hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia}

rook
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hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia} Jun 8, 2020 16:58:46 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jun 8, 2020 16:58:46 GMT -5

patricia valfierno

Lysander is a lost cause. I'm not wasting time attempting to train up someone who clearly either has a death wish or is oblivious to what they've signed up for. She could have kept her mouth shut, and she'd be dandy. Then again, maybe it's better that she volunteered in place of that other girl - I'm struggling to imagine what good Lys would do with her life other than drink herself to an early grave.

I slip into some gym shorts and pull on a pair of fresh white socks. My chest tugs me towards the carton of cigarettes sitting on by bedside cabinet, but I wave away the cravings with an annoyed sigh. Pacing across the room, I find my sneakers - old but functional. I stand with my hands on my hips, staring at the nylon jacket spread out across my bed. Black with a red stripe down the arms, and the characters D5 printed on the shoulders on the left breast, and "MENTOR" printed across the back.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

Looking like an underpaid gym teacher with my worn tracksuit and tatty bleached hair tied back in a scrunchie, I make my way down to the Training Centre. I retrace the steps I took all those years ago, back then with fear in my gut and hesitation behind every step down the carbon-fibre staircase, now with hurried impatience.

I look around the expanse of the training centre, to all the stations where I once learned how to camouflage, or where I first picked up a spear. So many ghosts run the obstacle course, so many dead fingers have wrapped around the hilts of these blades. Now twenty-four new faces do the same stations, learn the same skills.

I didn't have Lethe to help me, like Kenji and Lysander do now. I didn't have someone to show me what to do, where to go, to give me invaluable advice on what to do in life-or-death situations. For many years, I refused to forgive her. A stubborn little girl like me was never going to understand that different people process grief in different ways, but I guess I do now.

I just don't want these kids to be alone.

I spot Cyro, the boy from Eleven who Katelyn was telling me about. The habitual lobe of my brain nags me to forget his name, to label him as D11M, because that's easier to process when he's dead. Katelyn polluting me with the details of him having a son, of what he has to lose - it's grief I don't need.

But if it helps Kate process it, I guess I'm content to help share that burden.

I sigh, looking around for Kenji. Where is that kid? I look like a stressed soccer mom having a mid-life crisis.

Last Edit: Jun 8, 2020 17:02:44 GMT -5 by rook

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

esther kim d3 {lance}
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hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia} Jun 8, 2020 22:39:10 GMT -5

Post by esther kim d3 {lance} on Jun 8, 2020 22:39:10 GMT -5

KENJI

"Again."

Everything hurt. Sure, it was nothing new, for especially during your warm-up rounds you'd find yourself on your back more often than not. But at least with your fists you knew how to stand, which foot to put where, how to lash out with one hand or move smoothly to dodge a blow. Adding another weapon to the mix was like starting again at the very beginning. There was only so much you could do with a polearm in your hands and an extra weight dragging you down.

But you shove down your anger, pick up the glaive from where it had clattered to the ground next to you, and go at it again. Clash, clash, stab-

-and then with another whack, you find yourself flat on your back again, a new blossom of pain emerging in your left cheek.

Five minutes later, your weapon placed upon the rack and annoyance maintaining a solid grip on your senses, you find yourself standing at a juncture, at a loss. Why must things be so difficult? You'd gotten above average scores in hand-to-hand, obviously, and had done all right in all non-weapons related physical stations, but beyond that? Hell, you may as well have been Lysander for all the competence you showed in such areas.

Movement catches your eye. A familiar bleach blond head grabs your attention. And your eyes widen as you recognize Patricia - dressed in a similar getup to what you were wearing - likewise standing in the middle of the room, looking around as if she was-

You swallow. As if she was looking for someone.

Slowly, tentatively, fully aware of the battered bruised body you now possessed but doing what you could to hide it, you approach your mentor with something akin to a sense of awe and confusion mixed into one. "Patricia?" you ask upon approaching her. "Are, uh, you looking for someone? Did something happen?"

You'd seen how she'd been on the train, remembered the chastising you'd gotten for volunteering. Not many people in your life earned the right to make you feel wary simply by being in their presence - but she fit that persona quite well.

There was prudence in maintaining caution around people who could slice you up with their tongue and then kick your ass the traditional way afterwords, after all.

NAKAMURA

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rook
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hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia} Jun 10, 2020 17:41:12 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jun 10, 2020 17:41:12 GMT -5

patricia valfierno

This will be good for both of us.

"Patricia?" Kenji comes jogging up to me, donning a similar tracksuit to mine, except the lettering on his is more crisp, and the red on the arms hasn't faded like on mine. I doubt his reeks of cigarette smoke from years of standing on the balcony wearing little ele. His youth radiates, curiosity brewing on his expressive face, which seems to be healing by the day. Maybe all his cuts and bruises will be gone in time for him to be gifted with some new ones.

"Are, uh, you looking for someone? Did something happen?" He asks, an apprehension about his demeanour. Despite his bravado in volunteering and rising to the challenge of these Games, he still holds himself with an air of caution, not letting overconfidence become his downfall. It's a good trait to have; level-headedness, but also a fine line to tread - go too far either way and it's likely an early canon and you're name will be projected into the sky within the first twenty-four hours.

He came from the weapons station, where several tributes are sparring with instructors and learning how to use a sword, spear, glaive, dagger, and the like. It's good for lower-district tributes who have never picked up a weapon in their lives, but most Careers know how to spar in their sleep. Yet, they're usually the first ones to those stations, trying to show off or intimidate everyone else.

