Corduroy Gingham D1 {Fin}

Corduroy sniffed and rubbed at his jaw, looking intently in the mirror of the boy’s locker room. His nose wasn’t broken at least. It always sloped like that. The bruise was going to take a while to fade though. On the plus side, it kind of made the brown of his eyes darker somehow. Corduroy scowled experimentally, pleased with the angry face that stared back at him. He smoothed his hair back with a sigh. Damask wasn’t going to be happy about this. Gingham’s weren’t supposed to lose, even something as small as sparring match. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was born a Gingham anyway.

After flexing a couple times in the mirror, he grabbed a towel and wiped the water off of his face, wincing when he passed over his nose. It had been a rookie mistake, really. His opponent had cracked him across the face with a practice sword because he’d let them get too close. But was it really his fault? At six three he was taller than most of the kids that frequented the center, he hadn’t expected to be sparring with someone who could match his reach for once. Besides, most didn’t know how to correctly block his specialty.

Very few people trained with clubs and maces anymore; but Corduroy didn’t blame them. Such weapons were heavy, hard to use and honestly, with the exception of the occasional flail, when was the last time a tribute used a blunt weapon with stellar results? The trick was hitting hard and in the right place. Too many people wasted energy swinging and hitting air. They didn’t account for travel time when they’re aiming. You had to aim where your opponent was going to be, same as any other weapon, but you had to compensate for the weight.

It wasn’t a flashy weapon, but it got the job done, just like him. He left the heart and bone breaking to his sisters. After exiting the locker room, he headed for the exercise equipment. Lifting weights was going to suck with his nose feeling the way it did, but cardio would be fine. He tapped the display on the treadmill and set a run for fifteen minutes. As the machine started to pick up, he matched it, his mind going over the last few days. Velvet hadn’t pissed anyone with siblings off lately. That was good.

Nylon had been suspiciously quiet. That was bad. Really bad. Things were simple as long as he categorized them one way or another. He could feel his mother staring at him from somewhere else in the center, but tried to ignore it. He’d ask how he’d managed to disappoint her, but for once he knew exactly why. That was parents for you. Always wanting someone to listen but never hearing their words. He’d offer to make it up to her, but he’d already given everything he had for her vision.

He knew it would never be enough, but he’d made his peace with that. It had always been that way. Ever since the Gingham’s had dropped by the orphanage and looked for the most promising career candidates. He’d been five then, the same age as Nylon. He’d been so happy that he had a home to go to. The innocence of youth. While Corduroy no longer remembered what his younger self had been expecting, he knew it had to have been different from what he got.

The training, the endless training and the fear of not measuring up.

Growing up in a household with eight other kids all vying for the top spot. Jockeying for their parent’s love. Everyone dying to be the best. Cord felt that he had moved past that. One day he’d get reaped and then he’d find out if he really had what it took to win, or he’d die. It was simple enough. The alternative was aging out. He hadn’t really thought ahead that far; it wasn’t as if he had any reason to.

The machine slowed to a stop and he stepped off of it, taking a swig from his water bottle. He made friends easy enough. He was a big guy, if on the leaner side. Spotting for people or giving them pointers came naturally to him. He doubted that Damask approved. Gingham’s weren’t supposed to make friends after all, only allies. But he’d had twelve years to train in their family, and he failed to see the point in it. Either his friends would stab him in the back, or they wouldn’t. There was no point in worrying until it happened. If it ever did. Until then, he’d keep plodding along at his own, steady, measured pace.