#acttraining1

She glowered at the Trainer’s advice to read a few pages out of the book to possess some insight on some plants and animals she wasn’t familiar with. Filthy peasant probably wasn’t aware that she was a Medici or the fact that she was dyslexic. Angel’s knew about herbs and verdure that Panem has never even heard of before. 

Instead of cursing out the unintelligent swain, Angel asked him politely to teach her how to build a fire. After a few instructions and small mistakes, by rubbing two long twigs together, she managed to create an ember on a small plank of wood, which she then carefully carried out to a pile of branches that she blew on to start a fire. Perfect. Now she was able to burn her enemies to the ground.

Next, Angel began to learn how to purify water. Even after going through various filters, the fluid inside her glass appeared sordid. Apparently it was clean enough to drink, but the Medici girl didn’t dare to test whether or not that was true or not. A part of her wished she had Neil with her. He knew a lot about survival due to him basically living in the mountains. 

As always, Angel put her hair up in a bun. She wanted her movements to be more swift and flawless. No strand out of place would be a sure sign that she succeeded, even if she wasn’t familiar with the weapon. Angel aimed for the dummy a few feet away from her, closing one eye and trying to direct her focus on the red circle in the middle. She pulled the string of the bow back, letting the arrow soar through the air, before landing not even close to her intended target. Angel let out a frustrated growl and tried again.

It took Angel about forty arrows to land a single shot in the dummy’s chest. If it were a human being, she would have pierced his or her heart. Angel took a moment to marvel at her accomplishment. “Okay, I’d like another quiver fill with arrows,” she ordered the trainer. 

He let out a gruff. “Fetch it yourself. You’re no princess here,” he replied.

Angel locked her eyes with his in response. She waited patiently for him to drink before saying, “regarder ce que vous buvez”. 

“Excuse me?” The Trainer raised his eyebrow in confusion. 

After a giggle of fulfillment, Angel grabbed another quiver and hung it over her shoulder. “It’s French for ‘watch what you drink’, darling,” she stated. Angel burst into laughter after the Trainer immediately spat his beverage. She didn’t really poison him, but to inflict such fear upon him was incredibly pleasing. “Leave me,” she demanded. “I have hearts to aim for.”

 Bash also snuck into my room during the night, so of course I felt real good the first morning of training. I knew the escorts had to be good for something.

As I stepped into the training center I spotted my district partner. Angel looked like shit, which was ironic because that’s pretty much all she did the night before. I didn’t know what happened to her, but it really fucked her up. Oh well, sucks to be her.

I looked around more and spotted the ranged weapons. If I was going to train, I might as well start somewhere I’m not good at, right? Save the showing off for later. I made my way over to the station, bypassing several tributes, and looked over the array of different weapons at my disposal. The trainer started with her tangent on ranged weapons and why they’re the best ones to have or whatever. I wasn’t listening closely until she started listing off the names of the ones available.

I picked up the throwing stars and watched the trainer as she put herself in the stance to use them. I never realized how complex throwing a fucking knife would be.

“Can’t I just, you know, throw it?” I sassed.

“If you want to fail, sure. Now spread your legs apart.” She said.

“If I had a nickel…” I mumbled.

I copied her stance, stretching my arm out in a false throw until she nodded her approval. I could listen when I wanted to.

She finally handed me the throwing star back and instructed me to aim for the chest of the dummy. How hard could it really be? With a flick of my wrist, I released the throwing star…landing it in the head of the dummy next to my target.

“Fail,” she said. “Total fail. Try again.”

“Hey, I got a headshot. That’s gotta count for something?”

“It does, it counts as a fail. Now try again. Follow through with your arm. Don’t bring it back in until your weapon’s found it’s target.”

I raised an eyebrow at her as she handed me another star. I took a deep breath and sighed heavily, tossing my arm out and watching the blade dig into my dummy’s leg. Well at least I got the right dummy.

“Another fail.”

“I’ll give you a fail alright.” I snapped.

“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out,” she said. “Try again, stop getting pissed off. Just throw the damn star.”

“I’m throwing the damn star!” I shout, chucking the fucking blade into the dummy and landing it right in the chest.

