skill zero | birdie

It never feels warm in the career academy training rooms. Hairs find a way to stand up on my back the moment I let my guard down to breathe. There's always someone yelling, or celebrating, or grunting from an intensive workout routine. The competition instilled between the districts is nothing compared to the hawkish career sentiment in District Two. People observe you to learn how to replicate your successes and to take advantage of your mistakes. It's one of the reasons I hate this place. No one is safe from criticism in Two, not even those who have no interest in participating in the games. It's a crucial piece to any resume in the district and a stepping stone to one of the highest paying jobs: Peacekeeping. If you can't fight for your district, they tell you to fight for your country and defend it at all costs.

That's what my family wants from me, too, an obedient boy with a good legacy to brag about in their elder years.

I succumb to the pressure in the form of a sword. It's the easiest of all the quality weapons to manage, other than a standalone knife. Ready your stance, anticipate your opponent's move, and swing the sword. Then repeat. Monotonous, sure, but I don't want to be significant. Despite my great-grandpa's hopes, I'm not the reincarnated version of my great uncle. Zephyr Kostas is not an unsuspecting martyr, who blindly became the motivation and face for District Two's careers in the first place.

My sword cuts into my trainer's arm and he lets out a sparked wince. He criticizes himself for not being more careful. I apologize, offering to run and get a wrap for it. He declines, though, telling me to hydrate and practice on my own for a little while. Okay. The moment he leaves, I drop everything to relax. Any opportunity to avoid training is a good one. I'm not built to kill or built to enforce hyperbolic laws. I unscrew the cap of my water bottle and let a couple swallows trickle into my throat.

Two tired eyes scan the room, watching as the other two dozen or so boys and girls continue to play with their trinkets. Only a handful have any sort of promising form. Most notably, a majority of the boys look like they're simply trying to show off like a gym class hero. They are fools if they truly believe that they can exchange swordsmanship for a lover. Soon enough, they'll move on to the Peackeeping academies, where they'll learn to be good little soldiers, carrying out discipline behind white helmets and tinted eyewear.

One boy seems to be genuinely struggling. It's a trainwreck, really. Hard to look away, but cringeworthy to watch, undoubtedly indicating that this kid is either way in over his league or a good enough person not to care about his training. A pair of boys nearby mock him with heavy panting and exaggerated expressions.

I make my way to him, bottle of water in hand and grabbing my sheathed sword on the way. It's not long before I recognize his face. Max's little brother. Cayden. He's from a family big on career training, which makes his form that much more pitiful to examine. The boys begin to chuckle once more as Cayden's spear flimsily pokes through the mannequin dummy. Poor kid must be embarrassed.

Sword still covered by its sheath, I whack it against one of the boys. I tower over them both by five or six inches each. "Hey, boys!" If being a Kostas has taught me anything, it's how to command attention. I break myself in between them, wrapping one arm around the boy on my left and my sword tapping the side of the other. "Maybe we should stop laughing at a boy who's trying his best," I whisper, careful not to draw too much attention to the conversation or Cayden. "Considering your asses and armpits look swamped just from standing here laughing, maybe you should both get cleaned up." Both walk away without much of a second thought.

"How'd you like a break, Cayden? Maybe a bottle of water?" I offer mine up as I walk over to him.