i'm the cold heart {moon} finished

I come to the training center every day. I didn't use to when I was younger. I was small and conspicuous with my tender rosy curls and my bad technique. But these days I come every single day, sometimes multiple times per day. I'm a fixture now, and no one seems to mind me.
Being a fixture, you tend to notice patterns in the training center. Like weather patterns. Groups come in and out. They train at the same station each time. They use different fighting styles founded on different fighting techniques. I know some of them will never be happy until they spill blood. Their skills with brute force are unparalleled, perhaps only by the tributes from Two.
When I was very small, just young enough to not be reaped, I joined the training center. One of the older girls took a liking to me and began to mentor me before she became too old to be reaped and started working at a factory across town. One of the first things she did was steal footage from old Hunger Games training. It was contraband, even though it had been shown on TV at the time. At key points, she paused the screen and told me to look at the combative and survival stations.
"Now it's your turn to guess," she said. "Which tribute is from which district?"
She pointed to a boy on the screen who was having trouble loading a bow. Minutes before he had smashed the dummy to the ground with pure strength.
"Seven," I said. "They load lumber. Not much detail work."
And her?
She pointed to a girl who was clearly undernourished braiding wire for a trap.
"Nine."
"Why not eleven?"
"Not tan enough from working in the fields."
"Why not three?"
"Not familiar with the electronic interface of the center."
"Good girl. You're smart for sure. Give you some weapon training, you'll be unstoppable."
"What kind of weapon training?"
"I think you'd work best with knives."
So I have done.
There is another girl at the knife center. I see her there periodically. Her movements are different than the rest. Martially, she is quite fluid. I note her poised posture, the stretch of her hamstrings, the sharp anger with which she moves. And with a powerful kick, she slices straight through the chest of a human-shaped target.
Her smile is salt-laced. Her pride is bitter. "Does anyone want to try and beat that?" she exclaims.
I want to say yes. I see every flaw in her kick. She is too high up on the ball of her feet. She is using the muscles a dancer uses to execute a spin. This will give her an advantage, but her weaknesses are dancer's weaknesses. I can exploit a dancer's weaknesses.
I see this as my opportunity to practice putting people in their place. When I get to the Games I'll need a high training score. This calls for something a little theatrical.
I don't say anything, but step forward. I look directly into her eyes. The people around me scoff and murmur. I can hear bets being whispered into life.
I take the knives. There are nine of them. Nine lives.
I start to throw. I throw one after the other in quick succession.
Knife number one lands on the back of the hand. It's for her fingers, her slender hand positions.
Knife number two lands in the ear. It's to stop her from hearing the music.
Knife number three lands on her throat. It's to stop her breathing along with the beat.
Knife number four lands in her stomach. It's to cure her of the butterflies and her stage fright.
Knives number five and six land in her knees. It's to bring her to the floor and cut open her pirouettes.
Knives seven and eight land in her ankles. It's to stop her from pointing her toes. Forever.
The ninth knife pins the human-sized target she destroyed back onto the wall.
People are standing there, shocked. I've done what I came for. I sheathe my own knives and calmly walk over to sword training. I could use a little help in that area.

Oh dear. Now the dancer has been upset. She's certainly not hiding her anger. I pause and wonder if I went too far, if I should have stayed back and not challenged her. Well, I've started the fight and might as well own up to it. Only cowards tease and flee. She's not from anyone important, and she isn't anyone important. She's just trying to make a name for herself, a name she's already sullied.
The dancer pulls the knives off her feet and flings them with venom at the target. I understand who she is. She has the mindset of most Careers; arrogant, quick to rage. I doubt she would ever beat me in a fi-
The knives land in the eyes. It's as if she knows what I consider my greatest strength: my power of observation.
I have a split-second moment of panic. She's talented. With her ferocity and her obvious background in movement, she's a fearsome opponent. I sense a rematch in her mind.
I could take her in projectile weapons any day. Those two shots were mostly propelled by her ego. She's a dancer. Her legs are strong. She could probably outrun me or outmaneuver me. Her greatest weakness is her psyche.
"Knife girl!" she hisses, as if to prove my point. "Come back here!"
I don't answer her. I don't answer to anyone, especially my inferiors. I have gems in necklaces that are worth more than her corpse.
She bangs her way over to me in the least graceful way one possibly could. Her voice is a low growl.
"How dare you target parts of a dancer!" Oh, she's noticed. "I'd like to see you beat me in a fair sword fight, which I doubt you'll even try."
She wants my blood now. Swordfighting is not my strongest suit, and to challenge it is to challenge all the parts of myself I don't like. Her very back seems to mock me. I feel a huge surge of frustration. That's what she wants.
"Alright then," I say coolly. I walk over to the rack of swords. My hands are sweaty, and my heart is beating fast beneath my controlled exterior. "You want it to be fair. Would anyone here care to judge the fight?"
My first thoughts are WHAT AN IDIOT YOU ARE, ADAIRA. PLAYING RIGHT INTO HER HANDS.
My second thoughts are, CAN'T STOP NOW.

