❝ never trust a survivor
until you find out
what they did
to stay alive ❞
―Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard
[ the maze runner × the hunger games ]
No one was ever happy in District 12. They were the poorest among the distric...
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THE ACTUAL TRAINING rooms were below ground level of the building. The elevator doors opened into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. The other tributes were gathered in a tense circle, and they each had a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts.
The head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Atala stepped up and begun explaining the training schedule. As she spoke, Rosalind couldn't help glancing around to the other tributes; more than half of the boys and girls were bigger than she was, and she suddenly felt very, very small.
The Career Tributes consisted of the black-haired girl with the piercing blue eyes, a strong, tall boy who was glaring around at him with eyebrows raised, a black-haired guy with fierce features, and a burly girl with stringy brown hair. The winner will be one of them for sure.
When Atala released them all, the Careers headed straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handled them with ease. The others, the underfed, the less competent, were undoubtedly having their first lessons with a knife or making snares.
After pondering over it for a moment, Rosalind went over to the fire-making station and spent a good few hours there trying to start fires using matchsticks first, then gradually going on to harder substances like flint, steel and charred cloth. Then she headed over to the camouflage station, where she played around with the mud and clay and berry juice. She wasn't as good as her little brother, Peeta, who was a master with painting having done the icings for the cakes back home in the bakery, but she was still okay at it.
Thomas rotated from station to station like her, pouring all his focus and energy into the lessons. It was clear he had never had any experience with survival before, as Rosalind noticed he kept slipping up every now and then. The only thing he really seemed to be any good at was wrestling―he somehow managed to overpower one of the tougher-looking Careers.
As Rosalind tried her best at the fish hooks station, she glanced over and spotted Thomas at the knives station, where a bunch of tributes were gathered at. She paused what she was doing and watched as he attempted to throw some blades.
Based on his first attempt alone, she could already tell he wasn't good at it. His first knife went zooming through the air, missing his target by a metre. Thomas's face burnt red as the small crowd at the station snickered at him. Despite the humiliation, he continued practising, his grip getting tighter and steadier with each throw.
When Rosalind was done with the fish hooks, she moved on to the knives station. The curly-haired girl from District 11 seemed to be particularly good at it, her wrist arching back a certain angle as she tossed blade after blade at the targets, never missing once. The other tributes watched her, some with jealousy and others with admiration, as she hopped about, aiming at the harder targets next.
Rosalind lined up with the tributes and when it was her turn, she turned the knife around in her hand, trying to adapt to the rougher handles, the sharper edges glinting wickedly under the harsh lights. She faced the first target and aimed at it―the knife fell short halfway and cluttered to the ground. She was out of practice.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to push down the wave of embarrassment that crawled up her as the Careers laughed at her, and aimed her second knife.
This time, it hit the target. It wasn't a bullseye, but at least it shut up the Career's taunting snickers.
The next three days, Rosalind alternated between stations, practising some skills she already knew while picking up new ones just in case. Meanwhile, she observed the other tributes, trying to gauge what they were best at.
The Careers were better with the knives, spear and weights. No surprise there. The little black-haired girl from District 7 was surprisingly good with a bow, despite her young age. The boy tribute from the same district, Newt, if she remembered right, was incredible with wielding axes. It made sense, since he came from the lumber district. Winston from District 10 seemed pretty good with his strength, and every time Rosalind turned to the wrestling station to watch, he managed to push down his opponent without much effort.
On the third day of training, they started to call the tributes out of lunch for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. Since District 12 was always last, Rosalind and Thomas lingered in the dining room, unsure where else to go. The two would mutter to each other several times, trying to keep up the conversation, but when it was obvious both of them were too nervous to do much, they turned back to silence. Then Thomas' name was called.
"Good luck," Rosalind called to him before she could stop herself.
He gave a half-hearted nod back at her as he disappeared from view. "You too."
After what felt like half an hour, Rosalind's name was finally called.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and walked into the gymnasium. The Gamemakers didn't even seemed to notice her presence as she entered, their actions and words slurred. Too much wine, probably. Not to mention the fact that they had to sit through twenty-three other demonstrations.
Pushing down her annoyance, Rosalind went over to the set of knives arranged neatly on the table at the side and picked up a particularly long blade, trying to get a feel of it. She threw it at a target, then threw more, until her arms were sore.
She glanced up at the panel where the Gamemakers sat, or rather, swayed around drunkenly, anger boiling up inside her. She was forced to be born into this shithole of a world, forced to sit back and watch as other people were killed in an entertainment death match, and now had to endure being in that entertainment game herself. But despite their important role in helping her survive, the Gamemakers were lazying around, not even giving her a side eye.
Rosalind's eyes flickered down to the knife in her hand, the blade glinting in the harsh lights. She thought about aiming it at the Gamemakers, maybe try and get their attention the hard, risky way.
Then she came to her senses and scolded herself for even thinking about it. It wouldn't do her any good to get into trouble before the games even began.
Instead, she thought of a better idea.
Wordlessly, she went over to the table where the paint was, and crouched on the ground. She thought about Peeta's jaw-dropping art skills, and how he managed to express himself in its colours and design effortlessly. He did it for fun and found joy in it. But Rosalind was doing it for her survival, and she found unexpected anger in it.
She went to work then, flying around the room as fast as she could without messing up her progress, seamlessly working between colours while picturing the message she wanted to send to the people who would send her to her death.
After about ten minutes or more, she stood up, stepped back, and observed her work. Satisfied, she dropped the paint, where it splattered around her, and walked out of the room without waiting to see if the Gamemakers were even paying attention.
Little did she know, her message would send the Gamemakers into a fit of rage and cold fury and would soon take action to make sure they got their revenge.