“Oh…There we go.” I said.

“Good, now do it again.”

I glared at her again, snatching a few stars from her hand and chucking them at the dummy. It seemed like getting pissed off was the key for me. I wouldn’t get the chest every time, but I came damn near close.

The trainer left me alone to try other things while she worked with other tributes which was probably for the best. I usually worked better when left to my own devices. I picked up actual knives next, feeling the extra weight in my hands before attempting to bury them into a dummy.

I tried the same stance the trainer taught me for the stars, seeing if it would suffice with the knives as well. The first few throws didn’t work out, the knives bouncing off the dummy. I switched from holding the handle to holding the actual blade. Maybe the weight of the handle would help with throwing the knife?

I pulled my arm across my chest, throwing it toward the dummy and watching the knife fly through the air. It didn’t land in it’s chest like I had hoped, but dug into it’s shoulder instead. Progress, right?

I tried throwing them some more before giving the ranged weapons a rest for the time being. I nodded a farewell to the trainer and moved on to a different station. Quite honestly, I wasn’t feeling in the training mood. Rather I wanted to be in bed, sleeping…or fucking. I wasn’t too picky.

I stepped onto the running track at the fitness station, stretching my legs out and getting a feel of the fake tarmac. A few tributes passed by me, running at a leisure pace. Really, I just wanted to get my blood pumping a little more. I took off after them, not necessarily chasing. The track was a bit bouncy, giving me a little more spring. It wasn’t realistic which kind of irritated me. Was the arena going to be bouncy? Making it was just a big fucking bouncy house and we were all expected to jump around to our deaths. How fucking useless.

My irritation drove me to run faster, passing the tributes in front of me and pushing myself around the track for a few laps. Completing my fourth, I spotted Bash sitting with Pavel at the mentor’s table. They were in hushed conversation, but Bash’s eyes were on me. Good.

I did a few more laps, kneeling over myself to catch my breath. The feeling of my heart racing was kind of a guilty pleasure. Not in the sense that I’d go killing myself to feel it, but working out enough to make my heart work harder was invigorating.

I wiped my head of sweat and headed toward the exit. As I passed Bash and Pavel, I pulled my shirt off and wiped at my chest. Bash’s eyes trailed along my body and he made no effort to try and hide it.

“I’m not feeling too well, do you think you could walk me to my room?” I asked him.

“You’re feeling fine, you don’t need an escort to your room.” Pavel grumbled.

I smirked at him, leaning down so both of them could hear me.

“You’re welcome to join us, mentor.” I whispered.

Pavel grimaced as Bash stood to bring me to the District 2 suite.

“Why the look of distaste? I heard you were into, how do you say, keeping it in the family?” I asked.

I laughed as Pavel flipped me off, turning his attention back to the training tributes.

When the doors closed behind us in the suite, I grabbed Bash his the front of his pants and pulled him in close.

“Feel like getting some more scratches, baby?” I asked him.

“How about this time I scratch you?”

“Let me tell you all the ways that is not happening.” I smirked.

The boy catches up to Ximena and despite his long legs, matches his stride to her. “You didn’t have plans for training this afternoon did you?” His eyes look hopeful, sabotaging any rejection Ximena is planning. 

“No, Ajax, I suppose I didn’t have training plans yet.” She tries to keep her voice neutral. Both have stopped walking at this point and while the other tributes file to different stations, Ximena’s district partner eyes her expectantly. Trying to avoid the question for as long as she can, she eventually gives in with a sigh. “Would you like to train together Ajax?”

His excitement is almost overwhelming, and before he can even get out words he has Ximena by the hand and is dragging her to a station with a bunch of wicked looking spears and other long weapons. Ajax doesn’t waste any time in selecting a solid looking trident, nearly falling over with its weight as he pulls it from the rack. 

The trainer gives the duo one look and nearly bursts out laughing. “Don’t kill yourself before hitting the arena kid.” He gets out between giggling fits. Ajax shoots him a glare before steadying himself with the base of the weapon.

