Weightlifting

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Atlas Cornell was strong, and he knew it. Weight training was something they did frequently when training back home, because it didn't require expensive weapons or materials. They could lift rocks and boulders to their heart's content, and that was what they did. Besides, he'd built up plenty of strength just merely helping his father out with his quarry work as it was, so the additional strength training was only an asset.

Scorpius and Atlas often debated over which brother was stronger. Mostly Atlas allowed Scorpius to claim greater strength, simply to avoid a fight; Atlas didn't enjoy fighting with his brother. The burly Career didn't particularly enjoy fighting in general, but he put up with it because it was what he was supposed to do and he trained so hard. Thankfully this event - weightlifting - did not involve a fight. It was merely a show of strength, a chance to prove himself at last without knocking somebody else down. What more could he ask for?


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The humiliation of the sprint runs through me. Last. Kilbey Zaha, the great athlete, comes last in a test of power and speed. I guess my greatest asset is also my greatest weakness - I have too much muscle. I'm too heavy and immobile. Sprinting is definitely not a strong point of mine, even if I have always been faster than most. The embarrassment of coming dead last still racks my mind and puts me off for my last two events. I stand in the weightlifting area, in what is a jet black leotard. I feel dumb, but prepared. I have to do well here, as this is my best chance of medaling. Boxing is always an uncertainty, but strength has always been an asset of mine.

I chalk my hands with the fine white power that sits in a crafted metal bowl next to the weights. I stare at the other competitors, some wearing similar outfits to mine, some not. Most of the guys from my District have massive "D1"'s on their uniforms, as do I. District pride... Pfft. I'm doing this for one thing only: Myself.

I approach the weights and prepare myself, the crowd hold their breath, and so do I.

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Hugo Delgado

Hugo was way ahead of himself, already focused on how proud his parents would be when he returned home. Popularity...oh, he'd have it all. He smiled, soaking in the idea of winning. Then, he realized, he hadn't won yet. Not quite yet. But he was confident.

Hugo was built for this event. Although he wasn't quick or balanced, he was strong. He immediately regretted signing up for any of the fencing events but quickly pushed the thought away. He could win this and he wouldn't need to regret anything. He could go home with a gold medal; he knew he was capable of it. Even a silver medal would satisfy him. A bronze? Eh, he could settle. Still, all he could think about were his parent's faces, his friend's faces, and even his enemy's faces, when they saw that Hugo Delgado had in fact been an Olympic Medalist. He was ready to win.

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Every time you try
Quarter, half a mile
Just like yesterday
I told you I would stay

Tigerius Rex —

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So far, Tiger had been doing quite well in the Olympics. None of his events had completed, so he didn't have any medals to speak of, but still, he knew that he'd done a decent job in the decathlon, and he still hadn't been knocked out of the sabre tournament. Weightlifting, he figured, would be fairly easy; he was a big guy, after all, and it wasn't anything too long or taxing the way that his other events were. Everything else he was signed up for — boxing, wrestling, sabre fencing, and decathlon — had numerous rounds, each of which took up a long time.

Weightlifting, on the other hand, was simple. Go in. Lift. Take a break, lift again. It was a quick event, one that Tiger should — in theory — naturally excel at, given his brute strength. He always fancied himself better at wrestling, at boxing, at sports where he actually had an opponent that he could see and grapple with. It was more difficult for him to push himself when all he had to go off of was the number that the guy before him was able to lift, or the distance that the other girl was able to throw. He was better at running, where he could see exactly how hard he had to push himself to maintain his lead, or better at fencing, where there was a scoreboard and an incremental point system so he could figure out where he needed to be and adapt. That didn't mean that he wouldn't try; it just meant that he'd need to give it his all, every time.


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Karma Prescott .

Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on.
I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on, turn me on.
Oh, I need to come and rescue me.
Make me come alive, come on and turn me on.

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Main, Speaking, Emphasis

fillerin like a pro

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