#acptraining2

First Aid

The training area was vast and crowded. At least, in comparison to what I was used to. Sounds of exertion and fighting could be heard, and I felt my heart rate speed up as my eyes darted around, until they fell on an empty station.

I was more than familiar with first aid- I had helped my mother patch up countless numbers of our neighbors and other people injured during the war. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to refresh my memory. 

Vaguely, I remembered my mother laughing as she inspected my sloppy stitching, before carefully showing my how to correct my poor form.

It was almost funny, how much there was to use at the station. During the war, we were limited to boiled water, dirty rags, and threads from unwound clothing for much of our work. 

Survival Skills

After I had felt I’d spent enough time on reviewing my first aid, looked around the arena, hoping to find another empty station. I was surprised to see the melee station temporarily abandoned, but I knew I wasn’t ready for combat, not yet, at least.

Thankfully, the survival skills station was also void of any other tributes, so I made a bee line over. Again, much of the material was review- a perk of living in a war zone, apparently- but it was a good idea to at least stop by, especially in regards to the water biomes.

I’d never seen a body of water larger than my bathtub.

I focused on making a raft and fashioning a fishing line and hooks, as I already knew how to build a shelter and make a fire. The longer I stayed there, however, the more anxious I got about a watery arena. The last year there had been several environments, and I knew I wouldn’t last in most of them, but still the water made me more nervous than all of them.

Swimming

Abandoning my half finished raft, I made my way over to the pool area, quickly changing into a wet suit that was provided. Unlike the last two stations I had visited, I was completely out of my element here and had to call on the trainer for help.

The water felt odd around me as I was taught how to doggy paddle and wade in the shallower end. Since I was thinner and not too tall, I was able to stay afloat a little easier, but that was about the only advantage I had.

I kept getting water in my ear and choking on the waves that had begun to form when the trainer changed the setting of the pool to “make things  a little more realistic”. He also suggested changing the temperature, which finally got a response from me.

A hard no.

The young woman was devastated to find out that the beautiful face of the trainer was wasted on someone dumb as an eggplant. His conversation skills were lackluster and the only thing that made up for it was his washboard abs and decent talent at teaching a drowning girl from eleven how to keep herself afloat.

After a short while, Polly grew adjusted to the feeling of existing in a substance thicker than air that had no other intention than to cut her life short. After a short while, she grew used to the warped images the pool presented and decided to ignore the incessant chit chat from the trainer opposite her and focus more on the strokes and treading of water that could keep her alive.

Soon enough the butterfly stroke was looking less like a thrashing attempt to not drown and more like a dying butterfly smacking the top of a swimming pool. At least Polly could tread water for more than a few seconds now and felt strong enough that she could survive if the capitol decided to toy around with an ocean arena. 

As soon as the thought crossed her mind she hoped that they would do no such thing, realizing that she could feel her skin starting to scrunch up and get dry. The wrinkles on her fingertips reminded her too much of fat rolls and she knew she had to get out of the pool before one of her biggest strengths as a human being was ripped from her pruney grasp.

After the pool, Polly knew immediately she had to go back up to her tribute suite and lock herself in a mirrorless room until her fingertips returned back to normal. Also, most everyone in the training room had already returned for dinner and she hoped by this point her escort would be out on the hunt for the elusive district eleven tributes and perhaps Polly could slip by undetected.

After sitting out the first day of training because she couldn’t stand looking her escort in the face one more time, Polly decided she best try her hand at some of the weaponry that would be responsible for keeping her alive in the arena. Not that she couldn’t handle it on her own, she just thought a little help would be a bonus. Besides, so far none of the tributes caught her eye and made her think they’d be deserving of her time in training, let alone the arena. 

The first weapon that caught Polly’s eye was the dart gun and she immediately picked up the tube contraption and some of the pre-poisoned darts lying on the table. After all, she knew how to be full of hot air when she needed to be. Her father taught her well. After quite some time, she was able to aim decently well with the dart gun and get a majority of the darts to stick to the dummy (pointy end in).

After allowing the dummy a minute to process the thirty or so poison darts in its side, Polly moved along to try her hand at the javelins. Another hour spent trying to learn how to use the sticks with the pointy end and all she got out of it was an extra long knife and multiple scoldings from the trainer. 