“Oh man this is so cool!” Ximena rolls her eyes, wondering why she took pity on the twiggy boy. “Now.. what do I do with it?” Ajax asks her expectantly. Ximena simply shrugs, still trying to decide which of the array of weapons she could even manage to lift.

“Think for a second. It’s heavy, and long, too long to be a throwing weapon. Use it for stabbing and thrusting.” The voice isn’t the trainers but both tributes can place it immediately. Ximena turns slowly to find Ester leaning casually against a rack of weapons. She strides up to Ajax, surveys the boy a moment, then kicks the weapon out from under him sending him toppling to the ground, all in heels.

“Never. Ever. Keep your balance on your weapon.” She barks at him without offering a hand up. “You can use it to regain balance for a moment. Just, a moment.” She shoots Ximena a glare as she helps her partner up from the mat. 

Ajax’s rubs the shoulder he fell on a bit before reaching for his weapon back. “That’s great and all Ester, but I’m not really sure you’re supposed to be down here.” 

The mentor pulls the weapon away from him with a snort. “You really think I’m going to give you this back after I saw you nearly impale yourself with it just lifting it from the rack?” Her fingers graze along the tip of the weapon. “I saw one of these in my game, wielded of course by the boy from Four. Tall, blonde, well muscled, a real Adonis.” She sighs, a little playing on her lips.

 “You know how he died?” Ester glances back and forth, neither tribute offering her an answer. “It was too heavy, he wasn’t able to swing it fast enough to stop my knife. So before you go ahead thinking that the big flashy weapons are going to win your punk ass this game, think again.”

Placing the weapon back on the rack, Ester fixes her tributes with a stare. “Well, go ahead and pick something. I dragged myself down here to make sure at least one of you lives to see day two, let’s try to make that worth something.”

A few minutes and more than a few condescending head shakes later, Ajax and Ximena stand a few paces apart on the mat. He wielding a collapsible spear, and her a metal staff. Finally happy with their choices Ester goes about demonstrating how each weapon is used. Basic strikes, how to defend, how to get around an opponent using one. 

When she’s done, Ester stands back and instructs the duo to spar. Neither makes the first move and from the corner of her eye, Ximena can see Ester about ready to give up and leave. Stepping forwards, Ximena her staff in an arc that connects with the shaft of Ajax’s spear. The sound of metal against metal rings out loudly making both tributes flinch. 

The staff vibrates in her hands and she almost drops it, managing just barely to regain her composure. For a boy who seemed so overeager to start training, Ajax is incredibly reluctant to initiate a strike on Ximena. She steps again, managing to bypass his spear and land a hit on his protective gear, which lights up to signify a hit. 

“Why won’t you hit me?” Ximena hisses across to Ajax as the two start to circle. She fakes a lunge and he steps back to avoid it.

He gives a halfhearted thrust that doesn’t even make it to Ximena, more just warding her off. “I don’t hit girls.” He hisses back. “My pops always told me that real men don’t hit girls.”

Ximena swings the staff from above her head like Ester had shown her, bringing it down just as Ajax raises his spear to meet it. Again, the sound of metal on metal drowns out the rest of the noisy training centre. “You’re going to have to if you want to go home.” Ximena replies with their weapons locked together. 

Ajax shoves off from her and again tries to create some distance between the two of them. “You’d both be dead by now in the arena.” Ester calls from the sidelines. “Ajax, hit her or so help me god-” She regains her composure before finishing her thought.

Seeing the conflict in his eyes, Ximena watches as the boy finally decides to listen and gives a half hearted attempt at spearing her midsection. Ximena dodges to the left, using the butt of her spear to strike the back of Ajax’s leg. Knocked off balance, the impact of the fall leaves the boy unarmed and winded. 

Taking up position over him, Ximena thinks the spar is over. She’s about to help him up when he speaks up to her. “Do it, finish me. I’m worthless anyways.” She can see tears welling up in his eyes and the boy’s sudden shift in demeanour gives her pause. “My own family doesn’t want me, they didn’t come to say goodbye. They don’t even care if I live or die. Just put me out of my misery now.” Her voice is little more than a whimper. 

