Public Training Sessions

Boom.

I kick out with my leg, hoping to knock the doors wide open to announce my presence — but I soon learn that they're automatic. That sucks. But it's not enough to stop my little parade, shifting my stance into a sliding motion as I enter the room theatrically. "You have to wear your training uniform," is what everyone told me, and I am. I am 100% wearing the uniform that had been tailored just for me. And a pair of sunglasses. And a fur coat straight from Mackenzie Pryce's closet.

Check the rules. This is all fair game.

"What's up?" I find the gamemakers quickly, lifting my hand to wave at them in their raised thrones. They look badass, and maybe in a different situation, I'd be jealous of them. Some might say I'm coming across as ridiculous, but the standards are higher here in the Capitol. I'm only trying to even the playing field. "The name's Kyler Petralia, all the way from District Seven." I remove my glasses and place them in the pocket of my coat, shrugging off the heavy fur from my shoulders.

The real show starts now. I've already got their attention.

"Hope I've been keeping you all entertained," I start with a warm drawl, entering the room and advancing towards the weaponry table. It's not my intention to waste their time. They're sharing this space with me for a reason, and the same logic applies to myself. We all have a choice to make in this moment. This is my one chance to change their opinion of me before my entire life is left up to fate — or, y'know, something else like that. I have to raise the probability of my survival. Damn all the other statistics about boys from Seven.

For all the hours I wasted on day drinking and making bad decisions, another two were spent training.

What? Playing dumb doesn't mean I'm an idiot. That's kind of the whole point. And don't get me wrong, I'm not a prodigy by any means. I had to learn how to throw a punch capable of incapacitating someone just like all the other tributes. But I grew up with more resources than most of these kids, and in my district, learning to strengthen your body isn't just a weekend hobby. It's part of who I am. A mischievous young man with a habit of not taking himself seriously. Star athlete. Class clown. What do grades have on popularity?

Nothing.

"But don't sweat it. I already know the drill." I strap a sword to my waist, gathering some throwing knives in the palm of my hand. "The smooth talking isn't what you're looking for. You want some real drama." So I make my way to one of the newer stations, a wide training field surrounded by hologram technology. It's time for me to make my decision. They only give you so many minutes. I select the settings I desire from a nearby keypad. "Four rounds. High difficulty. Let's set the tribute pool to random."

The outline of the space begins to whir, blinking into existence. I make my way to the center of the floor as metal bars raise around me, light beginning to stream into the area. "Damn, this is fancy," I say to myself more than anyone else, whistling in appreciation. The machines seem to focus on the space just ahead of me, materializing a human shape that steadily becomes more familiar as more features are applied to the base coding. Long waves of dark hair, a lean figure, two axes in a pair of slender hands.

"Penelope Marcet, okay. I remember her with a few less limbs." In the time it takes for me to make the joke, the hologram of the District Five finalist lunges at me like a snake uncoiling. I barely dodge her first axe, raising my sword just in time to parry the second. "Right. We're going hard." I push her away from me with a strong kick, distancing myself while trying to stay in range of attacking her. I search for a weak point, some fault in the armor.

But she's crazy fast. None of the trainers had told me cartwheels were a required skill.

I move my sword back to my waist, preparing a throwing knife with my free hand. She moves forwards and then to the side, up a few feet and then a few more back. It's all I can do to notice that her foot seems to be her only vulnerable spot right now. I aim for her calf, my knife reaching her just in time to pierce through the side of her shoe. She crashes, rolling on her side, and I throw another blade into her exposed stomach. I approach with the intention of stabbing her in the chest and finishing off the hologram, but she twists her body like a trained gymnast.

The edge of her axe catches my thigh as I jump back, watching in amazement as she manages to bring herself to her feet. "I remember you being impossible to kill," I taunt her with a frustrated chuckle. Everything's fine. If I want the gamemakers to recognize my abilities, I have to keep up with the best that the Games has to offer. Even if that means fighting the computerized reflections of tributes that didn't win — that literally died. No, it doesn't make a lot of sense.