"Nothing happened."

I fold my arms and sigh, looking around for a weapons rack. There's a set of blunt swords not too far from where we're standing, so I waltz over and take a pair. They're made of wood, with blunted edges, just like I remember.

I throw one at Kenji's feet. It lands on the matted floor with a clatter.

"Show me what you learned." I say as I walk away ten paces from him, turning to face him with the sword loosely gripped in my right hand.

It feels like it felt back then, like an extension of my arm.

I lock eyes with him, and wait for him to come at me with all the posture, form, and positioning that they taught him. That they once taught me.

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

esther kim d3 {lance}
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hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia} Jun 12, 2020 1:42:49 GMT -5

Post by esther kim d3 {lance} on Jun 12, 2020 1:42:49 GMT -5

KENJI

"Nothing happened." Succinct and blunt as ever, Patricia's response nevertheless failed to assuage you of your confusion or your wariness. If there was no special reasoning towards her presence in the training center, no sudden unexpected event that demanded your presence - then why?

Your question is answered somewhat when your mentor walks over to the weapons station and grabs a pair of swords. Wooden in nature, unlike the metal of the polearm you had just been wielding, the pieces don't fully click until one is thrown at your feet.

"Show me what you learned." You hastily reach down to pick up the weapon as Patricia put space between you and herself, the second weapon grasped in her right hand. The gears turn, eyes widen, - oh.

She was a mentor. Even if the role was something she appeared to take no pleasure in, it was one she would fulfill nonetheless. For a second, you glanced over at her, gaze still wide, remembering fully the woman you'd seen as a young girl on the television, remembering the relative absence from the world around her in the aftermath of her victory, remembering the bucket of ice water and the heat of her tongue lashing from just a few days ago.

If she was bothering to see what you knew, well, then that was an opportunity you couldn't afford to waste.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, before opening them. This time, your gaze is filled with determination, the weapon heavy in your left hand. Your muscles already ached from your previous stint - but perhaps that was the point, testing you while you were less than full strength.

Breathe in, and then out. Sword practice had been simply two days ago. Even if your mind was blank, muscle memory should still be fresh.

So you nod, then lunge forward, pulling the sword back and then pushing it forward, slashing horizontally at her torso from her left side.

This was something that would help you scratch that itch. Patricia was the last person from home who had gone into the arena and lived to tell the tale, after all. And for you, it'd even be a bonus - because the last time you knew for certain that someone had struck at her in a manner with a weapon, they had ended up dead in the darkness of an underground cavern.

NAKAMURA

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rook
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hit me as hard as you can {kenji/patricia} Jun 12, 2020 18:35:22 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jun 12, 2020 18:35:22 GMT -5

patricia valfierno

Kenji takes up the sword and grips the hilt firmly, extending the sparring blade from his arm and taking up a standard fighting stance. His eyes are locked with mine, his face a picture of raw concentration and focus. Good, I think as he takes slow steps, closing the gap between us. Each footstep is carefully placed, each move calculated, clean, taught.

Of course, in the arena it is not this straightforward. It is not this polished. The floor is often uneven depending on what environment you're facing, and you'd be tired too, probably exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. You may even be carrying wounds or missing a limb. The desperation often overrules what you are taught in the training centre. Your mind goes narrow, tunnelling in on your target. All you care about is killing them at any cost.

My shoulders are relaxed, my sword pointing loosely towards the teenager. I don't move towards him, instead I wait stoically, letting him come to me.

I've never mentored like this. I've only ever given advice and answered questions, provided support where it was needed. I've never had a desire to walk back into this hallowed ground again, let alone pick up a weapon, which I haven't done since... since Galaxy fell and my entire world changed.

But I don't feel nervous, or anxious about this. I don't have mad war flashbacks or any shit like that, no. I feel in the moment, present and ready to help this boy. Because I see something in him, something more. And if I can even give him a slight nudge in the right direction, towards surviving, towards winning, then I'll sleep a lot better at night knowing I did my best for him.

He draws closer, and after a few quicker steps he is on me, bringing his sword around his body and slashing towards my torso horizontally. He is quick, I'll give him that. But not nearly quick enough. I step to the left and slide sideways, bringing my right arm across my chest so my wooden sword intercepts his in front of me.

As my blade parries his, I use the brief second in which he is stunned to step forwards into his personal space, so close that I can see into the whites of his eyes. I bring my knee up sharply into his gut, so he keels over, and with my free hand I firmly grab a large tuft of his hair and yank it backwards, hard. I bring the wooden sword up to his neck.

"Dead." I say bluntly, still gripping the roots of his hair for a few seconds, letting him drink in what would be his death, before then letting go and stepping back.

I raise an eyebrow as he recovers. What? Did he think this would be like how the capitol instructors fought? Please.

"If you try and fight like a Career, you'll get killed by a Career. That's how they want you to play the game - by their rules." I almost laugh at how tilted the process is in favour of the upper-districts. Those kids have been fighting that way for years, so of course they'd slaughter most kids who try and fight the same way.

"But there are no rules." I say, letting the sword rest at my side, "You grab their hair, you spit in their face, you kick them in the balls. You do what you have to do to win."

I point the sword at him like an accusation.

"You're a dirty street fighter. Fight dirty." I smile, and signal for him to come at me again.

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside