salvage || torian / ulysses

U L Y S S E S.

One of the first things Harbinger told me was that I'd need to focus on more than just the weapons. He should know as much, considering he won. Outside of fighting in the Hunger Games, there's so much to do: I need to know how to boil water, pick out food that won't poison me, and build a shelter to withstand the elements. After the lightning and thunder beat and bruised numerous tributes last time around, being prepared for a disaster is up there with everything else. All that considered, there is one constant in the Hunger Games: the winner has killed. That's why on Day One, I'm by the axes and spikes, practicing my swings with one of the trainers.

I'm not exactly strong. Some of the tributes around the stations have arms twice my size. I would rather get strong fast than train myself to have hand-eye coordination. The trainer told me that comfort with a strength-based weapon is much easier to obtain than comfort with precision. She offers a mace to start. "For today, I want you to get a hang of the weapon. Learn how to move around with it, and balance the weight through your hips and shoulders. The technique is important." I hold it out around the height of my chest. The mace is by far one of the heavier weapons but even then it's manageable. I guess when they're described as strength weapons, it matters more about the force I can put in a swing than how much I can lift. They'll bludgeon a target regardless. The ball at the end, riddled with spikes and thorns, is much harder to swing in front of me than carry aside my knee.

Momentum shifts. I stretch my body in every direction, knowing that mutts and other tributes can come from anywhere. Bend, turn, twist, push, and pull. How can this be much of a challenge?

The grip on the handle loosens as I begin to lift it up above my head. Technique is important, they said. Everyone always says Lift with your legs, not your back! Never once did I listen, and never once did my back break. A faulty recommendation to make people do more than what's necessary. Or so I thought, anyway. The mace slips through my palm, seemingly out of the blue. It falls, cutting through the side of my arm on the way down.

"Fahhhhck!"

Silent but commanding, the trainer grabs me by the shoulder and turns me in the direction of the medicine station. "They'll be able to help you get cleaned up. Hurry." I've gotten bruises from falling off my bike or slicing my fingertips on a kitchen knife, but never shit like this. It stings as I move, the cut disagreeing with the brisk sterile air. Feeling like a total dumbass in a room full of people who didn't accidentally hurt themselves, I bite my tongue to save myself from any additional embarrassment.

The medical station tables are mostly spotless and empty, with only one boy working on something in a bowl. I rush in, showing my arm to the trainer. He backs out of the way, pointing me to the stainless sink at the back of the room. Why does the Training Center of all places adopt a hands-off approach? Shouldn't they be, I don't know, more helpful in showing us how to bandage up?

I turn the faucet and pour my entire arm into the deep sink. The water's only warm, but against the cut, it's scalding hot. What starts as painful turns to therapeutic once the burning sensation subsides. I lean forward, relaxing my body against the sink. A long, exhausted breath. "Fucking hell."

Well, Harbinger, you can't say I didn't heed your advice. I got to the survival stations rather quickly!