There was something strange about the concept of chopping down trees when you’re named after one. Still I could use the bonding time with my partner. ”Yeah, let’s do it.” I hoisted up a pair of heavy axes and took a step back, letting Rosie move first if she wanted to do so.
I'm examining a smaller set of axes when Lock takes up his own. "...You're not ambidextrous too, are you? Because honestly, if you are then you looted the gene pool," I chuckle as I lift mine. I close one eye and take my first throw. It's strong, but barely grazes a target's shoulder. "So how's training been for you so far?"
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I let out a laugh. Finally someone who knows how to joke around. “I’m sure your prep team could do something about that. But hey, at least the sickle brings out the color in your eyes,” I chuckle.
"No. Got it done back in six. My prep team actually wanted to redye it its natural color. Things got messy when my stylist suggested that," I explain, stroking the many shades of my hair as I do.
As I slash at the dummy once again, I introduce myself to her, “I’m Aurora, by the way.” I hand her a wicked-looking sickle with a pleasant look on her face. Last time I handed someone a weapon, I ended up in the boxing ring. Hopefully, history doesn’t repeat itself.
Hearing her laugh immediately brightens my day. There's been a sever lack of laughter in my life as of late. I don't know much about District Six but from what I've seen at Reapings, it's one hell of a dreary place. "I bet your friends never had a hard time picking you out of the crowd."
I take the sickle and let myself get used to the weight. I like it a lot. Sickles were always my favorite thing to train with back at home. "I'm Rosie. In cheeks and name," I tease with a pleasant smile. "Six, huh? I would've guessed Nine with how deep you got that first hit. I casually twirl the sickle in my hand, making it clear how comfortable I am with it. I don't want to be the dickhead showoff that most Careers are, but I do want to establish my proficiency.
"Hitting them in the left arm won't do much good, though. You gotta make each hit count with a close ranged weapon like this."
I've been thinking a lot about Lock. Mostly feeling guilty about the cold shoulder I gave him on the train. When I heard he was going to be my partner, I jumped to a lot of conclusions about him. None (er... very few) of which he actually fulfilled. He seems like a pretty good guy. And there's a part of me that's curious about wether or not it's sorrow I see in his eyes now and again.
"Hey, Lockstock," I call over to him as we're allowed into the training room after lunch. I haven't talked to him at all since the parade. Heading to his side, I nod to the axe station. "Wanna toss axes for a bit? I'm not too good at it but it's pretty fun."
I Sneezed on the Sickle and the Sickle Got Sickler | | Aurora + Rosie | | Sickles
Sickles seem pretty menacing. I think I’d want to know my way around them rather than not. It can’t really hurt to try them out, I guess. I tie my hair in a ponytail as I walk over to the station. There’s a trainer there, But I’m guessing that it’s kind of similar to stabbing someone with a hunting knife, and god knows I’ve spent enough time at that station.
I pluck a sickle off of a rack, eagerly approaching a dummy. All of my anger bubbling up inside of me from dealing with Fantasea and all annoying things in general, I swing at the dummy with the curved blade. I frown as it barely even goes halfway through the target’s arm.
I turn around, ready to storm over to a trainer, but find myself face-to-face with another tribute, my sickle fiercely pointed at her. “Sorry about that,” I mutter as I lower the weapon.
Training has never been something I enjoy. Especially in front of other people. It was bad enough when I just had to worry about the judge-y eyes of other Careers, but now that I'm surrounded by my competition it's that much more stressful. With a yawn and an unflattering scratch up the back of my shirt, I head over to the first station I see, which is already hosting a very angry-looking girl with cool hair.
I've just started looking over the different sickles when suddenly there's one in my face. One that happens to have a person attached to it. "I come in peace," I insist, putting my hands up in defense as the mousey looking girl lowers it. "No worries. I know I have one of those faces you just want to stick a sickle into, I get it a lot," I offer with a feeble smile. "Nice hair, by the way. You prep team do that?"
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She's been the go-to stylist for District One tributes for nearly twelve years. Her designs have always struck awe into the Capitol crowd by playing up a theme as well as the individual tributes' strengths and weaknesses.
Nails and Wardrobe - Musa
A quiet girl from the outskirts of the Capitol. She doesn't talk much, but watching her work is almost hypnotic. Everything she does happens at unbelievable speed, from filing and painting fingernails to changing entire outfits in seconds.
Hair - Verity
If looks could kill, Verity would be a mass murderer. She isn't easily amused, and her default look is somewhere between a glare and predatory. But trying to explain measurements to a salon full of Capitol-born fools who can barely add would make anyone bitter to the world.