Yikes.

She strikes at me again, this time with both of her weapons, slashing at my head and following that with a swipe at my gut. It's difficult to evade with my height advantage over her, but I'm able to rotate on my heels just enough to keep everything but my left forearm out of range. I hiss in pain, trying to focus on the task at hand. I can't pout right now. I grip my sword again, shifting the path of my rotation and using the momentum to swing outwards with all of my might. I watch my blade rip across her throat, noticing that her axes had been sweeping down towards my neck.

Damn. Talk about luck of the draw.

Penelope Marcet and her blades begin to freeze in place, the code breaking apart and falling to the ground with a static screech. I take this opportunity to distance myself again, jogging to the side of the field and watching the circle of light on the floor vibrate with new energy. "Let's go." It's all uphill from here. Honestly, why do people even say that? Who the fuck jogs up a hill and enjoys it?

I want to go downhill. Maybe take a nap.

But the hologram doesn't allow me the privilege of daydreaming, quickly materializing with the form of a young man. His features flush with sudden life, and I struggle to identify him. I glance at the vintage dagger in his hand, the torn clothes and smudge of dirt on his cheek. Something about this hologram just seems... old? If that's even possible? I try to piece the puzzle together, leading myself to a conclusion that I'm not entirely sure of. "Is this the guy that died last in the 1st Games?" I can't think of the name.

Didn't watch.

But it's required reading in the more advanced history courses back at school. Adder finally won after defeating... what was it again? I'm certain I remember that the guy had a record for something. Maybe I'd put more time into figuring it out, if not for him rushing at me with nothing but pure rage. He slashes at my chest, tearing through the uniform and drawing a shallow cut across my skin. I breathe through my teeth, forcing myself to shift from stumbling backwards to jogging around my enemy.

I pat my sword as it rests against my thigh, deciding what method to go about fighting this stranger. Getting in the path of his anger again is not on my bucket list, so I take a throwing knife between my fingers and toss it forward, waiting for him to charge at me again. It catches his shoulder, the force bending him backwards, just barely able to steady himself on his knees. His hologram blurs, his features glitching as they try to convey the emotions. As if there's less resources to work with. Less footage to use as reference.

"Okay, that's cool," but it's really not. My voice is quiet, hard at the edges. This is the first time I realize I'm fighting the actual fucking memory of a real person. Someone who had been in the same place as me, wanting the same things, terrified of all the same dangers. And I don't even know his name. It's like I'm looking down at myself, watching as I flicker in and out of existence, and I can't even recognize who I am. I'm not having fun.

It's not a fair match, but I take advantage of the unstable hologram and draw my sword to chop off his head, clutching the hilt with both of my hands and swinging with all of my strength. There's a buzzing sound, and then silence. "That's what would happen if I fought someone who lost their mind, yeah? Let's just go with that." I watch the coding on the ground reassemble itself, rubbing my hand across my scarred chest, a sting still echoing through my nerve endings. Damn.

Talk about dodging a bullet.

Another feminine figure comes to life before me, and I'm already smiling appreciatively at the cleaner, more modern image standing in front of me. She's beautiful, and recognizable, too. "Another 83rd finalist? Yeah, I was also a fan." If that's what we're calling, 'watching the Games made my stomach flip every fucking time,' these days. We'll keep up the lie together.

"Bell Hailsham. I'm honored." She smiles sweetly at me, and then it turns cold as she reveals a long, sharp blade from behind her. She rushes at me, and I raise my sword to parry, finding myself in an exchange of rapid blows. Her attacks seem perfect on a technical level, like she's been trained from an early age how to use her weapon exactly like it had been intended. Also known as, 'hey, I'm not a scared kid who doesn't know what to do, this is something I actually wanted, yay for me.' Yeah, I know. Makes me sick, too.

I still smirk, though, playing my part like we all have to.