He decided to start off with the melee weapon station first, not only to get in some much needed practice time with an ax, but to also check out the skill range of his future victims. It couldn’t hurt to know ahead of time who to look out for, after all. There weren’t too many other tributes in the area at the moment, though. 

He walked over to a long table that had a large selection of different types of axes, knives, and swords. He smiled at the idea of himself winning the games with an actual sword in hand. This was the first time he had ever seen one in person. He grabbed an ax, and gave it a few swings and flourishes, really testing the weight of it. On the neighboring wall, there were stationary targets. A nearby trainer asked if he would prefer a moving hologram to practice with. Colborn’s face lit up. Of course he would. Throwing an ax at someone running away in fear was definitely on his bucket list after all. The trainer activated the hologram, and a small bear appeared in front of him. His grip tightened around the ax handle as he slowly approached the bear. He raised his ax to slash down, but the bear began to run. Colborn pulled the ax behind him, and threw the ax horizontally, slicing perfectly through the bear, ending the hologram. Colborn laughed, it was almost too easy.

Colborn decided to try his hand with a knife. He decided on a large hunting knife, something he hadn’t had too much practice with in the past. It was heavier than it seemed, and not as easy to hide on his person. He would stick the knife in the waistband of his pants, and practice quickly swiping it and stabbing a stationary target. It had proven to be much harder than expected. He had always relied on not having to be too sneaky, just being able to overpower someone had always been enough. 

First the instructor taught me stitches and bandages. Easy enough, these were both things I’d had to do back home. I wrapped the bandage around the instructor’s arm to prove that I could do it. She fixed my technique a little adjusting bits here and there, but told me that overall I’d done a good job. 

I opened the door to the room and was greeted by the instructor, who began to explain how the room worked. He handed me a small remote control to strap onto my wrist and showed me the different elemental options, the environmental changes, and the terrain settings. I nodded in understanding and, after tightening my shoelaces, began a slow jog around the room. 

I began with the generic track, trying to get into the swing of things, and keeping it slow. I was strong, yes, from working in the mines, and lean. But cardio wasn’t something that was particularly important. In fact, my lungs were probably in much worse shape than most of the other people here because of my work in District Twelve. 

Those effects were felt pretty quickly, I found. My breath was coming heavy after only a few minutes of running. I brought my wrist up and flicked through a few options, settling on a cool mountain air run. The breeze would keep me from overheating, I decided, even if the terrain would be more varied and difficult. 

The environment, I was contented to find, wasn’t much different from Twelve during a crisp fall day. I closed my eyes as I continued, feeling the dirt cushioning the fall of my feet. At once I felt almost at home, jogging on the outskirts of the District. No crowds shouting my name, no Peacekeepers leading me to required social events, no other tributes gauging my strengths and weaknesses. I slowed down a little, letting my heart rate decrease a little and my breath catch back up to me. 

Part of me expected to hear my older sister calling me in after she returned from the mines. 

I slowed to a walk. What was Peru doing right now? Probably working with Oman, but Mali? What were they doing every night after work? A good part of me hoped that they weren’t just sitting around feeling distraught, waiting for me to show up on the television. I wished I had told them to continue their lives without me, not to worry themselves with whether I lived or died. 

And then there was the question of my parents. 

I switched up the terrain to a beach and began jogging again. I’d been in the Capitol for several days now, and while there was no way I’d seen every avox in the Capitol I felt like I’d seen a good amount of them, as most of them were probably working the Games in some way or other. Every time an avox passed by me I found myself staring at them, trying to discern if I recognized their face or not. None of them were familiar, to my great relief. 

To switch to a sprint I flipped the environment to a hostile rainforest, making it feel as if I was being pursued through thick trees and brush. My breathing got so loud it clouded my thoughts, and all I could think of was the fight-or-flight instincts that kept me running. The moisture in the air condensed into thick droplets that rolled down my face as sweat beaded on my forehead. 

The noises that followed me quieted down as I broke through the thick jungle trees, tapping on the remote. I slowed to a jog while the track refabricated into the generic room I’d walked back into, and I completed the lap around to meet up with the instructor. He handed me a towel for my sweat and told me to stretch to avoid soreness and cramps. 

Part of me had hoped that this new environment would let me adjust my focus to the Games without thinking of home and my family. But it seemed I was doomed to revisit some of the more painful thoughts of my past whether I wanted to or not.