Public Training Sessions

Maybe I'll see you again when it's snowing in Venice,
And I will be on my way home.

"Septys, tell us a story."

While some of his fellow tributes tremble in fear, or tingle with excitement, Sepyts' Career-building roots take hold. Private Training Sessions are described as the most enjoyable part of pre-game training by more than one of his trainers, and their words have yet to disappoint. He finds himself hanging on to each and every analogy they use, distant memories flooding back throughout the time in the center. The gymnasium appears rather large without the presence of the other tributes, and he already feels himself spreading out, eyes tumbling across various stations he didn't even know existed here, things they don’t teach in District One. What the fuck is rationing?

A grin comes to his lips- not something twisted or rent from superiority or terror, but a true, honest grin. From the time of his twelfth birthday, Septys had run through a mock PTS about ten or eleven times with soft faced pretend game makers, but this- this was phenomenal, the real deal. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, cells colliding with each other to get to his flesh the fastest, burning his body with eager highlight of his form.

It was not a display of deft killing abilities, but a game- whoever got the highest score earned themselves a half-off coupon for some restaurant past the district center, and that meant a family walk down winding alleys, playing things like 'Eye Spy' and Tag around the tightly clasped hands of their mother and father, brothers bonding in the palms of youth.

The last session he attended was nearly three years ago, before the death of an unconvinced mother.

All of ten years old, he begins to spill a tale to the cluster of humans spread along the king-sized bed, towel tied around his neck as if it were a sheet. "Alright. Once upon a time, there was this beautiful maiden. She was a princess, magnificent, and loved by all her subjects, but she never chose to be a princess. All she wanted was to run and play in the sun, but the King refused to let her- women don’t come home with muddy faces and broken skin."

He stands upon an invisible square placed smack in the middle of the room, his eyes lifting to catch the darkened gaze of two he'd seen before, in years past. He is second during this year’s lineup, and ponders what Ruth may have done during her session. He can’t quite tell if it impressed them or not, and imagined them as the eager, round-faced bearded men who always graded his previous performances.

"Hello, I'm Septys Lexig from District One." he announces, voice projecting easily across his stage, as if he were back home parading across the huge king-sized bed in their parents room the family would collect in to watch his antics. There is no reason to state who he is, they already know. But this is an audition for a play with a lead role fit for kings, and he will kill for his character.

Far too much time passed between the last play and now, but he is ready, regardless of the fingers of circumstance. Digits tingling with excitement, he turns, and struts proudly to the knife station.

"She was such a troublemaker, the King put her at the top of a high tower, where she would grow up alone, with nothing but a vicious, fire-breathing dragon for company. He told her one day, a majestic prince would come to free her from the prison he'd made and she would come home showered in riches and adoration from her people."

Excitedly he digs through the packets of knives, sifting for the perfect tool. His hands fall upon one, solid steel, about the length of his palm and thick as his little finger. The blade itself is jagged, with steep mountains and deep valleys meant for carving and rending. Two fingers rub carefully over the top of the knife, keeping away from the blade- One side holds a slight lip, curving ever so gently to the left. It is invisible to the naked eye, but the inevitable mistake whatever factory imbued this blade with is one he takes thankfully.

Its perfect imperfection grants him an arrow to continue, and his gaze flickers to the medical station. Foot falls not too fast nor too slow carry him across perfectly even tile, his hands falling into the ingredients, searching, digging for anything he can use.

"A prince in a neighboring kingdom, fifth in line for the throne starts preparing, his knights training him on how to kill dragons. He drills for years and years, dreaming of her soft hands on his face, and the gentle caress of her kiss for months before he finally embarks on the journey."

His hands grab at a bottle, carefully tucking it into a pocket. The white label burns in his pants, his lips forming a gentle curve upwards to two points. Its small, barely peeks out over the black fabric of the pants he wears, but there, offering him a grim comfort nonetheless.

He ambles past the medicinal plants, eyes brushing above each of the bundles, fingers gently tracing the edges of the table. Nothing useful here.

Septys continues, beyond trapping, rationing, fire-starting with his hand carefully tapping the surface of each table, poking at this or that, withdrawing once or twice to the soft fabric of his pockets. He's made a large semi-circle throughout the auditorium, and finally comes to a stop before a boxed-off area, mannequins and training dummies dotting the surface like a forest of still humanoids.

"The prince rides day and night, nonstop, barely even sleeping for a week until he arrives at the princess' tower. All seems quiet, and he approaches. Giant, black wings unfurl and collapse upon him, casting a huge shadow with a tremendous ROAR!"

Stationary targets are easy. Even the youngest, weakest career can hit a dummy planted firmly on stiff feet. The games are different- everyone else is moving too, their thoughts, feelings, emotions, instincts clouding their minds. Sometimes that autopilot, trance-like setting can be more dangerous than physically thinking about what one is about to do.

Slim fingers again, tap on the surface of the station table. Glinting upon the very center, a curved button stares back at Septys, the word 'ACTIVATE' in large, white font shining, screaming, calling to be pressed.