Make-Up - Almay and Olay
These fraternal twins have been inseparable all their lives - from birth, to their first day of school, and now to their shared job on Juodas' team. They got their start playing with their mother's makeup when they were kids and years have practice have left them like-minded and able to each work on one half of a face yet make it look like it was done by the same person.
All the while, the four girls remain silent. I can't figure out why they won't speak, not even to each other. When the bulk of my punishment is over, I venture to strike up conversation. "So, did one of you guys design my parade outfit?"
The girl doing my nails seems startled. I'm guessing she was so far off in acrylic la-la land that she forgot talking to other people was actually a thing. "No, we're just your prep team. Juodas designed your costume. She's been doing the District One girls for a few years now."
"Oh," I offer, wondering how to keep it up. A small grin comes to my lips. "Real talk though, is she good? I'm not gonna be stuck into a giant gold bar or something, am I?" I notice them starting to crack smiles. "Oh damn, that's it, isn't it? If she's gonna do that to me, please tell me it'll at least be rose gold for the sake of the pun?" The resulting chorus of small giggles is music to my ears.
"No, Juodas is amazing. And she was working with a new up-and-coming stylist. Their concept is a bit... bold, but I think you'll like your outfit," says a girl with dark red hair as she brushes a tangle out from mine. "Bold, huh?" I mutter, glancing down at my nails. "Any chance you could sharpen these up a bit, like yours?" I ask the quiet girl grinding away at the fake nails she's put on me. I noticed that her sea-foam green fingernails are sharpened almost to points. She seems flattered, and wordlessly starts reshaping them. "I'd ask for the blonde like yours, too but I doubt I could pull it off the way you do."
The final half hour is much more pleasant than the first two. I manage to learn their names: the quiet blonde is Musa, the red head is Verity, and the other two girls and fraternal twins named Almay and Olay. The five of us are chattering like old friends by the time they take me to meet Juodas, and I'll admit I am a little upset when they leave me to wait for her alone.
She doesn't keep me waiting too long, and soon enough comes inside with an avox carting a tray behind her. "Good afternoon," she coos, offering me her hand while the avox sets up trays and glasses of water. "Welcome to the Capitol, Rosie. I sure hope the girls weren't too rough on you in the salon," she says, inspecting my nails when I take her hand.
"I think I'll have nightmares involving tweezers tonight, but other than that it was okay," I grumble, which only makes her chuckle. "I figured you'd have some spunk to you after seeing that Reaping," she admits. As she eases into he seat across from me, the avox pulls silver lids off of the trays to reveal steaming bowls of curry and rice, with plump bits of fried pork on top. My mouth is watering just looking at it.
Juodas chuckles, looking over the slim reading glasses she just slid onto her nose. "Go ahead. I have to explain a few things anyway."
That's all I need to start tearing into the food.
She goes through and describes the concept she and Lock's stylist came up with, finishing by showing me a sketch of my outfit. The sight makes my stomach churn uneasily. "It's, uh... it's beautiful," I say. And I"m not lying - it really is. However, the food seems less appealing when I think about myself trying to fit into that costume.
I start to push my food away, but Juodas pushes it back. "Don't worry, love. The costume is made to fit you. I'll be honest, I'm used to designing for... more petite girls from your district." Well damn, she's not as nice as she seems. "And I was getting quite tired of it. This outfit will make you look amazing, curves and all." Oh. Well... never mind, she's as nice as she seems and then some.
The two of us chat for a bit longer, and before long I'm being escorted to the dressing room. It takes the help of all four prep team girls to get my into my outfit, and the weight on my back takes some getting used to... But Juodas was right, it looks amazing on me. The twins do my makeup and Verity styles my hair up, while Musa helps me get dressed. By the end of it I just want to stare at myself, which is a new but welcomed feeling.
For the first time in my life, I'm reluctant to leave the mirror.
I tuned out while our District’s reaping was being shown again. I had just lived it a few hours ago, I hardly needed a reminder of my death sentence. As District 2 rolled up, I placed my tumbler of Brandy down on the table and slid it away. I knew my limit. I leaned back and watched as another non-trained career volunteered. ”Wonder what his deal is.” I muttered. I’m not sure if Rosie heard me but I didn’t care. ”Clearly isn’t a career, just like us.” As mountains and hills zipped by at blinding speeds, the District of technology’s reaping began.
This brandy is leaving a bad taste in my mouth, and seeing Lock put his down queues me to set mine aside too. Lock seems to be a bit of a mumbler, but I am too, so I'm pretty good at translating. I shoot him an unamused frown as he speaks and for once I'm annoyed that someone doesn't recognize me as a Career. "I might not be a full-fledged killing machine, but I've have more Career training than you."