By now Ester has noticed the pause and the sound of footsteps behind Ximena is soon replaced with a threatening whisper in her ear. “This is the moment, finish him.” Still, Ximena is frozen staring at her partner. “He’s weak, he’s going to be weeded out Ximena. Show me that you’re not worthless. Show me that we can make something out of you.” 

“No.”

Ximena drops the staff to the floor with a dull thud. 

“I’m done training for today.”

And I will not stand for it. To have an open wound is to leave my body vulnerable to disease, infection. I shall not be careless with my body. I shall not disregard my appearance in the arena. I shall not permit flies to buzz about my dirty body as though a rotting corpse.

I must hold myself to higher standards than the typical citizen. There is so much to ridicule already, and I shall not provide any more reasons for people to find fault with me. I am an easy target, as an avox. But I shall not be the catalyst for my own downfall.

That is pathetic. That is shameful.

Never shall I be pathetic. Never shall I be shameful. I renounce such qualities.

Threading stitches is not at all much different than sewing together a ripped seam. Flesh is almost as penetrable, I find, for it doesn’t require me much effort to push the needle through than it does for me to push it through a swatch of cloth.

I soon master the skill and I find no reason to further pursue it, for that would be quite a waste of time. I have much more to improve upon, and it would wound my heart to insinuate that my sewing skills are less than excellent by continuing to bind together this synthetic flesh.

My peers converse with each other, chatting and laughing. It befuddles me. I am entirely unable to fathom as to why any of them should even entertain the thought of building relationships at such a dire time in their lives. Why should they wish to make friends when they might very well have to gut said friends as though pigs from the meat cellar? It’s really quite odd that they should do this.

Well, no matter to me. I shall not partake in the social aspect of this experience.

They are all quite loud, I find, and so I must distance myself from them if I should hope to have any success at all in preparing for the famed arena. I stroll in between the many racks that hold a plethora of weapons, my hands clasped behind my back.

I have always had very quick hands. They are nimble, lithe. Very responsive as well as dextrous. I do pride myself upon my work in the kitchen with the cutlery, and of course with my sewing and stitching. It was a gloomy, wintry eve when I sewed all but a three piece suit for the mayor before I drifted off into an eventless sleep.

And while I never received and compliments, any gratification from anyone whom I performed any sort of domestic work for, I was well aware that they were impressed with what I could do. I do expect such skills to transfer in handling weapons.

In truth, I had never considered a cleaver to be a weapon before this moment. Always utilizing it so that I may swiftly chop up the ingredients for the dishes I had always been ordered to prepare, those utterly disgusting dishes that I shouldn’t like to mention after just having my breakfast, I came to see it as a routine part of my dreary existence.

But now, I affix my gaze upon this same utensil, and I see it in a new light.

As I wrap my fingers around its hilt, I find it not at all cumbersome. It does not weigh me down like the silverware, the candelabras, and the dining plates I often must handle. It does not feel awkward like a long, long knife. So long that it is almost a sword. No, it does not feel like that.

There is a statuesque monument which I circle, blue in hue and not at all defined like marble. A trainer did mention that they are referred to as ‘dummies’ but such a word is a layman’s term. I shouldn’t like to sound as such.

Nonetheless, I take a brisk step forward and slash into the flesh of this target before me. The cleaver is quite sharp, quite keen, I find, as the right arm proves to now be entirely severed. I notice that it now reflects the likeness of a statue much more than before, with the absence of this limb. I was very fond of the statues in the hallways of the manor, you see. They were so admirable in demeanor, something that I almost strove to be.

But it was my similarity towards them that I grew to despise. I presume they put those there as a model for behavior. Even now, I do not feel quite alive.

Oh well. There is time to change that.

The remaining limbs fall just as easily as the first. They are severed cleanly, with no jagged marks or rough edges. I find it soothing to see the uniformity.

The head comes last, and to my disdain, it does put up a bit of a struggle. I require two slices of the cleaver to completely separate the head from the rest of the body, and when it topples off, I see that it was anything but smooth. That is something to improve upon, for I do not appreciate such a mess.

I gather the body parts and place them in a pile.