nolan daniels | d2 | fin

nolan daniels
district two. twenty-four. male

"All right, class is dismissed. See you all Wednesday."

There's a mad rush as thirty pairs of exhausted feet scramble towards the door of the training room. I gaze at the mess of toppled equipment, weighted balls rolling across the room, the bits of filling scattered from a torn training dummy, and sigh, beginning to straighten everything up again.

Seven years.

It's been seven years since my last Reaping, seven years since my last chance to enter the Games - not that I would have done it, I was never near the top of my class - and I was still here, still going over the same moves in the same Training Center.

Wasn't it high time I moved on, left this sort of thing to the newly-graduated?

Left this sort of thing to guys who cared more about District Two winning?

You see - I never really cared, not like the others did. I started later than most of them, only joining the Training Center when I learned that it was the fastest track to the Peacekeeper Academy.

I used to gloat about it, too, when some of the other boys mocked my sword form I'd sneer right back at them and ask what the use was of learning an antiquated weapon that they'd never touch again outside of the Training Center or the Arena.

I'd always preferred the spear, anyway.

Looking back, though, those were some of the best days of my life. I lived for the thrill of dueling, the smell of metal and the salty tang of sweat, the triumphant moments when I finally slip past my opponent's defenses and land a solid hit. I admired the strength and elegance of my classmates' demonstrations, and wished I could fight like them.

Yet when I turned nineteen, all of that ended - or so I thought. I was not one of those people who moaned that their life was over now that they were no longer eligible for the Games. Instead, I joined the Academy, just as I had planned, moving on from the world of Career training.

Oh, how certain I had felt, first stepping into Peacekeeper training. It would be glorious, it would be magnificent - well, most of the time it was just boring.

I was doing something wrong. I was insufficiently appreciative of this opportunity. Father had been a Peacekeeper, after all, and he always told me the mark of any great person is the discipline to get through those boring parts.

When I first got a part-time job back at the old Training Center, I told myself it was just to pay the bills. My old teacher welcomed me back, said I would be a good role model for the younger generation - what role model? Surely there are far more successful people they could learn from?

It was just a job, nothing more. My father's words continued to echo back to me: Pity those boys who never learn to grow up.

But if growing up meant hiding myself behind a white faceless mask and meting out justice emotionlessly, was there any meaning?

It was just a job. I couldn't keep lying to myself, denying that the Training Center called to me in a way that becoming a Peacekeeper never did. Sparring with 'old-fashioned weapons' was addicting, even as the first thing they told us at the Academy was that encounters in the line of duty would rarely be so neatly organized.

Seven years. I didn't end up graduating from the Peacekeeper Academy after all. Father never said a word, but I'm sure he was disappointed. My classmates certainly voiced their opinions loudly enough.

I like it here. I like watching my students improve and gradually teaching them more advanced techniques. But this is a young man's job, a job for someone fresh out of eligibility, someone who pays far more detailed attention to the Games than I do. And if I was never passionate about making District Two finally win, as I know some of the others were, then what am I doing here?

I was never meant to remain here, amongst young Careers and amongst older men who still wished they got to kill some outer-district kids as a teen. But there is no place here for martial arts as a form of expression, a form of training for its own ends instead of being used to enforce the law or gain fame and fortune through the Hunger Games.

Few students think the same way. And I despise the arrogance and overconfidence our training breeds in District Two, even in spite of our fourteen-year losing streak. If, however, the Centers all closed down tomorrow and we became nothing but simple masons like in the old days - I still can't help thinking we'd be losing some of the good that comes out of them too.

Maybe I have to be the one that chisels that part out of whatever we have here.

Maybe that thought's the real reason I don't belong.