Oh, no. I'm being petty.
"And did you see how quick he volunteered? That guy's a Career if I've ever seen one. And if he isn't, by some miracle, he's still going to be a force to be reckoned with."
The girl from District Three looks terrified. "This one probably pissed herself. Poor thing," I coo. It's a genuine sentiment. I do feel bad for her, even if I know I'd kill her if I had the chance. "The boy... I can't get a read on him. He's probably one of those psycho silent types."
"Lock’s fine." I assure her. With a heavy breath I plop down on the arm chair across from her and loosen my tie, letting it fall in two long strands over my shoulders. I recognize a flask of brandy and pour myself a glass, having been quite familiar with it over the past year. The taste is bitter but it loosens me up as I stomach the amber.
"How are you in front of crowds?" She asks. It’s clear she recognizes me too, most do in the District. We both knew the answer to the question, but I could tell she just wanted reassurance.
"Don’t worry about the parades, playing the crowd is loads easier than playing the games." I took another sip. I raied my brow and held the flask out to her. She shrugged and took it, pouring herself a drink as well. "If I’ve learned anything from spending most of my life in a stadium, it;s that the crowd has a hive-mind. Find out what it wants, deliver, and they’re eating out of the palm of your hand.
I cross my legs and take another drink. ”So what about you? Got stage fright?”
I roll my eyes as I sip the drink. I hate the way he talks to me - like I'm a scared little kid who needs his wisdom to make it through. I don't need his reassurance, I asked to see if he was as good on his own as he was with his team. "Stage fright? Not at all. The parades and interview shit are the only things I'm looking forward to, honestly."
Maybe talking about the Games isn't the best idea. I know that Lock and I are going to spend a lot of time together, so I don't want to develop any more of a bias. Besides, maybe if I wait until training has started, he'll see that I'm not a hopeless case.
"Well, the train ride is only a couple hours... want to watch the Reaping recaps?" As I speak, I head to the massive TV on the other side of the train car and take up the remote. Finding the recaps are easy, as every channel is playing them, and I tune in just in time to watch myself flip my parents off. "Hey, they just started," I call back as I flop back onto the couch, a pleased grin on my lips. "C'mon, let's see what we're up against."
"Clumsy, and hardly eager to arrive at the Capitol. Not really the fitting description of a career tribute. I’d hardly call myself an investigator but I recognized that subtle hopeless expression anywhere. I see it every night in the mirror anyhow. I assumed she was here against her will, based on how often she looked out the train window, which wouldn’t be too great as a teammate’s qualities.
But there was no point in being rude yet anyhow. I reached over and offered her a napkin, respecting her personal space as my hand stopped inches before her. She chuckled uncomfortably and grabed the cloth, wiping aher lap clear of dessert.
Definitely not career material. I thought. But if Rowan’s taught me anything it’s not to judge someone so quickly. For all I know she could be a tribute prodigy.
I offered my hand to her. ”Hemlock Montgomery. You must be Rosie? What is that short for?”
"Thanks," I mutter softly as I take the napkin, patting the sticky substance off. Being in the presence of someone who's actually trained - even if it's in athletics rather than killing - only makes me feel more inadequate than I already do. I eye his hand suspiciously before reaching out to take it in a firm handshake.
"Nothing. It's just Rosie. Can I call you Lock or is that a friends-and-parents-only kind of thing?"
I take a seat on the couch and lean against the arm, wondering if I should keep conversation going. When I found out he was my District Partner, I was dead set on hating him. But now that he's actually here where I can see him, it's not so simple. There's an unspoken sense of sorrow about him. Hating him just seems wrong. "How are you in front of crowds?"
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This has been the craziest day of my life and it's barely noon. The temptation to open my gift from Mara is real, but I know it would be best to save it until I have some time to myself. That's when I'll need it most. I set the bag aside and look around the train car, seeing that Rumor and both of our mentors have disappeared. According to them, our train ride isn't very long. I figure all of them want to take advantage of the food and drink while they can.
There's still been no sign of Lock. I thought my goodbyes were taking a while, but I finished long before him. He's probably saying goodbye to his legion of fans. The thought alone starts me muttering under my breath, a bad habit I've picked up as of late. I'm standing at the table, curiously poking at a gelatin-like dish when the car doors slide open and my district partner finally makes his appearance. "Glad you could join us," I call over to him, stumbling forward into the table as the train lurches forward. That lovely pink gelatin is now all over my skirt.