"The first one to spill blood wins. One cut, end of the fight. Okay?"
I pledge to myself to escape without a scratch. My parents wouldn't look on me too kindly if I came home stained with blood.
A boy steps forward to judge the fight. I see his lips move, but I can't hear what he says. It's evident from his expression that they know each other, and he seems more than annoyed.
Dance girl is disdainful. She remains smirking, but I can see the fear escape from her eyes. It's time to show her that her fear is rational.
She pulls out a sword from the rack. I analyze its qualities. Light-looking, tapered blade quite like the daggers she was using earlier, a bit weak at the hilt. It reminds me of the times my parents have taken me to see ballets, stories woven into fluid movement, and the stylized parries of the false fights. She lifts up into a pirouette to start. "Pick your weapon, knife girl."
I remind myself that a sword blade is not the same as a knife blade. I search for the one I use most often. It is balanced, with a decent grip, a very steady, connected hilt, and a little movement. That is deadly in a knife, but required in a sword, where it becomes an extension of yourself.
In spite of myself, I bring it out of the rack with a loud, echoing swish. Why not show off? She's arrogant, prideful, contemptuous, and hates being reminded of her own stupidity. "Are you ready?" I say. Though I know I am, I doubt she is. "Excellent. Let's begin."
I get in the swordfighting stance I've learned. The only way I can win is to beat her at her own game. Deception. And with that, the fight begins.
I immediately take the offensive, swiping hard at her left and right. She counters my moves easily. I pull back. By now the fight has consumed me entirely. My focus is honed. I notice a flaw in her arms. They bend too much. Her power is all rooted in her wrist.
I've beaten kids bigger than her. Swordfighting psychology dictates the importance of overestimating your opponent. My strokes are powerful. I'm not getting out of here without putting up the best possible fight I can.

Steel flashes. The hot rhythm of the fight is in me now. This is the part I most enjoy. I hear the swords connect and I push to try and find an opening. My stance is sound. My fury is bubbling up like molten lava, rage slow to cool. I must win. I must get first blood.
Dance girl's skills are not entirelye worthless. She slashes towards me; my shin, my side. Too late. And too predictable. I spot an opening on her right, an unguarded hip. I swing down to catch it, and it hits as she is in mid-spin. As it moves in, the tip of her sword whirs toward my shoulder. I lean back, but not far enough. It cuts. First blood.
Whose blood? The wound in her side streams red, but I feel mine trickling down my shoulder. I was an idiot. An idiot. I walk in untouched, I walk out scathed. Hurt by a girl who likely will spend much of her life hopping about in a tutu and tiara to the chirpy tune of some saccharine numbskull. She turns around and faces her friend or lover or whatever, the judge of the fight.
"It was a tie," he says. He gives dance girl a pointed look. The people around us mutter and gasp.
It was a tie? It was a tie?! There is no such thing as a tie in the real world. The Hunger Games can't end in a tie. There is no such thing as two victors of the Hunger Games, and there will never be. Mistress sugar fairy here got cut first, I want to scream. Pretty little doll got cut first. She could never match me. And I am opening my mouth to fight the decision when I realize something.
Arrogance. The worst of the Career flaws. It's one thing to be in a tie, and another thing to insist that I must have won. I felt the sword connect as her blade caught my shoulder. When I had the knives, I let my skill do the talking. I told her in a fair way, with my ability answering her challenge. I will not bow to the crassness of this game. I never will.
I bow my head. "You are talented, dancer." I am not submitting. I am not conceding. There is no shame in recognizing someone for their deed. "I am Adaira Lynsen. That was impressive. If you need someone to spar with, or someone to back you, I will be here for you."
Everyone has already dispersed. "You can find me here most days. I expect I'll see you in school. Keep practicing, dancer," I say. "You're good with swords, and I've never seen anyone cut with a pirouette." With that, I leave her. I am going to find the video camera that the security guards use for the training center.
update: I found the camera. We cut at the same time. Even though I knew it, I can't help but feel a drizzle of annoyance.