shut her door, pulled the covers over herself, and covered her ears.
And now it's January 24th, 2025 and I've updated in a timely fashion!
I ended up taking a new medication, got insomnia from it, and somehow typed out almost 9,000 words. And I still haven't spell-checked it, soo...
But yeah, this chapter marks the last part of the training arc. After diving the pre-Games portion into three arcs (reaping, training, and interviews) we're on last one. Beginning in the next chapter, POVs will only be 1,500 words each, but there will be 5 POVS per chapter.
I'd really appreciate a review if anyone still happens to be reading this story!
See you hopefully soon,
~ Meghan