if you sent us down [solo]

charlotte laine.

I've always preferred this place at night.

The absence of extra bodies running back and forth, the sound of boys and girls shouting and grunting, in the hope that one day they'll become the escapee of the Capitol's graveyard and wear a crown shadowed by the ghosts of twenty-three others. It didn't sound so bad to me when I was training. It still doesn't.

When they've all gone home, the lights are dimmed, but the doors aren't locked. Only guarded sparingly by Keepers who will let in someone with a pretty face and a light touch. It's peaceful here, when the sun dips below the horizon and the movement of the district slows to a crawl.

I like to come just before the human traffic begins to slow, when swords are still swinging and the satisfying noise of a knife hitting its target echoes around the room. I watch, I listen. Sometimes I'll speak, but not always. I never liked helping someone who wasn't willing to listen.

Most of the lights are off, only the fluorescent ones above each station remain, and even they flicker every now and then. It's eerie, the dim light against blades that suddenly have become statues, cold and sullen against the tables. Just waiting for someone, anyone, to use them properly.

There's someone else moving a few stations away from me. He's been here for a while, although I haven't taken much notice of him until now. People don't stand out until everyone else moves and they don't.

I catch sight of his hand on the hilt of a sword, and take note that his grip is correct. I watch him for a moment.

And then he turns, the light outlining his face for half a second, and I recognize the shape immediately.

Fray.

After watching one of them wear his own grown of ghosts, and so many others digging their own graves in his wake, I can't help but know their features well.

Arms crossed, I make my way over to him, eyes following his movement. His footing is decent. His swings are steady.

"That's good."

And he's just as arrogant as the rest of them.

A Fray through and through.

I lean against the wall, nodding my head in his direction.

"You're opponent isn't exactly mobile."

I bend down to pick up the hand he's sliced from the dummy. "Not to mention unarmed." I glance up, almost smiling but not quite.

I step up to the array of swords, and replace the lost appendage with one of the curved, lighter blades. "I usually find it helpful to practice on a live target."

I turn, moving to glance the tip of my sword off of his, and this time I smile and tilt my head. "I bet I could beat you, Fray."

charlotte laine.

Somewhere behind his eyes, there's a hint of surprise, though I can't think why. Everyone knows who the Frays are, but I suppose not everyone could recognize them quite so quickly.

Skeeter was never as interested in the games as I was. While Mum and Da and I sat together and watched, he'd have his nose buried in a book, gaze frantically skimming the pages, like it was food and he had been starved for days. Sometimes I imagined that the faces of kids from Twelve would look like that.

But I always watched. Curled up, toes tucked under a blanket, because they were always so cold. Mum was worried at first, but I think after a while she just accepted it. I could see it, when she sat back and let me talk and talk until I couldn't talk anymore, about Cricket and Saffron and eventually Justice, and yes Kaiser is psychotic, but look at that jawline.

I try to let myself forget that that was only last year.

"I sure hope you aren't putting money on that," the boy in front of me raises a brow, amusement written across his face with a well-practiced smile to charm the socks off of anyone. "it'd be a shame taking money from such a pretty girl."

I roll my eyes and rub my thumb against the hilt of my sword. "Pretty girls don't usually like to bet with money."

He plants his feet and takes up a fighting stance. "And please, just call me Achilles."

His body moves forward, smooth and sturdy, but quick enough that I don't have time to dodge completely out of the way.

So maybe he knows a bit more than how to hit a standing target.

"Achilles." I repeat, letting the name roll around on my tongue. "I guess I have to figure out your weak spot to win, right?"

My feet spread shoulder-width apart, I stay on the outer corners of the mat, eyeing him carefully, following his steps with my own.

"You can call me Charlotte, since we're on a first name basis." my lips purse automatically at the name. I dislike it, but nicknames are for friends, not strangers I meet in the dark.

My weight shifts forward, sword feinting at his feet, then upwards in the hopes of catching him off guard.

charlotte laine.

It seems it's been ages since I had a decent opponent, and I relish in the feeling of a good challenge. Alert, careful, noting down every movement.

I get an almost-laugh out of him, and then it's business once again, looking me over, searching for an opening. I can almost feel his gaze boring in to me. We're taught to be brutal here, quick and efficient,

(bludgeon them to death if you have to)

Be strong, be powerful, technique comes secondary to damage dealt and the measure of red oceans we can spill out across the floor. Talent is evaluated by fear, ability by ferocity, and if you're bloodthirsty enough, they might even tell you you've got a chance.

It's rare to come across someone who doesn't cut corners.

"Pretty name. Nice and simple."

My attack lands, and had it been more forceful I could've done some real damage. But that's not what my talent is for these days. A year ago, maybe, but then Skeet's eyes bore into my mind with such desperation and I can't bear to think that I might have left him alone. So I'm reduced to wandering the halls and knocking some sense into the thick skulls of wannabe victors without an ounce of talent.

This guy might have a chance though.

I've been pulled into my thoughts again, and a cold force against my stomach yanks me back to reality. I stumble, but set my foot back to catch myself, a dull ache spreading around my front to my sides.

I don't spend much time recovering. I recoil, sword flashing in the dim light, and draw an angry little mark across his leg. A grunt escapes him and now it's his turn to stumble, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of my lips.

Then he locks eyes with me and for a moment I'm still. Of course, it's a mistake.

A cold, steel point cuts across my face, and somewhere in my peripheral vision I can see a blurry shade of red. "Hey!" I snap, but don't reach up to touch it just yet. I still have to finish him off. "You're messing up my face."

I don't think this time, let my emotions drive me, and swing straight. In the split second where his sword connects with mine, filling the training center with the song of steel-against-steel, I draw myself back in, forcing the annoyance back into its cage.

