Public Training Sessions

Sam typically avoided being in front of people at all costs. In his eighth year of schooling, at eight years old, he’d been cast as a sheep to represent their industry. Initially, he’d been excited to play such an important role, but upon entering the stage, three things, two of them causing the third. One of them was that the audience as a collective unit, one face, started reddening as they held in a laugh that soon began to escape in giggles, little snorts and then full-blown chuckles directed straight at him. At little, eight year old Samuel Tulius, covered in cotton balls, puffing out all over his bulging belly, his thick neck, his chubby face. The second thing that happened was when Sam began to desperately search the crowd for one kind face, he realized that his family hadn’t even bothered to show up. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes immediately filled and the third thing happened: Sam ran off-stage sobbing, leaving a trail of cotton balls in his wake.

Since then, Sam made sure to feign illness whenever the school show rolled around (which no one seemed to have much a problem with), but unfortunately, there was no feigning illness for this. His training session. His chance to show his stuff. Except…Sam didn’t have much. Except himself. His stuffing, the same stuffing he tried to spill from that dummy with the sword he’s yet to master. Just like the throwing knives. And the bow and arrow (where he accidently almost shot an instructor and it was taken away from him). The only thing he was good at eating which he had barely done in days and his stomach growled and he was light-headed as he stood upon hearing the summons into his training session. Now? This had to happen now?

Of course, Sam,

As the other children went one by one into the gym to perform their private training session, Motel sat at the lunch table flinging peas at the boy from eight. So far he had landed three inside the boy's collar, around ten in his lap and one between his ear and his head. A handful had smacked him in the nose and cheeks but soon Sam was leaving for his own session leaving Motel to roll the peas around on his own plate instead.

When his name was finally called, Motel jumped right up to meet the officials leading him in. They wore Peacekeeper uniforms but with a different kind of seal on the breast. "So you two aren't real Peacekeepers, right?" Motel asked, patting one of the men's chest with his pointer finger. Neither answered.

Once the doors were shut behind him, Motel's eyes took in the sight of the empty gym. No waiting in line for knives, no pitiful campfires to avoid- this was perfect! Mace- his mentor with the mean expression and odd hatred of butter knives- had probably at some point in the week told him what he needed to do in the private training session but none of those words of wisdom were coming to mind. Instead, Motel ran straight for the nearest sharp object- a rack of spears. Grabbing the wooden shaft of one of the weapons, Motel immediately whirled around and stabbed a dummy in the gut- and then in the head and then in the gut again. It went on like that- head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, crotch, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, head, foot, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, finger, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, right ear, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut, head, gut, foot, head, head, gut, neck, neck, neck, gut, gut - until he got bored with the pile of stuffing and turned to the entire shelf of spears. With a roar and a well placed kick, he knocked the entire thing over, spilling the weapons over the floor and into the dummy's cotton blood. Sweat was weaving down the back of his neck, but Motel ignored it. Instead of stopping there he screamed again, bringing the middle of the spear shaft down on his thigh breaking it in half and sending splinters every which way. His leg was throbbing but the adrenaline masked the pain. Kicking through the spears he got his hands on the swords slicing at more targets and hacking at the first aid table, skewering an innocent CPR practice dummy.

Motel hit the axe station and used one to chop up the fire making station- as well as other axes. He snapped all the arrows into pieces, ripping off their fletch and sticking it in his hair. He grabbed a knife and played a game of stabscotch on the floor, carving nicks into the tile. He threw some around, stabbed a few tables, cut open a few practice mats. At the camouflage station he grabbed a jar and smashed it against his forehead, letting the red berry juice run down his face and the shattered clay pieces hit the floor. He crushed more jars with his fists until that whole part of the room was a mess of paint and ceramic shards.

He sawed through the ropes, he snapped sticks in half- Motel Hunt did as much damage to that room as he possibly could with his bare hands. Speaking of his hands, they were covered in various layers of paint and cuts. His head was starting to feel a bit cloudy and red dye had dried in his eyelashes and eyebrows.

