~/Smile, 'Cause You'll Go Out In Style\~ (nofo)

The Arena is a vast wasteland, all hard-packed dirt and no trees for cover or shelter. Blood, my blood, spatters too-bright crimson against the sandy ground as I run, leaving an easily-followable trail in my wake, but I can't bring myself to care at the moment. All that matters is getting away from the pack of muttations bearing down on me, some horrible cross between a wolf and a spider with eight legs tipped with razor-sharp claws. I try to fight the tremors that begin at the base of my neck, knowing that I'm dead the second I have a seizure in this horrible place, knowing that the monsters behind me will jump on my defenseless, shaking body and rip it to shreds and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. Just as I have this realization, my legs give out, and my entire being begins to convulse as I fall with a sandy thud to the ground. My sight blinks out to blackness as it always does, but I can still feel the pain, and distantly, so far away, I can hear someone screaming. I wonder if it's actually me...

I sit bolt upright with a small shriek, my alarm blaring out its screeching tones right next to where my ear had been a few seconds ago. My pajamas and hair are both soaked through with sweat, blankets tangled around my feet in a convoluted mess that makes me wonder just how much I was tossing and turning. My hands are shaking as I reach over and switch off the alarm clock, phantom images from the terrible nightmare still playing out in my half-conscious mind. Ripping my feet out from the tangled mess of blankets, I stumble out of my bedroom and down the hallway towards the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Being up at five-thirty in the morning on a Saturday isn't normal for most seventeen year olds, but it's commonplace for me, quietly shuffling around the house as not to wake up my still-slumbering parents.

It's six o'clock sharp when I step out of the shower and take a minute or two to inspect myself in the mirror. Dark brown curls so sopping wet that they appear black fall in a wavy curtain down around my shoulders, olive skin contrasting sharply with the pristine white of the towel that covers my torso. The dark circles under the flat, featureless brown of my eyes have made their appearance after another night of not sleeping well, but they are such a common occurrence that I've gotten used to them. Averting my eyes from my reflection, I tiptoe back up the hallway to my room, closing the door behind me and digging through my dresser for a set of training clothes.

They're not anything special, but they serve their function well. The black leggings again make a stark comparison with the slight tan of my skin, the khaki cargo shorts I slip over them softening the contrast a little. I quickly slip my feet into a pair of socks and then slide on my worn tennis shoes before reaching for the top of my dresser and grabbing the leather holster containing a set of five top-of-the-line throwing knives, cinching it securely around my right thigh. Skinning a black tank top over my head, I quickly slip an elastic band around my still-damp hair, taming it into a high ponytail that will keep it out of my face.

I glance back over at my clock, noting the that it's fifteen after six. I'm right on schedule, but I still feel incredibly nervous as I grab a stack of papers from my desk and walk across the hall, quietly ducking into my parents' room. I gingerly reach out and lay a hand on my father's shoulder, prodding him gently into wakefulness. "Dad, I'm going to training. I need my medicine."

Emotionless brown eyes that match my own slide open, appraising me coldly. "Report cards came out yesterday. What did yours look like?"

"All A's, I've got the papers right here."I remain stoic as his eyes flick over the paper and then back to me, judging, always judging. Nevertheless, he pulls a chain from around his neck with a brass key dangling for it, inserting it into the drawer on his nightstand and drawing forth a small plastic bottle, dispensing a little white pill into my outstretched hand.

"You've got evaluations coming up at training in a few days. I want an outstanding score, or it'll be a week, Corinne."

I shudder internally at the thought of a week without my anti-seizure medication, a week of disability and pain that I'd have to conceal from everyone. On the outside, though, I remain as emotionless and cold as my father, giving him a curt nod as I turn to leave. "I understand."

The training center is virtually abandoned this early on a Saturday, the little card reader on the wall blinking in red LED's that only twenty Careers have checked in today. The lights shift to read twenty-one as I swipe my ID card through, the electronically locked door in front of me unlocking with a loud clunk as I pull it open. I toss my backpack into a corner with the belongings of several others, walking across the vast gymnasium without talking to anyone. A few "Morning, Corinne's " and "What's up, Brightman's" fly my way, but I remain impassive. I'm not ready to deal with other people just yet.

