#ronan kauri

Rest in Peace, you poor bastard. 

The Fallen

Glad that the fucking mess that was the scavenger hunt was over, Ronan was looking forward to going upstairs. Grab a drink or two. Or ten. Who was he fucking kidding but himself. 

Having placed second along with his teammates in the scavenger hunt, Ronan was calm for the moment. He had some sort of advantage for the arena, which was a good thing. A really fucking good thing. After all, who knows what will happen in there but the fucking game makers themselves.

And then what happens? 

He gets summoned to the fucking punishment room. He’d never been punished for anything he had done before back in the district. First time for everything.  Even though there shouldn’t fucking be. 

Seems like I’ve done a lot today. Started off tired, then kept going til’ I built myself back up. N’ now, I’m so pumped, I’m able gather up the will power to head back t’the unarmed station. Noor might’ve been ten times better than me at simple fighting, but I’m determined to learn something n’ be just as good as her. At, well, boxing, maybe.

Kicking off my shoes and wrapping my hands again, I make towards the trainer t’ask for some advice. But before I can get two steps in, I stop, seeing Ronan approach the station as well. Changing direction, I call out in greeting.

It was time. Ronan had avoided the goddamn station for as long as possible, but he even he knew that he couldn’t avoid it forever. The fitness station loomed before him, and he glared at it fiercely. Yes, he could run well, and was decent at climbing. Damn, he was even fairly strong. But other than that, his body was shit. Both he and the trainer knew this, even when he was still feet away from the station as of yet. 

Reaching the gates to hell, Ronan fought the urge to wince. All of the exercise equipment seemed to taunt him as he walked up to it, trying to decide what in the hell he wanted to start with. 

Figuring it would be a wise idea to train in an area where he had no goddamn experience, Ronan found himself having to debate between the demons that were aerobics, agility, acrobatics, and flexibility. 

It was in that moment that his dear friend Linden showed up. On one hand, he was grateful that he wouldn't have to go through this torture alone. On the other hand, he didn’t want to have to force anyone else to go through it either. There was no fucking win in this situation. 

Glancing around the training center, the swing weapons station caught Ronan’s eye. He had absolutely no fucking experience with any of the terrifying machines of death that lay around the station, and would rather no how to use one than end up being on the receiving end of one. 

Walking up to the station, he decided that it would be a wise idea to start with the simplest one there: the whip. Picking up the object, he stared at the leather for a few seconds. Perhaps if he was able to master the basics of this weapon, he could apply the same concepts to some of the other fucking machine of death surrounding him. He didn’t know why, but these terrified him more than any of the other deadly weapons in the training center. Sure, some of the other weapons could probably do him more damage, but in the long run any weapon could become his worst nightmare when placed in the hands of the wrong person. 

Laying out the basics like a textbook, the trainer then watched him with an expression that seemed to challenge him. Urged him on to prove that he could do a goddamn thing with the weapon. The last thing he saw before turning to practice on a dummy was her picking up a drink, taking a long sip. 

Oh, so the trainers could drink but he couldn’t while working? So much for fair. 

Only a few minutes had passed, and to say that his progress was minimal would be an understatement. Then he managed to land a decent hit for once, and felt a small grin on his face. Sure, it was small. But it could only improve from there right? 

After a night of drinking, Ronan made his way back to the suite. Isle glared at him, but he really didn’t give a fuck. Let a man live. She wasn’t in charge of his decisions. No one controlled his idiot self but Ronan. And that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. 

Once again, he awoke around three in the morning, moonlight shoving its way into his brain. Showered. Dressed in the training uniform. Snuck a few drinks. Went to the canteen.  Ate some food. Drank some more drinks. Not alcoholic this time. HIs liquids weren’t all fucking alcoholic after all. Observed the other tributes. Went to the training center as soon as the day hit seven. 

Entering the room, Ronan noticed that the doors at the back were open, leading to an outdoors area. Quickly analyzing the outdoors station, Ronan determined that he wouldn’t be heading out there. It all appeared to be fucking hippie liberal douche kind of shit that wouldn’t be useful at all when it came to actually surviving in the arena.

Glancing around the room, the station full of shooting weapons caught his eye. He had no practice in these sorts of weapons, and it would be useful to have at least some knowledge going into the arena.

Heading over to the station, he picked up a crossbow. It was an intriguing weapon, and after hearing the short and curt instructions of the trainer he tried out a shot. 

And missed really fucking badly. 

Pierce shot some insults towards him. Ronan tried again, still missing. The words increased in volume and severity. And they went round and round like this until Ronan finally shot the stupid dummy in the heart. Refusing to praise him, Pierce continued to ridicule him until he had mastered the basics of the crossbow. 

Training was finished for the day. After heading to his suite, Ronan took a long shower. Washed away all the sweat and blood of the day. Fucking henna wouldn’t come off though. Oh well. It wasn’t too bad. Just got him even more weird looks than he already did before. 

Climbing out of the shower, Ronan got dressed in casual wear. Except casual for the Capitol meant cashmere sweaters and dress slacks. Still, it was better than a suit. Headed to the bar in the suite. Isle screeched at him like the hawk she was to not do so. 

So he left. 

Went towards the roof. Lights adorned the makeshift wine garden the Capitol had set up for whatever fucking reason. But he didn’t care. Because there was a bar. With alcohol.