perfect porcelain - private training
Fourteenth was a difficult place to have in the private training list. As the Tributes sat in the crowded hallway, Trint watched as each one stood to attempt to sway the Gamemakers. Each person looked different: some were resolute, some despondent, some bouncy, some confident. One by one, they trickled into the room to have their fifteen minutes of fame. Laexus, Amethyst, Zarya, Laurel, Bittre⌠each one had affected Trint in some way, and each had a different reason to come out with a high score. Each had a different reason to win. Each one was different.
Eventually even Elinaâs name was called. Trintâs eyes followed her as she stood and entered the arena. Something seemed different about her. He couldnât place it. Some sort of hidden maturity, perhaps? An understated and new resolve? None of these descriptions suited the change he noticed. But there was a subtle shift deep in her. Trint hoped it would be the shift she needed to make it out of the Arena alive.
After Elinaâs fifteen minutes were up, Trintâs name was announced through the loudspeaker. The voice was robotic and cold. An incredible weight formed in the back of his mouth, slid down his throat, and settled somewhere just below his stomach. He had no idea what he could do to impress the Gamemakers. Lift weights? That wouldnât do him any good. And his other skills were subpar; training had shown him that much. However, it was too late to strategize. A Peacekeeper was approaching. It was time to begin.
With a rising panic in his stomach, Trint stepped through the wide metal doors that led into the training arena. He was instantly blinded by the lights. Had those always been there? Maybe he was so used to keeping his head down that he had never noticed them upon entrance. Maybe they had been set up especially for private training to further spotlight the Tributes. Trintâs face instinctively screwed against the sudden assault to his senses, and his head instantly dropped to its usual downward-facing position.
He slowly plodded to the approximate center of the arena, his eyes resolutely on the floor. He paused, took a deep breath, and forced his head up. He stared at the Gamemakers, who returned his gaze with cold, uninterested eyes. They were growing bored by District Seven. Some more interesting, promising candidates were to come after Trinton. They wanted this to hurry along.
âTrint⌠Uh, Trinton Allegrio. From uh⌠Dis- District Seven.â With his feeble introduction, his time began ticking. The bright red clock hovered above him as a constant reminder of his diminishing time.
With no plan in mind and panic setting, Trinton reverted to his standard routine and headed straight for the weights. His strong hands wrapped around the comforts he had grown to crave, and he began lifting. After a few moments, he moved onto the bench press, loading on a notable amount more weight than he was used to pressing. However, as he settled with his back on the bench, the energy coursing through his muscles gave him more than adequate strength to move the impressive weight up and down with relative ease.
As he pumped the bar, his mind began clearing. The repetitive motion calmed his fraying nerves and sharpened his focus. He thought back through the past few days of training. What had he learned? What had he encountered? Laurel. Bittre. Laexus. Thatâs what he had encountered. Human beings with varied skills, but skills nonetheless. Skills they had passed on to him. One by one, they were coming back to him. Laurelâs fire making. Bittreâs mace work. Laexusâ knife throwing. He had some skills. He just had to show them.
With one final heave, Trint dropped the bar over his head and it hit the floor with a resounding thud. A bright â11:03â flashed at him. He didnât look up at the Gamemakers, but he knew many of them had lost interest. Watching a boy bench press weights, no matter how impressive the size, was boring for five minutes. But he was on the move now. He reached the fire making station quickly. After setting a small pile of tinder, Trint struck a knife against the flint. A beautiful cascade of orange sparks flew from the flint and the wood shavings ignited. A small, smoky fire soon puffed into existence. Trint took a few seconds to shore up the fire with some larger wood, and then added a few specialty leaves that the trainer had shown him. Soon, it was blazing without any trace of smoke. The corners of Trintâs mouth twitched in admiration of his work.
His time was ticking down. He moved laterally towards the maces, which gave him pause. Was this part of him that he wanted the Gamemakers to see? He wasnât a violent person. Destruction and pain did not come easy to him. Plus, did his score matter? What good was a score for someone doomed?
