What we expect - Alex Orca / Adrestria Jasper (Skittlekat)

I wake - more sullenly than warily. My brown eyes opened to glare up at the pale white ceiling of my room. Normally, I would share it with my brother Tyren, but he's in hospital and he won't be home for a while. He was in the pregames, and he lost. He almost lost his life in the process. It is now that I miss him. I miss how he used to wait until midnight until he turned off his lamp on his side. I miss having wait for him to brush his teeth in the bathroom, whilst I have nothing else to do but sit there bored. We look alike as brothers, but you wouldn't know we were twins. Yet still, everything we do is identical. Same school, same job. Same aspirations and even same weapon choice. 'We're different and the same' he would say to me.

I change into my more sporty clothes, black sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a thin black jacket over it. I look in the mirror and see myself, and truly see the result of my partaking in the pregames. Fighting other people for real, the only thing to stop death is the sound of the referee. He stopped the fight because the other kid, Mark, was beating the living daylight out of me. It was relentless. I wished at the time that it wasn't, as the shame is far too great to lose in the first round. But I did, and now I have a couple of bruises to show it. My hair is freshly cut, nice and short as I like it. I haven't shaved for a couple of days so the 5 o'clock shadow is still shadowin' on, but who cares? It's only training.

I'm out the door and I feel revitalized by the cold. The only thing it is good for. The bitterness that the cold has forces me to pull up the zip half way, and turn my usual walk into a light jog. This will be my warm-up anyway. I see the faces of people in the District, the sound of mining continuously in the background like a drone. People don't recognize me often, though I know that half of these houses I've had to help repair at some point. Nobody says thank you, or please. It is expected. That is the worst part about District Two - you have to do what is expected without praise. Only when you are the best have you truly achieved anything.

Nobody could fail to be daunted slightly by the dull and bewildering look of the training hall. You can't smell it, but blood, sweat and tears have been cast aside here for the sake of a arduous hope at being in the Games. I go straight in, and turn a sharp left into the main hall. The big open space with many separate stations, ready for careers to begin training willingly. I know where I shouldn't go, but I go there anyway - the place I am best at. Archery. I like the freedom. 'It is an extension of yourself - you are shooting your target with swords' that's what Tyren told me. He was always better at being accurate, while I was always better at being ruthless.

I take aim, holding the bow with a loose grip. I slip an arrow in each knuckle space, and notch one, still holding the rest in my drawing hand. I fire. With speed, quicker than that of a typical archer, I slip an arrow from my knuckles into the string and notch again - and fire. And a final repetition of the process. I observe the target. One in the arm, one in the upper right chest, and one in the abdominal.

I nod to myself, pleased.