I've always thought the protocol goodbyes was a little odd. It seems unfair that a tribute's mother and father had just as much time to say goodbye as strangers just wanting to wish them luck or give them gifts. But today I'm glad for the rule. Because I can't take too much of my family at the moment.
"Rosie, we're sorry," she says finally. Not gonna lie, this catches me pretty off guard. But I maintain my unamused demeanor, waiting for her to go on. "We realize that this isn't what you wanted, but we really think you have potential to win."
Welp, it was nice while it lasted.
"Okay, just stop," I insist, raising my hand and standing up to look them in the eye. "You think I have potential? Well even if I have a metric shit ton of potential, I'm still a long ways away from winning."
"Dear, listen--"
"No, you listen!" The startled look on their faces and the sudden ache in my throat make it clear that I've screeched. "I've been telling you since the moment I started training that I never wanted to be a tribute. Not once did I even imply that entering the Games was something I wanted to do. So don't swing in here in the last twenty minutes before I'm shipped off to die for some bullshit apology."
They want to speak. I hear my Dad start. But I speak over him, because I know what they're trying to do and I won't let them.
"You know you're in the wrong and you don't want to admit it. So you're here to apologize so that you can leave feeling absolved of all the fucked up decisions you've made in the past few weeks. Well, I don't accept it. How's that? If I die in the arena, I want you to live with the full guilt of knowing that it's all. Your. Fault."
My mom is crying, and I'll admit it makes me feel a bit bad. But I refuse to let them see. My dad wants to say more, but Peacekeepers come in to remove them. I guess they were knocking with time warnings but none of us heard them. "Bye. Have nice lives. I won't be there to see them. Enjoy that," I coo as I wave goodbye to them.
The door shuts and I'm left alone. I pace for a bit, so many emotions pouring out of me at once. I want to smash something. But before I get my hands on a lamp, some of my friends from school pop in to say their goodbyes. My next few visits are much more pleasant. People hug me, kiss my cheeks, a few cry. But I force up a smile, joking through the whole thing. I don't want to be remembered as a sniffling mess.
My best friend Mara brings me a present in a brightly colored bag. She knows all about how little I want to do this. "I know it's not much," she says softly as she hands it to me, "But I hope you like it. Open it on the train, okay?"
I nod solemnly. She's my last goodbye, and probably the hardest. My bottom lip is crushed between my teeth as I struggle to maintain. We hug, staying locked together until they come to escort me out. "I guess I'll be seeing you, the--"
I'm cut off by her lips on mine.
My eyes are wide and I'm frozen in place and the Peacekeepers have to come gently escort me out. "What the fuck was that?," I demand, staring at her with flushed cheeks.
"Eh, I figured it was a now-or-never kinda thing," she says, smiling through her tears. "Make it back, okay?"
There's nothing I can do but nod, and I'm still in a mild state of shock as I head to the train station with Lock and the rest of the team. It seems like I have something to fight for.
As shitty and bleak as the morning of the Reaping may be, I still manage to crack a smile at the sight of girls trying to walk through the town square in heels. It goes without saying that Reaping Day is a big deal in my District. It kicks off the most festive time of the year. District One is basically one huge festival throughout the entirety of the Games, and the party doesn't stop until both of One's tributes are gone. Folks my age spend all year looking for Reaping-worthy clothes even if they aren't up for volunteering. I guess some girls can't resist the lure of high heels, even if it means hoofing it over cobblestones and gravel to stand in line for a few hours.
Paying attention to the film they play is hard. Cuts from last year have been edited in and serve as a grim reminder of the Game creeping ever closer to me. I distract myself watching the Escort, Rumor. Most Capitol people look like tie-dyed parakeets to me, but Rumor is actually nice to look at. When she's not interesting anymore, I stare down at myself. This morning I padded my bra a bit - I mean hey, if there's one day of my life that I want my tits to look amazing it's probably going to be today. I just hope it's not obvious that I've done it. Does one look bigger than the other? God dammit, I should've spent more time at the mirror this morning. I was in such a rush to get out before my parents could stop me that I didn't double check.
My boob-related woes are put on the back burner as Rumor asks for the tribute's names. Is that guilt I detect on my parents' faces as they hand her the envelope? Whoops, nope. They're just as excited as ever. Assholes.
The few seconds it takes Rumor to get the envelope open gives me the slightest sliver of hope. Maybe they decided not to pick me after all? Maybe there was a last minute change of heart where they decided to stick another finalist into the arena in my place? Maybe they realized that I have zero chance--
"Rosie Court!"