But then he thought of Elina. Of Zarya. Of Laexus. The people he wanted to protect, the people who could use gifts sent to him. With that thought in mind, he took up a standard mace, with inch-long nails sticking out of the top. He steadied his breath, and then brought it above his head, just as Bittre had taught him. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled as the weapon came crashing down. He turned quickly and left the station without looking at the damage he had caused. The mace did not fall to the floor.
He found himself at the knives station. As he picked up one of the blades, his experience with Laexus replayed in his mind. He couldnât resist a chuckle. Great. Now the Gamemakers were going to think he was enjoying this somehow. Still, the smile didnât fall from his face as he threw his first knife. He missed. His second blade found itself buried deep in the dummyâs abdomen. Trint didnât know anatomy well enough to know if that would kill someone, but needless to say it was an injury. His third throw turned in the air and struck the dummyâs face with the hilt of the blade. Obviously it didnât stick in the plasticized skin, but a large dent appeared where it hit. It would have translated into a broken jaw on a human. His weight lifting clearly had been paying off.
He had two minutes remaining. However, he was at a loss. Maybe he should just call it quits early⌠Trint walked to the center of the center, made a short bow to the Gamemakers, and muttered, âTrinton Allegrio. District Seven. Thank you.â
As he turned to exit, he saw the axes. He hadnât touched an axe since his last day of work. He remembered the peace and serenity they always brought him. And what was a dummy, but a human-shaped tree? MaybeâŚ
He approached the dummy and took up a large lumber axe. It felt comfortable in his hands. He took another step towards the dummy. He looked at its knees. No. No, he couldnât think of them as knees. He needed to think of this as⌠as a tree. These were just the exposed roots of a tall pine that needed to fall. That was all. Exposed roots. He saw it in his mind, and when he opened his eyes, he saw it there. No more was the blue skin of a dummy in front of him. Instead he saw a mighty pine towering above him. It was old, and the wood was cracked and knotted. His breath slowly left his body. He could do this. It was just like home.
Trint nodded to himself. He could do this. It was home. He was in the forests of District Seven, at his job. He took another steadying breath and looked at the massive tree in front of him. He easily swung the axe to his side. The simple motion instantly calmed his fraying nerves, and he almost looked forward to sinking the sharpened blade into the trunk of the tree. His axes back home had been dulling and dangerous; these axes were sharpened to perfection.
The axe gracefully arced forward. Just as it was about to bite into the soft bark of the tree, though, Trint saw the plant change. No longer was it a pine in front of him. It was his little sister, Imalee. She was screaming at him to stop. His heart stopped as he watched the blade slice easily into her soft side, stopping with the head entrenched fully in her body. Her forearm fell to the floor, dismembered. With a look of terrified shock, her entire body lurched sideways, parted at the ribs.
Trintâs reaction was immediate. With a guttural roar, he began to throw himself forward to stop the swing of the weapon. Hot tears instantly erupted from his eyes and his face turned a bright red.
âNO!â As soon as he had leapt forward, he knew it was too late. His body instinctively stopped his motion, and he fell in a heap at the dummyâs feet. His fists alternated between pounding the ground and tearing at his blond hair. âNO! NO! NO!â He beat the rhythms out on the padded floor.
He was still bellowing when the timer ran out. His whole face was stained and shiny with tears. He couldnât bring himself to stand. Eventually two Peacekeepers warily entered the arena. When they reached for his elbows, he leapt up and grabbed the handle of the axe. Seeing the dummy only expounded his rage, though, and he unceremoniously ripped it from the blue carcass.
âIT WAS MY SISTER!â He roared, brandishing the axe at the two Capitol workers. âMY SISTER. IT WAS MY SISTER!â His eyes jumped between the two men, who stayed calm. After a few minutes, Trint realized he wasnât in danger. With another angry sob, he took the axe handle in both hands and bent. His muscles popped and strained against the seasoned wood as he tried to snap the handle.
He couldnât. The Capitol-made weapon was too strong for him.
Trint dropped the axe to the ground. When the two Peacekeepers approached him this time, he didnât fight. They hooked their arms into his elbows, and the boy collapsed. A soft, steady stream of tears slid down his face and dripped without hindrance to the floor. The only sounds Trinton made as he was dragged from the arena were the occasional, small sobs.
Trinton Allegrio, of District Seven, had finished his private training.