An index finger reaches for the thing, and carefully pushes down, until a 'Click' can be heard, and the mannequins begin shuddering to life, shifting, moving side to side, then back to front. Some have hands that lift and clench, as though they were ready to pummel the tribute to the ground. Others stray to the outside edges, cowering, arms thrown over faceless heads and featureless bodies.

Septys stifles a laugh, hand lifting to his lips.

"The gallant prince screams out- 'Let the princess go, she is no longer your prisoner! She will become my bride!' But the dragon opens its maw, and spits fire down on the hapless prince, who is forced to gallop away."

The mannequins remind him of something out of a children's book, a many headed creature that can't quite decide if it wants to run or fight, and he gingerly steps over the threshold into the hurricane of swirling hands and fists.

One comes at him from the left, and he lifts his shoulder to catch the dummy’s forearm in midair with his tight palm, causing it to stop its assault for a moment. The knife clutched firmly in the knuckles of his right fingers slip deep into the thing's jugular, biting down as hard as it possibly could.

A spray pushes out, splattering the male's face, coating his features in a sticky substance as he backs away and allows the frame to collapse into the ground. An answering swing pushes into his shoulder, causing Septys to spin on pointed toes, his left fist clenched tight (thumb on the outside, like training dictates) swinging wide, forcing itself below the chin of the closest monster with all of his weight placed behind the motion.

It too, collapses, though not quite 'dead'- its head twitches upon its shoulders, spasms of electricity alighting its pained fingers. Septys grins down at it, and steps nonchalantly over the 'corpse,' diving down below swinging fists, as another pair rush at him, colliding together in their hurry to fight him.

"The dragon falls to his princess, carefully laying his head beside her while she giggles. 'He was too full of himself.' the dragon explains, the princess' hands running along the beast's shining scales. What the Kingdom didn't know, what the King didn't care to see; the friendship both princess and dragon forged a close bond through the years alone together kept them both alive and afloat. The dragon would do anything to protect his only family-"

The knife slams between two ribs, pointed tendrils of excitement boring into the side of the thing. Its hands reach, though Septys is prepared, his knee jutting into the soft underbelly of the human machine, his hand pushing into where a pure white eye responds, whirling every direction as though sizing him up.

A thumb plunges into the twisting socket, 'Two pounds' of pressure forcing the thing free with a sickening POP until the dummy collapses, pulling itself away from the blade of his knife.

The last bit of humanity in the room charges, its fingers outstretched, confident it too, can enact vengeance for its fallen brothers, sisters, whatever the fuck machines identify as.

Arms dip, dropping down to his pockets while steady hands throw steel and that burning white bottle into the open- the blade of the knife lifts the spinning lid free, cutting the top away from a thirsty body as the stuff dips into his mouth, spilling, pouring over his front.

It falls to the floor, drenching it in alcohol as the knife spins in his fingers, imperfect lip pushing hard over top the elongated fire starter, flurry of sparks rising before the tribute and the body as his hands slam down and out of the way; you could never hold your mother-fucking liquor.

"Cmon Sep, it didn't happen like that."
"Yes it did!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I am the dragon!"

His jaws part ever so slightly, a spray of alcohol, saliva, and oxygen erupting into the air before him. The mixture floats across the ignited magnesium stick and his knife, catching particles of the liquid aflame with a humongous, fizzling, WHOOSH. Millions, trillions of fireflies flutter across the empty space, hungering, sucking anything they can inhale, while enveloping the mannequin in a fiery embrace.

Shadows collapse, folding in on themselves from the massive burst of light, the heat from the fireball billowing over papers from stations nearby, fluttering and flickering to the ground.
He holds his position before the dummy, his hand lowered out of the way while he sprays, eyes narrowing at the thing before him while the light from his fire threatens to take his sight. A sickening odor of melting plastic fills the air, hanging heavy before it, too, collapses to the ground.

Ruined flesh, still alight with bits of flame collapse into the puddle of alcohol the rent bottle dispersed. A second ball of flame swallows the air, ripping away the male’s breath while he stares upwards at the game makers, that same, crooked grin on his lips, heart alight with the fires burning beside him threatening to overtake and engulf the entire stage.

Memories of companions abandoned back in his home district peruse and flutter through the corridors of his mind; oh, what they may say if they could see the impressive explosion his exhalation brought! Sure, their small group did things similar in the past with failed batches of moonshine, never the good stuff because ‘That shit is expensive’ and it was considered a sin to waste such fine alcohol on a mere party trick especially when they could sell it instead of earning a night in bed with a familiar face and open arms.

His hands lift with the blade tight in his fingers, as a few loud beeps echo down, nozzles flashing from the ceiling. Though its isolated to Septys’ corner, a dark, ocean blue liquid seeps down, foaming and fizzling once it contacts the fires below.

Immediately the fires dim and flicker out, while Septys stands, his hair sticking to his face with the gel coating his form and outstretched arms. Still he smiles, and finally, he bows, the gentle curve of his body nothing if not respectful as he announces a pleasant “Thank you!” to the makers.

In his game, Septys wins the coupon.