I catch his smile, and I can see it's not the one he uses on the girls. There's victory glowing in his eyes. He thinks he's won.

Much too slow, he brings his sword over his head, ready to bring it down on me. A killing blow, were his weapon a little more deadly.

I regain myself quickly, bring my sword up to meet his. I can feel the force behind his intended blow, and I use it against him, circling the weapon aside and causing a high note as my blade scrapes against his. As I complete the circle, I draw my sword against his heel, and a gasp escapes his lungs.

Caused more by the force of his own stance than the strength behind my weapon, he falls, sword tumbling from his grip. In one swift motion, I kick it aside with my toe, and bring the tip of my own sword to his chin. I'm willing to bet he'd be livid if I snipped that pretty beard of his. Too bad these swords aren't sharp enough for that.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position and I move my blade out of the way. A weak smile laces across his face. "Looks like I'm dead then. Congrats, you found my Achilles heel."

I grin, unable to help myself from giving a low chuckle in response. Then I remember the cut on my face, and I draw my thumb across it, narrowing my eyes when I see the red stain on my skin. "Well, I couldn't let you get away with that." I grunt, raising my eyebrows pointedly at him. Nobody cuts up my face and gets away with it.

I return my sword to its place on the table, then offer him a hand to get up. Silently, I hope I didn't hurt his ankle to badly, since I'm not too keen on dragging him all the way home.

"I'll admit you're not half-bad." I say, smiling faintly. "Most of the others are downright brutes. At least you've got some talent."

charlotte laine.

He takes my hand, smaller and thinner than his, and mercifully is able to stand. As much as I'd like to gloat, it wouldn't have been good for either of us if I'd done any real damage.

"Well, I'm not like most of the others." he smiles, almost like we're friends.

(Are you sure about that?)

He picks up his fallen sword, returning it to its home next to mine. Lights flicker and glint of the steel, as if they'd never been touched, but there's still sword song ringing in my ears, the feeling of a weapon between my fingers. What I wouldn't give to experience the real thing.

"But you still beat me, so I can definitely say the same about you."

I return the smile and nod out of kindness, not necessarily because the comment makes me feel good about myself. I know I'm good. I don't need someone to tell me that.

"Speaking of which, how about I take you to get you some food or something on the way back. Y'know, since you did beat me fair and square."

When Skeet and I were little, Mum and Da taught us we weren't to accept money from others. We were out of the lower class, and it was insulting for someone to offer. Not that many ever did. We dressed well enough, we knew how to hold ourselves properly. In my case, I knew how to act like I had more than I did. They told us we were just fine the way we were.

I've met boys in the taverns around the Square, bottle in hand and a charming smile pasted across trained features. The ones who got a different warm body every night and the smell of some new girl on their pillow every morning. I had been asked if I wanted a drink before, and I'd said no more often than not.

I hesitate, arms crossed over my chest, scrutinizing the young man standing before me and debating how much I trust him.

Then my stomach decides I'm taking too long to think and lets out a grumble of complaint. I smile sheepishly and quickly duck my head, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Yeah, you do owe me." I laugh and try to cover up my moment of uncertainty. I never liked being unsure of myself, and I especially never liked it when someone else could see it. "I guess some food couldn't hurt."

There's a slight emphasis on the word food, almost unnoticeable, but there all the same. I tilt my head and look at him for a moment, searching, as if I'll find answers somewhere behind his eyes. Is that really all he wants? It's hard to tell when the currency these days is made up of secrets and everyone wears a mask of one sort or another.

I turn away, aiming for a comical business-look, and wave a hand at the door. "Lead the way, captain."

charlotte laine.

"Right this way."

He's amused, which is a relief. I don't like seeming so unsure of myself.

We step out into the cold, blanketed by snow and an overshadowing of silence. Boots crunch softly against the ground and I wrap my arms around my body to keep myself warm. I threw on a sweater before leaving, but a coat would have been nice in this weather.

The streets are practically empty at this time of night, shops closed up and windows shut tight, keeping out the winter chill. The world lies still, with the two of us sticking out like a pair of soar thumbs. I never liked being so vulnerable.

To my relief, it doesn't take long to get there, and welcome the warm air as he opens the door for me and I step inside. Warm light floods my gaze, and I can't help smiling at the quaint little place. Somewhere in the back of my memory, a fire crackles, and I can feel Skeet curled up close to me on the couch, his thumb turning the next page of his book.

"See you've got a guest today, Achilles."

I look up, suddenly aware that we aren't the only two souls moving about at this hour. There's a man at the counter, and I can't help wondering if this is routine, or if it's genuinely out of the ordinary. I guess I'll have to find out.

"Yeah, she kicked my ass, so I owe her."

I glance sideways, eyebrows raised. So he's not above admitting defeat. And yet his smile is still there, confident as ever.

He turns and speaks to me this time. "Yeah, get whatever you want, I've got it covered."

Either he's extremely well off, or a talented liar. I'm starting to have trouble distinguishing between the two.

I move to take a seat at the counter, chin resting in my hands, scanning the list of meals on the wall. Skeet and I didn't go out much when we were kids. We preferred to stay home, and he particularly liked to make his own meals. I tended to burn the food too much for him to trust me with any cooking.

"I'll just have a sandwich." I say, glancing at the shopkeeper. Then my eyes wander a bit and I point at a picture of a glass filled with something that's probably supposed to be a milkshake. At least the cherry on top looks alright. "And one of those, please."

I turn to Achilles, curiosity begging for answers. "So, is this what you do with every girl who kicks your ass?" I offer up a teasing smile. "Or were you just feeling spontaneous tonight?"