Bringing myself to a halt in front of a line of human-shaped targets attached to a far wall, I back up to the yellow line that indicates the distance range for advanced knife throwers. The ranged combat instructor sits mutely behind his desk, giving me a bored nod that indicates I'm allowed to practice at my leisure. I slip my knives out of their holster, holding four of them clustered in my left hand as I firmly grip the blade of the fifth in my right. My form is impeccable as I throw the first, sending it with practiced motions into a red spot on the target's head that indicates a vital organ. The second flies without issue into a kidney, the third into the jugular, and the fourth into the liver. I'm saving my attempt at the heart, the smallest red circle on the wooden dummy, for last. My awareness narrows itself down to just myself, the target, and the raw force of my own determination. I've never been able to get a good solid hit on the heart from this far back, but surely after weeks of practice today will be the day. I draw the weapon back with good form, but a muscle in my arm twitches just as I let it fly, sending the blade spinning off-center and sticking a few inches away from the crimson circle.

Cursing quietly, I cross the target range and begin to yank the stainless steel blades free from the wood as my instructor crosses over to analyze my work. "As usual, you're thinking about it too much, Corinne. That's where you're different from your sister. Neva didn't overthink, she just acted. "

I want to scream in fury at the mention of my perfect little Victor sister, the impossible standard I'm expected to meet, but I only give a mute nod and turn around to go try again. I'm almost back to the yellow line when I notice a few burly boys clustered around something, laughing maliciously. Such activity usually indicated fresh meat for the carnivores, and I find myself floating quietly over to observe the situation.

She's tiny and vulnerable-looking, probably only eleven or twelve years old with wide, innocent eyes that betray just how scared she really is. This little girl isn't a hardened Career yet by any stretch of the imagination. I find my mind traveling back to a time where I was just like her, young and scared with kids four times my size bludgeoning me to a pulp on a daily basis. It's this image that makes me shoulder my way into the boys' imposing circle, glaring at each of them. They're all around my age group, bulky and stupid and downright mean. I also note that I've beaten every one of them at sparring at some point in time. A few of them note this too, and their eyes dart around apprehensively when my voice passes over my lips in a quiet alto murmur. "Leave her alone. Are any of you not man enough to pick on someone your own size?"

"Cool your jets, Corie, we're only having a some fun with the little pissant," the biggest one laughs, giving me a comradely clap on the shoulder that I push away irritably.

"Back off, Stefan. It's Corinne to you; only my friends can call me Corie and I don't count morons like you who would hurt a defenseless little girl as friends," I snarl, staring him and each of his buddies down in turn. They're all bigger than me, but I'm slightly satisfied when I spot the fear in their eyes. "It's odd that I'm the one to remind all of you that mighty things often come in small packages. I recall handing each of your asses to you on a silver platter in hand-to-hand. I'll say it nicely one more time, gentlemen. Leave the girl alone."

They withdraw one by one, leaving Stefan and I staring each other down. Finally the broad shouldered boy breaks eye contact and pushes past me, making sure to ram into me with his shoulder as he glares down at the little girl. "You won't always have someone around to protect you, munchkin. Watch your back." He turns back to me, smiling maliciously. "See you around, Corie."

I roll my eyes as he stalks off before looking down at the younger girl. I try my best to smile comfortingly but the motion is so rusty on my lips that I can only summon a sort of wry smirk. "Don't worry about them. They like scaring people, but they don't have a whole brain to split between the lot of them. If you're smart, they're not much of a threat. I'm Corinne Brightman. What's your name?"

I cringe inwardly at the realization that I've let my last name slip out, permanately tying myself to Miss Neva Brightman, Queen of Everything. My eyes are drawn up to the row of Victors' portaits on the wall of in front of me. A prettier, older version of myself grins down condescendingly, basking in the glow of everyone's admiration. Drawing a lip between my teeth, I find myself wishing that I had simply rescued the smaller girl and walked away without a word, because now she knows who I am.

And she also knows everything I am not.