"You don't have to try so hard," I speak through every clashing of our blades, a steel whistle echoing with my every word. "I'm easy. Really, I'm not ashamed to admit that." I laugh, trying to distract myself from the fact that this girl is really starting to tire me out. She falls into routine with me, tricking me into repetition, before striking down instead of up and splitting my kneecap open through the fabric. "Fuck!" Yeah, it hurts. I groan in pain, lurching to the side, turning on my heels and giving myself some distance.

"Trying to sweep me off my feet? I'm flattered." I hate her. No longer a fan. I lift my sword, yelling in fury and charging at her, causing her to return the same force at me. But then I smile, capturing her in a trick of my own. I drop my sword to my side, useless by my thigh. She searches for a reason, some technique of evasion she has surely studied before this. And then she's coming in close, and I reveal a throwing knife from within my palm, impaling her throat before she can even swing. She sputters for a moment — only to crumble into nothing around my fist and blade.

"Just putting it out there. Still single." Nope. I don't think I'll be calling Bell Hailsham for a second date any time soon. I take this time to collect my missing blades, breathing through the pulses of pain and grateful that I've avoided anything more serious than a cut that might leave a scar for a couple months. I can deal with that. I've gotten myself as ready for the final battle as I can, glancing at the coding as it builds upon itself.

And keeps building.

"Fuck, you're tall." His features come to life before me, icy eyes and a sharp jaw. Wide shoulders, strong arms, the kind of guy you're not proud to admit you find attractive. I mean, he's gorgeous, but... something's off about him. I don't like it. But maybe it's for the best. Here's an opponent that has me physically matched. No more looking down. Only ahead. "Silas Merchoff, right? District Ten." I nod to myself, unable to get much of a reaction out of this guy. It's all good. I can carry this show.

He's wielding a massive sword in both hands, and I don't think mine will be able to keep up. Hell, my knives definitely don't have a chance. I gnaw at my lip, coming up with an idea, dropping all my weapons to the ground and exhaling a sigh. It's ridiculous, and maybe a little reckless, but that's just me. Silas laughs roughly, clearly no intention of ending this fight, even with an unarmed foe. He charges, sweeping at me with his blade.

And I duck to the side, rushing ahead and then dodging another swipe, forwards and backwards, trying to mimic the method Penelope had used against me. As long as he keeps missing me, we're good. One hit from that thing, and I'll be going into the arena with a few less limbs. And I need them all, just putting it out there. I continue doing this, working my way around the space and causing us both to rotate in our positions — until I'm at his back, and I can reach around him and shove the weapon out of his hands. It clutters to the ground with a thud.

He bucks me off like a wild animal, not bothered at all to be fighting with just his hands. He turns quickly, raising a fist that I barely manage to stop with my forearm, parrying the blow with a wince. Silas packs quite the punch, if you didn't already know. Happy to share with the class. He goes in for another blow, and I channel Bell's mirrored attacks. I punch, then parry — attacking and defending in rhythm — falling into sync with him. Both of us are flushed with pure rage, staring furiously at the other. Reflections meeting between the glass.

When I lift my knee into his stomach, he doesn't think to dodge the blow. It catches under his ribcage, and I lower my fist against his temple, watching as his tall form crashes to the ground. And I don't stop. I kick at his chin, snapping his head backwards, only to stomp at his skull once, and then two times, and then again and again until all that's left is the flickering, faint outline of a person. And then it's just lights, fading out of view as the machine around me unravels, turning back into just another unassuming station.

I catch my breath, wiping sweat from my brow and rubbing it on my sleeve. Thinking of what to say after that isn't easy, so I take this final moment to gather my coat in my arms and put my sunglasses back on my face. Every part of me still feels tense, ready for battle, waiting for some unknown fifth enemy to appear. Or twenty-three more. I lift my hand again to the gamemakers, content with the performance I've given and the proof of the effort I've put into this. It takes a lot to make me look disheveled. Trust me.

Keeping up appearances is my whole thing. And killing ghosts, apparently.

"Thank you for your time. I'll see you all on the other side."

I turn to leave, not quite sure which path I'm taking — or where it will lead me.

But there's no going back now.