What are you looking at [Kiah]?

I saunter my lithe body across the linoleum floor of the worn-in gym; my long, leather-clad legs carry me closer and closer to my objective today. My eyes focused in on the fresh, brick red fabric hanging from the solid, metal chain. The elder energy clashes with the youthful equipment they have put in. It is off-setting really. This gym has seen many of its occupants die in combat in far off worlds constructed for the viewing pleasures of our glourious Capitol. The air is ripe with energy and the distant memories of those that have gone before us. Yet as the years go one, our gymnasiums here in Two get constantly upgraded, always trying to build the best Career. Luckily for those of us who do not actually give two fucks about the Games can still use it as long as we are 18 or younger. I take a roll of tape and cover the skin of my knuckles and palms in a triangle formation, preparing myself for my own personal training. Powder helps to create more surface area for the rough fabric other than my skin, and my earbuds creates a world that I control.

Punch, jab, jab, cross.

I feel the momentum from each forceful throw ricochet back up to my shoulder, my hands become taut from the impact. I lean into each punch, throwing more force from my body into them while I keep my free hand up. Being lean as me can be both a blessing and a curse. I make up my lack of strength with my speed and adaptability, able to change directions at the drop of a dime. I use this advantage to get across my inanimate opponent, hitting it from all 360 degrees. I continue this routine until the powder has long left my hands, creates mark on the uncovered skin. I clean up, revealing the now barley used skin of the punching bag. The tape becomes disposed of, and I head for the tracks.

I have always favored speed and agility to strength and power. What’s point of being strong if your opponent can just run from you? You lose tactical advantage, it is not smart to be too strong. Yet the opposite argument is just as true, which is what just love reminding me. “You’re too skinny,” they say, “You need more muscles.” They chime on as if I can actually care anymore than I only pretend to. It is easy to paint a face of caring and listening, if only they could hear the judgements that I pass on them every day. I do not fucking care what these people think of me. I have no aspirations of a suicide death wish. I just want to train.

I continue running to the beat pumping through my ears, my blood pounding with each pounce forward. Our track is a standard Olympic size track, with each lap being roughly 400 meters. Which means that anybody in Two can still run it. After my 7th or 8th lap I start to notice a girl giving me a pretty stanky eye as she curls some weights. I turn to continue my laps but I can still feel her gaze judging my body. I can feel her eyes trying to penetrate me, trying to find weaknesses in my posture, in my stride. When I turn the corner I can see that she found something that she considers a weakness.

My lithe body.

Her judgment is very clear in her eyes as she starts to bench heavier and heavier weights, trying to show off her dominance over me. After a few more laps her peacock show hasn’t ended and her stare only getting more intense. I have finally had enough of her attitude and strut on over, making sure to accentuate my figure as I walk.

“What the hell is your problem?” I ask in anger.