Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

The Countdown - Day One of Training

The massive underground room of the Training Centre is quiet for now.

The tributes stand scattered in a half circle, eyeing each other suspiciously.  The younger ones try not to stare at the loose group of Careers, who look scarily confident.  Austin flexes his impressive bicep, which earns him a glare from Ruby.  She’s been living with him for only just over a day, and she’s already sick of his cocky ways and self-importance.  She’s not so sure about this year’s alliance either; the girl from Four looks like a pushover, although the boy might have some potential.  At present, he’s leaning against one of the training dummies, examining his nails with a slightly pouty look.

Nash is finding it difficult to stay awake.  He hasn’t slept much; the excitement of the parade and the gadgets in his room had kept him awake into the early hours of the morning. He sniffs discreetly at the back of his hand.  He’d been trying out the shower – something that you didn’t get very often if you were Seam – and has come out smelling like an odd mixture of citrus and roses. It isn't unpleasant, just a little too floral for his taste.  His eyes drift shut for a moment, and he lets his head hang for a second for jerking it upright.  He wouldn’t appear weak, not on the very first day.

His eyes meet those of the boy from Two, Basilius, who is looking at him like something to eat.  Nash shudders, and pulls himself up as tall as he can, shoulders back. He still looks small.

Carmen, her reddish hair vaguely tamed from the wild mess it had been for the parade, is listening intently.  She isn’t about to miss anything that could save her life.  She’s only got one chance at this, and she promises herself, and her family that she is not going to throw it away.

The woman in charge, dressed simply in all-black, is stood tall in front of them, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she is in the presence of several murderers and twenty-three walking corpses. Her taloned hands clutch a clipboard with her lines on, but she doesn't need it and glares at each of the tributes in turn as she speaks.  “Here in the Training Centre, you will have the opportunity to practice skills that will be of use to you in the arena.  Some of you,” here she glanced at the Career group, “may be tempted to prioritise practice with weapons.  I strongly advise that you spend time at the other stations, because each could help you to survive.  After all, it is your lives we are dealing with.  Don’t waste them.”

Byron thinks this little admonishment is rather pointless.  After all, only one of them will be walking out of that arena.  Which means that twenty three other won’t be, and it won’t have mattered if they could name fifty different poisonous berries, or tie a perfect slipknot.  They’ll still be dead.

He shakes his head to himself to remove the thought that has lodged itself in there; you will be one of them.

“The next two days will consist of three hours training in the morning, with a one hour lunch break.  This will be followed with a further three hours of training.  Day three will follow the morning’s routine.  However, in the afternoon you will be given a chance to show the Gamemakers what you are capable of.  These interviews will be private and will decide your tribute score.  This score will be used by potential sponsors to decide which tributes they will assist.  Whether or not you shoes to reveal your talents is something for each of you to decide with your mentors.”

Smirks between the Careers.  That’s never something they need to discuss – everyone knows their training has made them highly skilled, and this will be the test of who is the most capable.  This year’s group is slightly more hotchpotch than usual, with the younger members, the girl from Four in particular.  But they're not Careers for nothing, and none of the other tributes are willing to underestimate them.

Vasilissa is watching the rest of the tributes, mentally assessing them against her own abilities.  It’s not very satisfying; most of them fall woefully short by her reckoning, except maybe the boys from Seven, Eight and Eleven. Possibly the cowboy from Ten; she'll have to keep an eye out. The boy from Eight is leaning back on his elbows, looking around the room with a small frown. How someone who made clothes got muscles like that is slightly confusing – the lesser districts don’t train.  Or they’re not supposed to.