King of Silence; Puppy

Citrine stretched her arms out, working away the aches from the recent weeks of intensive training. Ridley's win had forced her into the frenzy that had consumed district one. The renewed vigor for the possibility of another victor, especially the victor of a quell, was drawing near.

She moved along the series of swords, brushing each with her hand, inspecting them. When she made it into the games, which sword would she use? What would her nickname be as the crown is placed on top of her head. She knew she would make it there eventually, that soon, her name would be carved into history. But, until then, she needed to train. She needed to make sure that she would be ready for anything that comes, that any torrent of attacks will be deflected in exchange for her own.

This has been her life for as long as she could remember, waking up, going to the training center, going home. At night, her grandmother would tell her that her time was wasted, that she wasn't learning anything, that her intelligence was wasted on preserving a draconian system put in place to maintain district submission. Her grandma's pleas for her to stop often fell on deaf ears that were shrouded by her mother's own words to continue and eventually bring fame to her family's name.

Her arms stretched out as she leaned down on the mat beneath her. Her fingers reached and touched her toes as she stretched, awaiting whoever her mock opponent would be. The training center had said they'd handle everything as her normal partner was out.

When she saw him, she was a bit surprised.

This scrawny kid was who I was going to be sparring against?

Did the training center really think that little of her.

He seemed to be just as annoyed. "Hello, or whatever. Are we supposed to spar? Or am I supposed to show you how to use a weapon?”

Taken aback by his crotchety tone, she responded by making a display of looking him up and down. She had seen him around the training center a few times before, but had never approached him to learn his name. Often, her fellow careers all melded into one, indistinguishable face.

"Somebody's grumpy," she says with a small chuckle, trying to keep it light and ignore how punchable his face looked with that expression on it, "I had been hoping to spar with someone. You look like I should be teaching you how to use a weapon anyways."

---

To be far, the boy's throw was rather impressive. Not many people had the ability to use the blunt weaponry that normally sat in isolation from their sharper peers at the training center. Citrine had never been one for blunt force anyways. She recognized his display of strength as the common career showoff move, though. Whenever one career had felt belittled by another, they always seemed inclined to prove that they were the best.

Training like that will turn you into a meathead, grandma had warned her when she had first started training, so she had always made sure never to fall into that pattern that others did. While she did have a good number of friends at the career center who she cared for dearly, a lot of them tended to fall into the category of not being too intelligent. It's probably why careers from one haven't been winning as much as they should.

She grinned back at his raised eyebrow as he shrugged. Faking humbleness, he spoke.

"I’m Corduroy, by the way. What are you going to teach me how to handle?”

Citrine almost laughed at that, her grin widening as she stopped herself. It was kind of cute how he tried to just play off a feat he knew was impressive. At least he had more sense than some of the other careers here and was a humble showboat. The louder, more aggressive guys tended to just end up annoying her.

"Your ego apparently," she said teasingly, furrowing her eyebrows slightly to fake being unimpressed.

"And I'm Citrine." She said through her grin.

Then she took another look at the dent in the rubber mannequin and added on begrudgingly, "And if you want to help me learn to do that, I wouldn't complain."

---

His grin widened to match mine in response to my comments, "My ego?" He says incredulously.

I had never really tried to use the blunt instruments before. They were all heavy, meant for blundering, hulking tributes. None of them had the delicate intricacies of that of a knife or of a sword. In an arena, I know I wouldn't be able to match anyone else with one of the overside, glorified hammers.

Might as well learn. It might prove useful if I ever enter the arena against grandma's wishes.

I deftly catch the wooden training mace from the air, pulling it close to my body to inspect it. It was crude, an outline of the weapon that it could be. It felt useless in my hands, nothing more than a piece of wood. Hopefully, Corduroy could change that.

“Alright, Citrine, here we go.”

He moves to the dummy, and I watch as he spreads his legs, angles his arms, and swing. His powerful strikes cause the rubber soldier to quiver from hits that would cause a living creature to crumble beneath him.

"Follow along, and let’s see what you’re made of. Maybe I can teach you spinning. That’s a good trick."

Oh he'll see what I'm made of.

Hopefully.

I move to mimic his stance, widening my stance and angling my arms.

Wait, spinning?

Why would you ever want to spin in the first place? Wouldn't that just leave you open to an attack? I could see it in my head now in a sort of dark humor, Corduroy in the games, spinning with the wooden mace in his hands only to have a faceless tribute from District Eleven to shrug and pierce him with a sword while his back is exposed.

I try not to laugh at that image.

"How do I look?" I say, referring to my stance, "Do I look ready to slap the shit out of someone with a wooden stick yet?"

---