Very slowly, Motel approached the Gamemaker's table with his hands full of knives. He stabbed a blade into the table in front of each Gamemaker- mindful of the spacing between them. He even took a knife out to stab it right back in again a half an inch to the left. Running back to the puddles of paint at the camo section, Motel dipped his hands in the colorful mess and returned, coating each knife's handle in paint. Pulling the fletch feathers from his hair he set one in the wet paint at the end of every blade, finishing his little statuettes.

Standing up, Motel grinned at the men and women on the other side of the table. His face was streaked with sweat, paint and probably blood. His clothes were ripped and stained, his hands a complete medical and cosmetic mess- yet his eyes were wide and his teeth bared with a smear of dye on his upper incisors.

"You all have a good day now," he smiled before stepping out of the wreck of a room, leaving yellow and green footsteps behind him.

i keep my head up tight
i make my plans at night
and i don't sleep
i don't sleep
i don't sleep til it's light

from the desk of
Dom Copperview

---

Reaching the double-digit districts was an important milestone on the Longest Day of the Year. Even though a quarter of the tributes were still left to go, it signified that the end was near. And it was also accompanied by dinner — which was fitting, as the bulk of Dom's dinners were cultivated in the districts that she was to judge. That did not bias her in the slightest, of course; like most Capitolites, the Head Gamemaker seldom gave a second thought to the origins of her material goods. The enormous slab of corned beef that had been delivered to the Training Center came from the same district as the boy that would be entering the room, or that the stewed carrots and potatos came from the district whose tributes would follow.

Dom waved her fork through the air, a bit of the tender, stringy meat still attached, signifying that the boy from the current page in her notebook — Motel Hunt. 18. 10M. — ought to be brought in. He wasted no time in grabbing a spear off the weapons rack, and shortly whirled around, plunging it into the nearest training dummy's abdomen. For a brief, wonderful moment, Dom was actually hopeful that this was going to be one of the rare, enthralling lower-district training sessions, that the tribute in front of her was — somehow — a quick-acting, quick-thinking killer. For a brief moment, as he extracted the spear from where it was planted and jammed it again into the thing's head, she was hopeful that this session would be modeled after Dom's favorite tributes: quick, cunning, and brutal. As the boy pulled the spear from the faux face it had just mutilated and plunged it back into the gut — for a brief moment — Dom believed that she had a stellar tribute on her hands.

But as the motions were repeated and repeated over and over, the Head Gamemaker's illusions shattered into obvious delusions, which crumbled into nothing but the irritating bit of grit that one gets in one's shoes and can never quite seem to get out. She watched for long minutes as the District 10 tribute poked holes in the dummy — even in places where he'd already poked holes — not stopping until he had practically turned the thing into a pile of fluff and foam. There was still hope for him yet when he loosed a roar and delivered a kick to the rack of spears, knocking the whole thing over. When he repeated the vocalization and snapped the spear in half, Dom began to wonder if perhaps her doubts about the tribute's brutality, at least, were misplaced. After all, when he got his hands on a sword, he did a fine job of cutting through even more of the upright dummies, through the tables that stood between him and his targets. And his blow to the torso-only mannequin that belonged to the first aid station was quite well placed.

But when he grabbed an axe and began using it to chop up its brethren — or perhaps when he plucked the feathers from the arrows that he'd broken and stuck it into his hair — or maybe it was when he began to cut open the practice mats — Dom realized that the tribute in front of her was actually, certifiably insane. Her conviction was only strengthened when she watched him fling the knives around the training center like he was tossing confetti Is he out of his — he picked up the clay pots filled with berries and mud and other such things and literally smashed them against his forehead — he's actually lost his fucking mind.

When she came to the realization, she stopped focusing too much on actually observing and instead spent her time watching for the sake of watching. It was a train wreck, but it was a damn interesting train wreck — provided, of course, that the Head Gamemaker could keep herself from calculating precisely how long it would take the clean-up crew to put the room back to normal — or to as close to normal as they could manage.