Well, fuck.
Applause erupts around me so I go ahead and smile. This situation is so unbelievably ridiculous, it isn't too hard to grin at it. I take to the stage, giving the crowd a wave. I turn and offer the wave to my parents as well, but it promptly morphs into a middle finger when they try to return it. A chuckle rumbles through the audience and my parents look mortified. My Dad does, anyway. Mom looks like she wants to beat me with a wire hanger.
"And look at this!" Rumor said, silencing the crowd once again. "Seems like someone on the Tribute Selection Committee has a green thumb! Our male representative is Mr. Hemlock Montgomery!"
I know it's not his fault that I'm up here but I can't help sneering at Lock as he comes to the stage. My parents might think that they convinced the committee to make me a tribute by my own merit, but I have a feeling I'm being sent to the Capitol as his personal meat shield.
Rumor talks more and then Lock and I shake hands. As I head off into the Justice Building, I turn to look back at the crowd. I see people I bump into around town a lot. I see my friends. I see people I've teased and joked with. I see people I've made laugh. And I know that I might not see them again. So I turn, watching the Peacekeepers tense behind me. Everyone is still looking. Probably expecting me to do something crazy.
But I don't. I just smile and bring my hands together over my head, shaking over each of my shoulders as I back into the Justice Building. I was forced into making a shitty entrance, so I figure I might as well have a grand exit.
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I can barely remember the bulk of it. One minute I'm laughing with my friends about the idiots who actually signed up to be considered as volunteer candidates, and the next my name is being announced in front of the entire academy at the annual pre-reaping reveal. See, here in District One, we take winning too seriously to let volunteer spots be first come, first serve. After all, we tried that the first couple of years and the Reapings were so confusing that they took hours on end. Nowadays if you want to volunteer, you have to submit your name to the Tribute Selection Committee months in advance. I, being of sound mind and not a complete fuckwitt, never applied. Yet somehow my name came up and now I'm the female tribute. Given that my parents are on the TSC, I didn't even have to make it to the stage to figure out what happened. I could smell the betrayal from across the room.
All of this is fucked up, but when you really sit back and look at it for what it is it only gets worse. I am being forced to volunteer for something. Analyze that for a moment. Doesn't even make any sense. But I know that if they call for volunteers and my hand doesn't go up I might as well kiss my homelife goodbye. I'd be out on the streets and public enemy number one.
It's not like I'm a hopeless case. I'm about as close as a single mom reading Fifty Shades, though. I've been in training since I was ten but I haven't been quite as passionate about it as the majority of my classmates. I'll be the first to admit I'm a bit out of shape. One things for sure - I'm not the gorgeous, deadly, charismatic triple-threat that most District One tributes are. My partner is, though. Even now, as I spend my last night of freedom in the basement of the Training Center working my ass off, I know my odds are half as good as his.
The punching bag I'm using is one of the wobbling ones. It's vaguely human shaped, with a lot of added weight at the bottom. I've been hitting it for damn near an hour and I don't think it's doing much aside from making my arms hurt. My efforts have been non-stop this past week, but I still don't have much on those who have trained like this for years.
As the bag's featureless form bobs away and back, I start projecting my own images onto it. First it's mom, fussing over what I eat and telling me to lose weight. My dad is next. They haven't confirmed it, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure it was his idea to submit my file without asking me. And then it's Lock, smiling at me just like he does in all the pictures he takes for the various teams he's on. With an angry grunt I throw all of my strength into a punch, aimed right at the Golden Boy's stupid face. Apparently I'm stronger than I thought because the bag slams back into the floor and promptly returns with a vengeance.
Another, much more surprised, grunt sounds as the thing slams into my gut. In an instant I'm doubled over on my knees, suddenly thankful that I'm the only one still training. A string of curses leaves my lips as I roll onto my back. With trembling hands I undo my boxing gloves and toss them to the side, immediately pressing my palms over my eyes. Call it childish, but it helps me to calm down. Pressing against my closed eyes makes me see shapes. For a few moments I forget about tomorrow and just let myself relax. I calm down. And soon I let out the deep breath I've been holding in.
My hands fall to my sides and I'm left staring up at the ceiling. I don't know how long I was there but I know that the automated lights cutting out are what prompted me to leave. At home I take dinner to my room. Knowing how much my mom hates it, I lick my plate clean before sticking it on the floor outside my door for her to get it. She knocks when she comes, but I don't open the door. There will be no bullshit apologies and hug sessions to let them feel resolved when I board the train tomorrow.
If I die in the arena, they're both going to know it was their fault. Not mine.
