Though I Walk Through The Valley... [open]

“Ooof!”

Cyrus fell over once again, and he knew that he must’ve looked like a fool. Here he was, practicing self-defense in front of a bunch of literal dummies, and he just couldn’t get the timing quite right. He took the time to make sure that he dodged and parried, but the arm would just come so quickly with such a hard tack to his left that he’d be sent backwards onto his butt without so much as a second thought. He sat on the ground for another few moments with his chest heaving, hoping that not too many of the other tributes had seen his laughable attempt at trying to defend himself from an inanimate object. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took another few deep breaths.

He knew that they had precious little time until their private training sessions, and as of now Cyrus had yet to master anything. His fires sputtered out, his first aid wrapping looked like a child had attacked limbs with toilet paper, and his self-defense tactics usually resulted in him head-over-heels or, as his father used to say, ass-over-teakettle. He slowly made his way to his feet and tried to shake the feeling of embarrassment that was filling him now. He’d volunteered for this, and he was showing everyone just exactly why it had been a terrible idea to do so. He’d be lucky if the rest of them didn’t pick him off in the bloodbath for his apparent clumsiness.

Cyrus had also distanced himself from the other tributes as much as possible. He wasn’t fearful of them, to be honest—and this was perhaps more something to be said about his naiveté than anything else—because he knew how singular of a task this was supposed to be. As much as he wanted to lean on Fawn for her own courage and friendship, this was a road he’d have to walk alone. Only he could understand how to cauterize a wound, or which berries he’d be able to eat versus those that would leave him cold to this world. He didn’t want to shut anyone out, but the more he let anyone in, the bigger he felt the weight grow on his chest, and the higher his anxiety level would grow. It was much simpler to focus on his training when he could slide back into the familiar coldness of routine.

-----

There were cakes of every kind. Cyrus had tasted every one that had been left out for them since they’d arrived from District Six. He was like a wide-eyed child as he explored there expansive rooms, splashed with color and other-worldly decor. He wondered if this was what it meant to be a capitolite. Surely they had to have worries about where to get their food or paying for all of this? They were even staffed with silent men and women—Cyrus having never learned much about avoxes, he was distrustful of them—of which Cyrus never asked anything, feeling that he should do everything himself.

It was the view that affected him most. He was a boy of few words to begin with, but the view of the city rendered him silent. This was what he dreamed about: a view of the world below. Even if it was just an ounce of freedom, Cyrus kept this feeling with him as he trained. All this freedom could be his, if only he could last long enough to savor it.

“You need to impress—to show them that you’ve got what it takes to get out of the way of a career (hic), ‘cause you’re never gonna beat them hand to hand—don’t look at me like a deer in the headlights, you haven’t got s—t on one of them with a knife,” His mentor, semi-sober, had been slightly more amenable upon reaching the capitol. He hadn’t written them entirely off for their rag-taggedness, but from the sight of some of the competitors from the upper districts, his thoughts were grim.

“You’ve got to make sure that your score gives you a chance—let people know that you’re not pathetic and defenseless… but it’s really all about presentation. It’s ab-(hic)-about flash. You know what that means, r-right? You gotta be personable.”

Cyrus took it all in, every last word. Cyrus could tell that the odds were against him—he was particularly good with numbers—and he had very few lifelines with which grasp. In the flurry of pomp and circumstance, Cyrus had drifted into his cold and unflinching way of approaching life: ask questions, get the responses necessary, and carry out what one needed to do. He’d been fine with being dressed up and poked and prodded by his handlers.

In fact, he even liked having so much attention. The cheers from capitolites made him think that he had a reason—perhaps multiple reasons—that he could carry out his plan for freedom. Still, he needed to know just what might save him from the cold reality of the arena. “How do I get a good score? What should I study?

[/color]” Cyrus asked, running through scenarios in his brain. He wasn’t unfit. He was pretty strong, having worked with heavy metals and in soldering for some time.

His mentor reclined in his chair and took another long drink of whiskey. He shook his head and let out a snort. “Those guys want a (hic) good s-show, Cyrus. They want to see someone who’s going to entertain, not just stab everything that moves. You don’t think that they j-just want a quick wham-bam-thank-you-mam session, do you?” He shifted forward some and let out a sigh. “Look. You’re a smart kid. Awkward as f—k, but you’re not stupid. You could’ve stayed out of this whole thing.” He held up his hands as Cyrus opened his mouth. “I’m still having a hard time (hic) understanding it, and I can tell you this: they will too. So you better f-fuh-figure out a way to get them to (hic) sh-sh-shut up about you being an idiot.”



He stood to his feet again and readied the dummy for another go. He was good at figuring out solutions. He just had to come up with a way to show them that he wasn’t another child thrown to his death. He may not have had the skill in fighting as the others, but he could pretend. And so Cyrus had stumbled upon an old, old trick: to fake it until you make it. Not that he wasn’t going to learn how to snap a wrist if he needed to disarm someone, or how to make a splint. Rather, he would puff up his chest, swallow his anxiety, and push it deep, deep, deep down to his toes. He would not let his face get flushed so easily—he just had to think of all those rooting for him, of all those cheering for him. He had to think of the freedom outside of these walls.

As the dummy swung downward, this time Cyrus managed to pivot and slide underneath. He wrapped an arm around its neck and the steeled his grip on the things arm. His elbow jabbed into its gut, and Cyrus snarled—yes, perhaps the first time ever—and concentrated on bringing the arm downward. He let out a grunt as he lurched forward, feeling as though he finally had the upper hand. This was, of course, until the things weight kicked in, and the two of them crashed down hard onto the floor. Cyrus felt the air go out of his lungs as he rolled out from under the thing, and let out a few rasps. He sat, hands on his knees, giving himself a moment before trying it once more.[/blockquote][/size]