When the crazed boy slowly made his way toward them, hands filled with too many knives for any one of them to be useful to him, Dom reflexively pulled her dinner closer, tightening her grip on her fork so that, should she need to, she could put up some kind of a defense. With paint-covered hands, he plunged a blade in the table in front of each of them. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Every time a blade was buried into the wood, the Head Gamemaker found herself wincing internally. Careful — thunk! — with — thunk! — the mahogany! Thunk! Thunk! Much to Dom's dismay, the tribute wasn't even finished there; he spent another handful of minutes coating the small weapons — and the mahogany they had been buried in — with paints and with the feathers from his hair. Dom flicked a small piece of corned beef at the back of his head while he turned around to gather more materials; she was fairly certain that the deranged boy did not notice.

Finally — finally — he seemed to have finished, departing with a pleasant-but-out-of-place "You all have a good day now" and leaving however many dozen gamemakers agog behind him. The poor avoxes hurried in to undo whatever damage they could, but at that point, Dom did not even bother to hassle the servants about it. There was no point. A few silent moments passed before the Head Gamemaker cleared her throat and announced with authority, "I think I speak for all of us when I say what the actual fuck." She pulled her notebook out of her lap, where she'd stashed it for its own safety, staring at the page, unsure if she wanted to give the tribute a two or a ten. After a few minutes, she decided to meet herself halfway and, confused scowl still plastered on he face, penned in a 6.

i keep my head up tight
i make my plans at night
and i don't sleep
i don't sleep
i don't sleep til it's light

from the desk of
Dom Copperview

---

The last food-based milestone of the evening, the crème brûlée (garnished with fresh raspberries and a mint leaf) that the Head Gamemaker had requested for dessert, had arrived between the two District 11 tributes. Dom never permitted herself to wear a watch on Private Training days; if she had any reliable method for telling time, she'd know exactly how long she was stuck down in that basement for, and the eternity would stretch out even longer. But, as it was dessert, and as there were only a few training sessions left, she estimated that she wouldn't be spending more than another hour in the Training Center. She also estimated that it was already quite late.

She gestured for the next tribute in her notebook: Xavier Gregory. 18. 11M. He was brought in and — much to Dom's delight — did not seem much more interested in wasting her time than she was in having hers wasted. He took off toward the racks of weapons, selecting a bow and quiver of arrows. The Head Gamemaker was somewhat surprised by the weapon choice; not many tributes opted for archery, as it was one of the more difficult weapons for novices to handle. Anyone could pick up a sword and swing it, but ranged weapons — longbows, shortbows, crossbows, throwing knives — required more finesse. All unnecessary acrobatics aside, the District 11 boy handled the bow with some skill. The arrows hit their mark, for the most part, even if their damage was not entirely devastating — what use was a shot to the non-dominant shoulder?

Whether he'd gotten cocky or just missed his footing, the tribute suddenly took a tumble, opening up a sizable cut on his leg. Dom clicked her tongue in criticism, but otherwise had no reaction; tributes injured themselves in training — both public and private — all the time, to their own deficit in the Games. It wasn't as if a few cuts and bruises would suddenly exempt them from having to participate in the arena. She took a bite of her dessert as the tribute hobbled over to the first aid station. He did a decent job of bandaging it — a skill that wasn't altogether useless, even if it was, essentially, the application of common sense. He followed this up by climbing one of the training center's false trees and loosing a few more arrows from his cover.

As he wrapped up his station, coming down from the tree and putting his bow and quiver back where he found it — As the tributes should, she noted, residual contempt for the District 10 boy still lingering, rather than trashing the place and leaving it. — he turned to address the bench. "Thank you for staying awake to watch me," he said, drawing a snort out of the Head Gamemaker, who was certainly looking forward to heading back to her apartment for one of the last full nights of sleep she'd get in the coming weeks. "I hope you saw enough potential in me." He turned and left. There certainly had been some potential there, but Dom wasn't prepared to give they boy a full vote of confidence. He'd done well, but was not among the top contenders. Instead, he fell toward the upper-end of the middle: she drew an acute angle on the paper, then traced over it several times until it more closely resembled a 7.