The Boy From District 11- DNF + Quackbur

Training

We talked a lot then. I found out more about him and we clicked. I am now sitting back in my luxurious quarters, on my comfy bed, but nothing feels comfortable now. I cannot stop thinking about George.

I'm going to have trouble killing him.

This worries me. A kind George is more of a threat to me than a rude one. Kind people have a way of working themselves into my heart and making a home there.
We have planned to be allies, yes, but the fact remains that there can be only one victor. And I cannot decipher if I want to survive or sacrifice myself for him, because such a pure boy like him, such a pretty boy, should not go to waste. I want him to have a life, barely more than I want myself to have a life. I do not see any point in me living. I live in a world where nobody apart from the people living in the Capitol actually have a good life, actually have a will to live. If George wins, he wins a place in the Victor's Village in District 11. He will never have to work again, and he will be stinking rich- so rich that he will be set for life. He won't have to lift a finger again. No more toiling in the fields that I presume are in District 11- I mean, how else would they get the crops to feed the Capitol with?
But then I remember Drista and how she was so scared for me, and I decide I should prioritise myself over George. I only met him a few hours ago, and he has already wound a place into my heart and set a home there, and he probably doesn't even know it. He probably thinks I'm just a particularly friendly tribute.
Still, I feel bad. At least I'll protect him. Me, a 6"6 broad-shouldered male, protecting little George, who's only 5"7. Nearly a whole foot smaller than me.

I try to drift into sleep, but bits of our conversations come back to me again and again in my dreams, and I wake up again and again, fearing I've messed up something. Then I realise I am in my bed in the Capitol. Being prepared for slaughter.
I turn on my lamp and look at the clock. 4AM.
At 8AM, we will be roused and prepared for training. We will be expected at the Training Centre at 9AM. One hour to get ready.
This will be three days of training so the show isn't entirely boring for the audience. They want blood spilled, and if you don't know how to do it, well, the audience will complain. They will want you dead. To get the real action going.
I try to go to sleep, but my dreams are filled with particularly bloody deaths from past Hunger Games I've watched.
I get up at 6AM, having completely abandoned the notion of sleep, and wait it out, thinking what remarks I will make to George in the morning. What things I will say to Wilbur Soot, if any.

I head down to the dining table a few minutes before eight a.m, and I am hoping that they will already have food set out. I am not disappointed- there is a long table set with delicious foods, fancy rolls, croissants, hot chocolate, chicken in creamy chunks and orange on a bed of ice. Hardly appropriate for a breakfast. Still, the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.

"Is it a serve yourself meal?" I ask one of the servants. He nods.
I heap my plate with the finest foods I can just as Wilbur arrives, along with Schlatt.
"Hey," he says casually, taking a seat.
"Hey," I say back.
"Training today."
"Yeah."
This is possibly the driest conversation I've ever had.
Schlatt thumps down on his seat. He's not full out drunk, but he's definitely tipsy.
Already.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask him.
"Plan?" he says confusedly.
"For training," I affirm.
"Oh. I'd say don't show what your strengths are. Steer clear from archery. And you, steer clear from the weightlifting area." He indicates to Wilbur. "Learn something new. Learn to tie a decent knot. Make a fire. Identify some plants. Swing a mace."
"OK, and when the Games start..?"
"Stay alive," he says gruffly.
Then he grabs a wine bottle and heads upstairs to his room.
I turn to Wilbur.
"Well, at least we got some advice," I say.
"Yeah, only a little is better than nothing," he replies. "Wish we knew how he won his Games all those years ago."
"He's not much of a looker, so it can't have been sponsors. He must have just outsmarted them all," I conclude.
"Oh. Probably, yeah. Now I want to watch his Games, haha," Wilbur says awkwardly.
"He wouldn't like it," I say. I know how he might feel if we ever watch it. Like we have infiltrated his privacy.
"Oh, yeah, true. I know mentors aren't allowed to hurt their tributes, but if we ever watched it then he'd probably break that rule."
It feels like he's half joking. Because there is an element of truth in that. Schlatt is infamous for his lack of self control.
"We should probably get ready," I say, wanting more than ever to get away from him. I can't get attached to him whatsoever.
I get dressed in the outfit they lay out for me, a striped tracksuit, and I head down to the Training Centre just as it turns 9AM. Only half the tributes are actually there, but the trainer seems unfazed and barrels on without them.