Still Not Too Old to Die Young // [82nd Hunters]

The boy from Two was a viable option at first. He had broad shoulders, he was tall and handsome, and he was likely a career. Everything a boy from Two should be.

That was, of course, until she watched the video of his reaping, and she saw him trying to run away. Weak, she'd decided. Not on the outside, obviously. But he was one of those people whose moral backbone wouldn't be able to withstand the weight of an arena. It would snap under the pressure, and he'd either kill someone and then blame himself, or refuse and die and it wasn't a look she wanted associated with herself.

Elite was smart; he knew what survival took, even if he wasn't a career himself and his general knowledge would be a benefit in the days to come. So, when he'd begun following her around like a lost puppy dog, she hadn't protested.

"We need allies, right? You find one, I'll find one. Meet back at the entrance at dinner time."

She'd hardly nodded in response as the pair broke off to find someone worth the effort.

The boy from Two was walking into the cafeteria like a ghost, unseen, unheard, and the girl from Two was preoccupied talking to someone else. The boy from One was so skinny that Harper was half convinced she could beat him in an arm wrestle. And the girl, pretty as she was, hadn't ever stuck out to Harper. She realized she couldn't even recall her name.

No career allies. Fine. Meat shields were always a viable option.

"Nine," she called, leaning herself against a table at the knife throwing station. Delacroix was a familiar enough name for Harper to know they never lasted more than a couple days; it was better this girl bite the bullet than Harper herself. Plus the drama of being related to past tributes was always something the Capitol loved.

"I'm Harper." Everyone wants to be you, or be with you, Leon had said. She smirked, handing the girl a blade: "Let's make a deal. I show you how to fight, really fight, and you aim the knives in other people's direction for just a while."

She smirked at the girl, Eos. More than just a Delacroix. A person.

"So, you're actually pretty good with knives. See how they're all hitting the same area?" Harper's eyes flitted to the target, where the cluster of knives jutting out of its surface were all about four inches south of the bulls eye.

"It means you're precise. Now, we have to work on accuracy. Both are necessary if you want to use them properly."

She slid a knife out of the pack on the other girl's hip, a thin half-smile creeping along her features. Her trainer had said these exact words to her when she was twelve years old and it was becoming clear that she wouldn't ever grow tall enough or strong enough to toss a spear. She stepped up to the line.

"Knives are projectiles. They arc in the air. So, you have to aim higher than the target area if you want to hit the bulls eye." She readied herself, aimed, and let the blade fly with a quick flick of the wrist. It thudded against the target, squarely in the middle and she raised her eyebrows at Eos.

If she remembered correctly, the Delacroix family was all the grit of real life combat. Gang wars and brass knuckles, dirt in the wound. Harper had been trained in a room with white walls, sterile blades, professionals to teach her everything she needed to know. She knew how to fight clean; Girls like Eos weren't afraid to play dirty. She didn't have an obvious technique with throwing knives, but something told Harper she'd be a real threat when it came to putting a knife in someone's back before they knew she was there. She made a mental note of it as she eyed the smooth silver in her her palm.

"Got it?"