The Sound of Falling Snow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 8

Training

At ten, we are guided to the training facility by the new Peacekeepers recruited by the new government of Panem. They're more peaceful than the ones that the Capitol sent to patrol the districts, but the proximity of them sends a chill down my spine, and I shiver involuntarily. If one of us tries to escape, would they shoot us? I wouldn't put it past them.

When the doors slide open, we are admitted to a large room, and our escorts disperse, leaving us by ourselves – along with a woman whose name I recall to be Atala.

Most of us drift into groups, finding someone that we are familiar with, but I remain one of the loners. My eyes flit around the room nervously, quickly surveying both my competition and the stations. Someone pins a number, one, onto my shirt.

"It's your tribute number," she explains when I ask.

There will be different stations, some of which will teach us how to survive, and others that will teach us how to fight. There will be experts to help us at each station, and we are free to move as we please. Any and all physically aggressive behavior is strictly forbidden. Not that I expect any of us to try and hurt each other.

The atmosphere is so different than what I imagined it to be, based on what I've seen from the previous Games. Of course, this is one that is completely unalike from the rest. There's less hostility in the air; it's more of a frightened mood than the utterly brutal one that you'd expect, coming from the Capitol where we watch children kill one another for sport and our own entertainment.

Fire starting, camouflage, knot tying, knife throwing, archery. The list goes on and on. But I detect a certain deadness in her voice. It's as though all the life has been sucked out of it. Squinting, I can see the faint marks of scars that trace around her arms, spiraling up to her neck. When she looks up, I can see the pain in her glazed eyes, a telltale sign that she suffered more than most in the war. But there's something else. Pity. A sadness that can only be described as sympathy for us. I wonder if she held the same pity for the tributes in the districts, or if each year just blended together, one after another, more children dying. It must be an awful job to have. To be aware that you are partially responsible for the death of twenty-three children, and still do it anyway. Is there guilt afterward? A feeling that you should have done better, that maybe you could have saved them? I yearn for the answers, but I know better than to ask. Maybe it's less painful if questions remain unanswered. Maybe it's better this way.

—

I start at the survival stations, too scared of hurting anyone and, yes, too scared to handle the weapons. I'm sure I'll regret my decisions once I'm in the arena, but at the moment, I couldn't care less.

I manage to spark a fire, but it burns out quickly, with only the smoke left, swirling in small clouds as it rises to the ceiling. After a few attempts with the same results, I choose to move to a different station instead.

I've been paying close attention to Victoria during this time, and see that she's practicing at the station designated for knife throwing. Taking a deep breath and swallowing back my unease, I join her.

When she hits a target just centimeters away from the bull's eye, I can see her true skill. A strong ally. But if I ask her, would I be repairing what we had for my survival, or because I genuinely wanted my friend back? I suppose that will be up for her to interpret.

"I didn't know you could throw knives," I start plainly.

She whips around. "Yeah, well, now you do." Victoria turns back to the blades, apparently ignoring me on the surface, but I can tell that it's just an act. She's probably just waiting for me to respond and see what I have to say, test whether or not I can come up with a valid apology.

"Look, Victoria, you've made it pretty clear that you're mad at me, but I'd like to make up before..." I hesitate. "Before one of us...Before the Games start. I'm sorry." I had been about to say "before one of us dies" or "before one of us gets killed", but I couldn't get the words out.

"I should have been a better friend," I finish, nervously awaiting her answer.

"Clio, I get it. I just was upset about the Games and didn't want to make you feel more upset. I would have done the same thing." She opens her arms to embrace me, and I gladly step in. Maybe she does want me back as a friend.

Her next words confirm it. "Allies in the arena?" she asks, pulling away. A ghost of a sad smile plays on her lips.

"Always," I answer, smiling for real.

—

We spend the rest of the time until lunch practicing knife throwing and edible plant recognition. By lunch, we're all tired and starved.

I notice as we eat that a few of the tributes have started to form groups – clearly an early alliance – but many still sit alone, quiet and seemingly unthreatening. I half want to invite them over to sit with us. But I don't. I have to remember that this isn't a normal meal, where we've finished half the day of school. No, it's something entirely different. I have to be wary of who I trust. I can't give it away as freely as I would normally, lured into the idea of safety, even if it was false. The arena, maybe even just the fear, is enough to change us all.

It's enough to change us so much that we wouldn't believe that we're the same people.