A Humorless Place (Thundy, nofo)

In the blink of an eye, the entire world had ended. Father carryin' Beth away, her screamin', the crowd starin' up at me with those sad gray eyes, knowin' that I'm just goin' into the arena so I can die. It don't matter what they're thinkin', what they're expectin' to happen to me. I'm a goner. Trainin'? Who cares? Only one of us makes it out of the Arena alive. It prolly ain't gonna be me, some Seam kid, so who cares? He hadn't heard from Heron yet, hadn't sought her out for training or for conversation because, frankly, the whole thing terrifies me and if I spend too much time being Mentored, I think that makes it all real, and I don't know if I want this to be real. Maybe in the morning I'll wake up and Bethany will be whimpering in her sleep again and I can rock her into the waking world until things are calm again. But this was a world in which the Reaping was real, and the Hunger Games were real. This was reality. Standing here in the doorway to the training center while other tributes came in around and behind him. He glanced around, looking for Aisley but not seeing her, and shook his head as he struggled to swallow past the fear that filled his throat and made his intestines twist up into a knot of painful terror. And this isn't even the real fun. That won't start until we get dropped off in the Arena. Maybe I'll just step off my plate before the gong sounds and it will be over that quick. Bethany won't have to watch me die a painful death.

But that would be stupid. It was stupid because "I want to win," Smokey said aloud. But his voice sounded weak, even in his own ears. It split down the middle and then shattered into a million pieces, and even he wasn't sure if he really wanted to win that badly. Could he possibly want to win enough that he would be willing to murder twenty three other people in order to return home to District Twelve? No. Not twenty three other people. Most of them will kill one another, and all of them are going to be out to kill you. If you're lucky, you might only have to kill one. If you're really lucky, some disaster or muttation will take out all of the others and you'll be left standing by yourself. Yeah. He could only get that lucky. So Smokey cleared his throat and said again, more loudly, with more determination, "I want to win." Winning was the only way to survive, and for Bethany's sake, he was going to survive. It's not convincing enough. Make them know that you mean it. Tell them! All of them! "I want to win!" The heads of a couple of the trainers rose to look at him, nervous glances exchanging between several, and Smokey raised his chin. I'm goin' home to Bethany. It don't matter who I gotta kill, I'm goin' home to Bethany.

It was with that determination in his mind that Smokey squared his shoulders with a sort of surreal authority and marched his way into the room so that he could stand in the middle and look around at the others who had already gathered. Some stations were already in use, but there were a few that were empty. Most of the more physical stations were already taken, and in spite of his social nature, Smokey didn't really want to be around people at the moment. Who wants to get to know and like the people they're going to have to kill just to have the privilege of returning home to their home district? And I don't even want to go home if it means facin' Aisley's family! There just ain't no way I'm goin' into this room thinkin' about meetin' an' likin' all these people who ain't gonna be my friends when this is over. 'Cause I gotta win. Which means they ain't gonna. These were the facts of the Arena. No friend he made now was going to be there when it was all over.

The combat stations seemed to be the most popular, so Smokey naturally avoided them, gravitating instead toward a station that seemed relatively peaceful. He glanced over at the knife area and flinched, remembering his recent encounter with the butchers at the Hob. That's what they are. Bloody butchers. I don' want that kinda blood on my hands. How could they? But he didn't hate the careers or the others who were already training for combat. He just didn't want to get to know them, at least not yet. No matter how much they fumbled, to Smokey it looked like they were showing off, and all he could think was that his best defense would be...

"Self defense?" the trainer asked as Smokey nearly bumped into him. He blinked several times, slowly coming into himself, focusing on the look of the tall, slender man with long, lean muscles and sinewy arms who looked at him with a curious expression in his unnaturally green eyes. Smokey nodded. "Yeah. That's just what I was thinkin'. Self defense." If he could avoid having to actually hurt somebody in the Arena, that was preferable, for sure. If my instincts are gonna work like that, I guess I might as well keep trustin' 'em. Maybe I'll make it outta this thing alive after all.

But Smokey knew that going up against the careers, he didn't have much of a chance. He sighed, then shook his head. Whatever happens, I sure as hell ain't gonna let 'em just kill me there on the spot. I'm gonna do my best to survive this thing with a little bit of my dignity intact. I just hope Beth don't gotta see me kill nobody in that Arena. I don't think she could bear it. I been her Papa mosta the time she's been alive an' I don't want her seein' me different. But the Arena changed people. Of that there was no doubt. Even Smokey Saber, who could find no humor in the Capitol, would kill if it meant his own survival. "Yeah. Self-defense. If I'm gonna win, I can't die."