bang, bang. {you're dead} [Argonauts]

holy diver, you've been down too long in the midnight sea
oh, what's becoming of me?
ride the tiger, you can see his stripes
but you know he's clean, oh, don't you see what i mean?
got to get away, get away, holy diver

The Training Center holds the same kind of sterile impersonality that pervades everything in the Capitol and stains it with an ugly mark of soullessness that hovers unperceived beneath the veneer of false beauty that paints everything in the nation’s ruling city. Kiera never thought she would miss the slums of One, but now she begins to long for the sagging buildings and peeling paint that acted like a worn patchwork quilt, keeping her spirit warm against the world’s empty echoes and superficial smiles. There is a sort of deathly chill here that has nothing to do with the impending journey to the Arena, and in fact, Kiera almost thinks that the prospect of blood and carnage holds more promise than this fractured hull of an existence.

Her training clothes are richer and better-made than any item of clothing she’s ever owned, the black shirt and stretchy pants conforming so closely to her shape that it’s as if they were made specifically for her. Everything in the Capitol is customized, and yet there’s an unsettling uniformity in the way only the ‘1’ across the back of her shirt marks her as any different from the other twenty-three souls being prepared for a sacrifice almost as old as Panem itself. All anyone here views them as is a vessel of blood to be spilled over an altar of depravity, nothing but a lamb beneath the Capitol’s knife to ensure another year of hard-won security. The principle is hateful and so inherently wrong, and yet Kiera can’t help but pity them, with their bright colors and fine fabrics masking a hollow existence.

The Avox girl that comes to lead her down to the gym is pretty, only one or two years older than her at most with long, dark hair and an unfailingly kind if somewhat sympathetic smile. Kiera doesn’t hold the same opinion of the silent servants that the rest of the world seems to, doesn’t hold the same disdain for them in her heart. After all, were circumstances different this girl could be Kaelen, could be herself, could be any of her sisters. Mankind’s definition of crime and betrayal is sadly mistaken for what the true meaning of it really is. She follows the girl with a kind smile of her own, absently winding her hair into a tight braid that brushes the small of her back as she goes. One side of her head feels oddly light, the reminder of the locks she’d shorn off so Blair could wind her soul into the fabric of a smiling doll forever, and Kiera strokes the short, feathery tufts of remaining hair with a fond remembrance that feels almost like home.

The feeling of a sword in her hand is familiar to the point it’s very nearly comforting, her firm grip on the hilt bringing back memories of sweltering summer days and the ghost of Kaelen’s voice telling her to get up, Ki, try again, you’re better than this. With that motivation spurring her on she launches forward into a flawlessly executed series of slices and chops against a dummy until the pseudo-tribute lies dismembered at her feet, a thin sheet of sweat coating her forehead. Smiling with a grim sort of satisfaction, Kiera places the sword neatly back on the rack before leaning back against the wall to catch her breath and survey the activities of the other Tributes.

Her eyes are drawn immediately to a strong-looking, dark-haired boy, the ‘9’ emblazoned across his back at odds with the skill with which he wields the mace in his hand against his inanimate foe. Arching an eyebrow in speculation, she waves Peridot over with a flick of her wrist and nods silently in the District Nine’s direction before offering a mute but still clearly readable look. Do we want him?

Kiera knows that she’ll stick with Peridot at least for a while, if for no other reason than to hold on to her last reminder of home, but the prospect of a larger alliance is a promising one. She’s seen the bonds forming between the lower districts, seen the tributes begin to band together, and Kiera is more than aware that superior skill will only do so much against sheer force of numbers. At this rate, she’d rather have Nine on her side at the Cornucopia than coming at her with that mace swinging so adeptly from his fist. Not bothering to wait for a reaction, she grabs Peridot by the wrist and hauls him across the floor with a force many wouldn’t expect from her tiny body, stopping beside the boy’s dummy.

People are thick, Kiera. If you want to get your point across, they usually respond to force. It was one of the many parables that Kaelen drilled into her malleable mind over the years, and it drifts to the forefront of Kiera’s mind now, prompting her to lean over and snatch a different sword from the rack and jam it into the dummy’s chest in such a way that it intercepts the mace’s arc, tangling its chain around the blade.

“Hi,” she says in her low, stormy alto, the look on her face open and amiable despite the pointed way she had gotten the boy from Nine’s attention. “I’m Kiera Dempsey, and this is Peridot Myler. We’re from One. You’re pretty good with that mace; we were watching you. What’s your name?”

She lets her surname and the quiet danger lurking beneath her skin speak for themselves (news travels slowly across the Districts but a sensational story of serial murder travels faster than most petty gossip, prompting even those from Eleven and Twelve to raise an eyebrow when they first heard her name), her status as the blood kin of Death incarnate leaving her entrapped in a delicate dance between friendliness and veiled intimidation that has a logic of his own. If he has any sort of self-preservation, perhaps the boy will think about her what she first thought about him – that he would rather have her as an ally than an enemy.