School Daze [Earthling]

whispering like it's a secret, only to condemn the one who hears it
with a heavy heart

The day before Genie had stood with her peers in their own particular form of hell. Not that she believed in the concept, really understood it, even. It was their form of the Games. Just a taste, really, a little lick, but it was torture enough. She had stood, stone-faced, hands at her sides, gaze blank as the ceremonies passed by, the names called. She had prepared herself, practiced, heard her own name die on her lips so many times. Genie would not embarrass her family if she was called by falling to pieces. That would not help them, and it certainly wouldn't help her in the arena.

But it was one thing to practice in front of another mirror, and quite another to relive it. She was grateful, too, that she didn't know either of the tributes. It had been easy, but not simple. And she hadn't sleep. Not at all. She hadn't even really been thinking about the Reaping, or the Games. She just lay on her stiff mattress, and let the night pass her by. Why should she have so many more nights, and that boy and girl have theirs numbered?

She really couldn't guarantee her own life, which was more precarious than many, although not all, in her District. Pistol making required being in a sweltering room, working in flame and iron and hazardous materials. She could just as easily die there as in an arena. So what was it that bothered her so much?

From the lack of sleep, or the trauma, Genie couldn't keep her left lower eyelid from twitching. It was hardly noticeable, unless you were in an intimate conversation with her, which never happened. But she felt it. The steady tick-tick waltzing her ever forward, away from life, towards death. The school was thick with news of the Reapings from all around Panem. Genie desperately wanted to be in the smithy.

But in her daze that morning she hadn't bothered to prepare anything for lunch. She could go home, to her family who loved the Games, and hear them talk about it. Or, she could eat at school with whatever they provided. She weighed the decision carefully, made lists in her head, and decided another hour at school was the lesser of the two evils. She gathered her tray and food, and then sat at the first table she found which wasn't overrun by students.

The girl was a bit younger than Genie, full faced and fresh looking. She offered a greeting, which in present state Genie was hard-pressed to return. "Oh," she blinked, trying to calm her mind, or heart, or whatever had started the twitching. "Yeah, hi. You're a freshman?"

whispering like it's a secret, only to condemn the one who hears it
with a heavy heart

"Micra." Genie rolled the name off her tongue, impressing it on her memory. It was a trick she'd learned long ago in the shoppe. While she worked in the smithy now, that hadn't always been the case. Her uncle had long overlooked her intelligence, her swift fingers. From the time she was ten she served as one of the museum docents, and then a cashier at the tiny gift shoppe. Neither was glorious, and both were a poor use of her skills, but her uncle wasn't exactly business-conscious. He was a pistoleer, like her, and one who thought it was man's work. This turned out to be quite a greater problem than his inability to assess a person accurately. It literally took Genie and her parents half a decade to convince him that she was the only worthy apprentice of the set of cousins.

She'd done well. Learned fast, and built excellent weapons. It was only slowly, slowly dawning on Genie that making weapons for the Peacekeepers meant that she could have a killing someone. Might have already. But she did not dare think too hard about that. She let the rational half of her brain make the case that if she didn't make the pistols, then someone else would. Better one clean shot than several misfires from a bad weapon. It wasn't a very good rationalization, but was there ever such a thing, when it came to death?

Of all the things her uncle taught her, the name repetition upon greeting trick had to be the most useful. Well, maybe that and how to handle molten metal properly.

Genie settled her tray squarely in front of her, making sure the edge aligned with the table. She then removed her glass of water and carefully straightened her fork and knife. She'd chosen a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit gone too long from whatever district it came from, and a cube of vitamins. Very plain and easy on the stomach. She couldn't afford to be distracted in the smithy.

Or now. She lifted her saucer-sized eyes to Micra. "Uhm, no. Should be graduating in a year." Which didn't mean all that much in their district. She could be very young and have skipped several grades, but with the Alder apprenticeship, she had fallen back to her original classmates. Still, she wasn't so far from the end. "I'm Genie." She perked her lips up into an awkward semblance of a smile, felt how strange it was, and then dropped them once more into the same old slender line. It occurred to her then that the other girl hadn't actually asked her name. Genie mentally shrugged. Better to assume politeness, she figured, the rules of which also dictate that she continue the conversation somehow. Being social was so damned troubling.

"So, how's math treating you?" Genie was rather proud of herself for that question. After all, she remembered the math she had taken several years ago, and it was a safe bet that anyone dealing with electronics would have to at least know it well, if not like it. Good job, she mentally commended herself.