build yourself a myth {ghosty/python/rook}

Leander Delacroix

Look at the little tikes.

The infant careers were obediently lined up against the farthest wall, idly standing and waiting to receive instructions, nametags, and assigned mentors. To summarize, today’s special “event” at the training center – made mandatory by stubborn instructors – was glorified babysitting, and Leander was trapped with the elder responsibility. He had tuned out of the initial lecture about why they were sponsoring this new program and what the actual point of it was (probably something about the importance of positive influence on younger minds), so the details were lost on him. He only knew that his own opinions on the matter were completely defined; it was a waste of time, and a burden to the older careers who came here to polish their well-practiced skills. Since when were careers supposed to care about anyone but themselves? That was the truth of the stereotype, right? Careers were selfish, they were meant to be selfish.

What a load of shit.

He didn’t plan to take it seriously, especially if they paired him with some brat. The last thing he wanted to meddle with was some kid’s whiny, arrogant, prepubescent attitude, because Leander might just lose his patience with someone like that, and whacking them with a wooden sword was his only method of solving that problem. He made a spectacle of audibly sighing as one of the instructors walked by, dragging a familiar face in his wake.

”You're with Delacroix - There's a lot more older students here, so you'll both have to mentor the same kid,” said the instructor, prompting Leander to blink and glance up from the speck he had been examining on the floor, which happened to be much more interesting than this “adopt a career” shit. He recognized the handsome baby face that belonged to the name nobody ever wanted to say, so they called him Barty Birch. He was hardly defined by his surname “Birch” – hell, Leander often forgot that he was part of the famous name. Bart was just Bart, and Leander had sparred with him enough not to mind his friendly company in a situation like this.

”Pretty high,” he said, the feminine undertone of his voice noticeable but never questioned by his peers – not openly, at least. The odds of them getting paired with a snot-nosed shit with a cocky attitude was probably one in two, but fortunately he already had a plan for dealing punishment for brats who deserved it. ”Doesn’t matter, though. I plan to whip the attitude right out of ‘em.” He tapped the wooden sword leaning against the wall behind him. Wooden weapons were child’s play, which was exactly why he wanted to use it with their future “student.” It was a weapon for beginners, but nobody gave them enough credit for the nasty bruises and welts they could leave. If wielded correctly, a wooden sword could leave a mural of pain against an unfortunate body.

Most of these mini careers were twelve and thirteen years old, not even close to arriving at their prime. They were like fresh meat in a room full of trained predators. Leander remembered himself at that age; still confused about his identity, still trying to discover himself and merge himself with the career crowd. It was an enlightening but stressful time in his life, but it had all lead up to here. He didn’t regret a single part of it. The only downside was the secret he had to carry on his shoulders, a burden heavier than any weight in this training center. Fortunately, not a single individual suspected him.

Leanne was long gone, and Leander thrived over her ashes.

As the kids dispersed to find their mentors, Bart started mentioning District One. Those spoiled sons of bitches. This would be something that they would do, so why was a District Two center getting involved with something so meaningless?

”The people here are getting soft.”

Perhaps it was time to reverse that.

Drifting in and out
See the road you're on
You came rolling down the cheek
You say just what you need

I wish Elliot was here. My twin brother and I have such a healthy rivalry - When we're at the academy together I feel like training isn't a chore. I feel like I can actually have fun and express myself. When he's not here I have to turn to other people. Don't get me wrong, I like Leander. I like him a lot, in fact - There's a lot that he and I have in common, and we have a very similar sense of humor. It's just that Elliot is my other half, and I feel the most relaxed and comfortable when he's around. I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon - He's busy doing some solo work in a different Career academy north of here. It's a shame, I think he improves more when he tests himself against other people, but he insists he needs to build himself for the upcoming Reaping. I hope he knows what he's doing.

"Pretty high," Leander responds to me after a short silence, "Doesn't matter, though. I plan to whip the attitude right out of 'em."
Leander strikes me as an assertive guy with no lack of optimism, and even though he has enthusiasm, he is not naive or foolish. He knows what's what. If anyone can mentor young kids effectively, it's Leander. To be honest I don't know if that should worry me or not.

This pathetic attempt to get us to bond with the younger generation of Careers will not last. This repulsiveness, this grotesque image of helping the innocent and naive to learn to kill - It will soon die out. The people in charge will learn that just because we are trained killers, it does not mean that we will take the responsibility upon ourselves to make others like us. I look around the room and I know that most the people here are ashamed of what they are. Why would they want to taint innocence like this? I almost feel sick.

"The people here are getting soft." Leander mutters. Maybe I am getting soft. There was a time where I wouldn't question this. I would have simply took it upon myself to mentor a young Career because I would want them to be like me. I would have considered having a young protégé an achievement. Now I can't think of anything worse. I try to think back to when I was twelve years old - Did I ever have a mentor? No one stands out. Elliot and I made our own success, and learned things the hard way. I don't know which idea makes me feel worse, helping kids to become murderers, or leaving them to figure it out for themselves.

"Hello, I'm Isabella, and if I'm not mistaken, you're my tutors for today." Her voice is so innocent. I exhale involuntarily, feeling empty and cold. It's our responsibility to shape this little girl into a killer. I have no problem with people my age, but when I look at kids this young it makes me think about the morality of it all. How many of these kids will actually go on to compete in the Games? Less than one percent, and that's a fact. Answer me this - What happens to the rest? 99% of the population are trained killers who will never kill. What kind of society is that?

"Woah, slow down there," I yawn widely, having only risen from my bed a couple of hours ago. "It's still morning, tone down the enthusiasm, kid."
I look to Leander, hoping that he'll do the introductions ahead of me.

And in between
It's never as it seems
Help me to make it
Help me to make it