Trapped [Margaret and Zeki]

There’s a rut between the mats of the wrestling station and the wall, and I have managed to utilize it in the best way possible by making it the residence of my afternoon naps. Here, my escort can no longer squabble at the dinner table, complaining that I was not using my time wisely (which, still, I wasn’t) by not spending every waking moment in the training center. At least now, with the bribe of an extra muffin on Wyatt’s part, I could eat in silence.

Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my midday nap.

Instead I almost get a nose to the knee, and with a disapproving grunt I shake the sleep from my limbs and wander about, heading back to the corners of the room which I had failed to visit (which, in retrospect, was probably ninety percent of the equipment-ridden space). I pass hand-to-hand for the thirteenth time, as well as Hedvig and Lex looking as if they’re a second away from tossing their pants across the room, before coming to the long distance weaponry range, occupied by a boy whose hopes of being successful at this in the slightest were just about as much of a long shot. 

The back of his shirt said five, and on a scale of one to ten that’s about where he fell, but then again, in terms of accuracy and efficiency I fell about in the same range, but his term of judgment was marked clearly to see, unlike my own. 

I take a place beside him, gesturing to the still unmarred target down the way before gathering my hair and tying it back with the black band I stole from Hedvig this morning, after which I take another knife and offer it out in his direction, “You should try aiming this time.”

“Well, I was, but it turns out I’m not the shot I thought I was.”

Oh, you’re telling me. 

I almost turn on my heel and head off then, but it’s when he begins to speak again that I halt my actions, pausing to turn and look him in the eye as he continues, “D-Do you have any tips?” I could give him advice on things far and wide, if he wanted it. 

Don’t toss yourself to the flames.

Don’t leave behind what you’ve amassed.

Don’t lose yourself out there. 

But then I’d be a hypocrite. 

Instead I just chuckle, twirling the knife a bit before setting it on the counter and leaning back, watching others cross paths left and right, some turning to malevolent snarls and others turning to a pat on the back at goals met and reached. 

And here I was, standing next to a boy who probably couldn’t hit me if I did it for him. 

I toss glances at the knife again, debating as to whether or not to pick the damned thing up and give it a go myself, but sound reasoning takes root in my mind and reminds me that any assets I had did not include safely handling an object sharper than my tongue. 

“I could make up a pointer or two for you to put your faith in, but don’t ask me to back it up with a demonstration.” 

(“No explanation I could give you now would fix anything, you know that.”) 

It’s funny how morals never change, not even for strangers or family. 

“Margaret,” and here I extend a hand, not sure if for the measures of business or acquaintanceship, but regardless it was adding another name to the list of people who wouldn’t have anything but just that to give following another week or two, “It’s Zeki, right?”

“That’s right, I’m Zeki, and I’d love any advice I can get on this.”

Thicker than the oil that ran through his homelands.

I haven’t put much effort into training of any sorts, but it seems that I have perfected the art of self-control, for his thick skull and ignorant innocence press against my patience, yet it refuses to budge, caught on some string of either pity or entertainment at the boy’s process of thought. It would be apparent by now, to Lex or Hedvig or even Mason, that every word that had been spoken in the last five minutes had been fabricated from sarcasm and lack of knowledge, but then again, careers weren’t only physically advanced, I suppose.

The good ones weren’t, anyway.

They would have responded by taking the knife and giving it a toss of their own, bound to be more accurate with their realities than I could be even in my fantasies, and as I watch the knife on the counter I give thought to revealing my play to hand, the hand of cards I had been hiding from just about everyone here.

That hand was the equivalent of an ace up the sleeve, and considering the circumstances, the gain wouldn’t be much if I showed it now.

Timing is everything, and I may not have much, but it seems to be that Zeki Webb has even less.

I study the place that his knife landed after the attempt at which I had walked in on, and I squint my eyes in falsified concentration, drawing paths from the point of the blade to the center of the target a few times just for good measure, “Well, you accounted for all the abiotic factors, of course?”

You only play your strongest hand when you’ve been figured out.

Good thing oblivion is one of my cards.