[Day 2] Foil Round 2: Keller vs. Northrop

"Phoebe Keller," the tannoy rings out in the District One changing room, and I roll my eyes. Not my name. I hold my back straight as I pace to the weapon rack and pick up the sword with my initials on the handle - a nice touch. The foil feels perfectly balanced in my hand, and suddenly I feel a surge of that pre-fight electricity I relish so much. The excitement rises in me. It's time to win again.

My opponent doesn't scare me in the slightest. The most I can say is that his playful yet aggressive grin reminds me of that of Flint, the last swordsperson to defeat me. I won't let that happen again, and especially not in front of all these people who now applaud my name. Responding to their cries, I turn full circle, waving and grinning up at them. They only came for the show, anyway.

The final greeting is reserved for my opponent, who I bow to courteously as we take up our positions at either end of the stage. My foil swishes satisfyingly through the air, cutting its path, as I bring it to position in front of me.

En garde.

Pret.

Allez.

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A single tap and I know that I'm one step closer to defeat. Through the gauze mask, I can't see the board well, but the tally in my head goes up from 2 points to 3. I know that fighting back is becoming more vital with every second - as well as the need for excitement. The Olympic Committee don't care about the results of the fights, as long as the spectators keep cheering and love for Panem's Career hopefuls only increases.

I think about what a show it would be if blood began to bloom through our white outfits, as it would in the Hunger Games, turning this into a real battle for life and death. Unsettlingly, part of me wishes the foil I hold in a tingling fist was a real sword, with weight and danger in its composition. That part of me can almost feel the sword pushing against the faric of my opponent's suit, sinking the point through the cloth and the skin beneath, waiting for those blood roses to rise to the surface with a satisfying and sadistic pleasure.

Beneath the mask, my eyes widen in horror at my own imagination and I shake myself out of the vision, focussing again on the fight at hand.

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I can feel my advantage start to increase, and wonder if behind the mask my opponent's face is as tired as I assume it is. I try to picture a regimented Career, whose healthy fear of his disciplined Trainer is beginning to verge on dangerous as he nears the end of his training Career. It's impossible to deny how lucky I myself was - as ironic as it sounds - to be adandoned and adopted, and treated with care by a trainer that was also my employer and my guardian. Our fighting rehearsals were lighthearted, energetic and varied, not the repeated routines of a standard-issue fighter. I was always taught the importance not only of bravery, but of optimism when coming against a competitor.

Another strike hits my body and I lunge back in kind, hoping for the best and envisioning myself landing a multitude of hits on the target. I carry the illusion through, seeing myself claiming victory for the entire fight, and then the medal for the whole tournament. Not wishful thinking so much as affirmation. Besides, I could never do this for the actual Games, where the triumph comes solely from murder. Perhaps that's what makes these visions of victory so easy to see and believe.

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Four strikes this time hit my body in quick succession, and it takes more effort than I care to consider to stop the scream that threatens to break my cool composure from breaking out. Again, I think of Flint, with his cocky grin and his harsh taunts. The last of this boy's four hits was on my back, exactly where the former boy hit me when I knew I would lose. Under the mask, my hair is sticking to my face with the same saturation of water as it did under that simulated rain.

But that time I lost under unfair circumstances - a cheating child with little honour for the game (and don't I sound whiny saying so) - this time I will have no such excuse. With that in mind, I pull myself back together, preparing for the routine I have practised a hundred times over. The perfect combination of parry, feint, lunge and strike that I know will assure my place back on top.

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My lead has slipped, and with it I can feel another potential to reroute my future crumbling. Perhaps I gripped it too hard, wanted it too much. For someone who's always described myself as laid-back, maybe this is just the punishment I receive for caring too much. Nonetheless, it's impossible for me to accept that on its own, and I won't let this boy beat me like Flint did, relentlessly and without resistance.

My hand is trembling but I refocus and relax my hand back into the correct posture. My back is straight, and I allow my eyes to adjust once again to vision from behind the mask. In front of me his figure is hazy, partially from the sheer heat of the mask, and also my tiredness. I push myself to find his weakest spots, the places he's been failing to defend, the way I can make him vulnerable. There's a chance for me yet. I won't let this fight be taken from me, especially after winning the last on a mere technicality.

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I move with such lightness and speed that my feet barely touch the ground, dancing around the constraints of the tournament space. The crowd gasps and cheers from around us. Their noises remind me of the sea, something I have spent hours simply listening to since coming to District Four. I'm going to miss its warm, almost sickly smell if this fight sends me home. Back in One, my comforts are the sticky smell of alcohol and cleaning spray, the clink of glasses, the raucous ripping sound of drunken laughter. District Four seems so peaceful by comparison, it amazes me that they can produce killers as vicious as our own.

I wonder about my opponent's life outside of training and fighting in bouts like this. Does he have a second life, a night time personality like I do? Does he have a second set of friends - and a second set of enemies? I muse on what the Olympic Committee would think of us competitors turning our rivalries into friendships as soon as we step outside the stadiums. It's something I would certainly like to find out, given the chance; no matter whether I win or lose now. 

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