Chapter 6 : The Training Center
"Listen to me."
Haymitch stood in the middle of our shared common room, more alert than I'd seen him since boarding the train. Katniss sat on one couch, arms crossed. I leaned against the wall near the windows, watching the Capitol's skyline glow against the pre-dawn dark.
"Training lasts three days. You'll be evaluated by Gamemakers on the final day, scored one to twelve." Haymitch paced as he spoke. "Those scores matter. High scores mean sponsors think you're worth investing in. Low scores mean you're already dead."
"So we show everything we can do," Katniss said.
"No." Haymitch stopped, fixing her with a stare. "You show what you want them to see. Different thing."
I'd been waiting for this opening. "I'm going to look weak."
Both of them turned toward me. Katniss's expression shifted toward disapproval. Haymitch's toward curiosity.
"Survival stations," I continued. "Fire-starting, shelter-building, edible plants. Competent but unremarkable. The Careers will glance at me, decide I'm not worth hunting, and focus on bigger threats."
"That's—" Katniss started.
"Smart," Haymitch finished. "Stupid tributes grab swords and try to impress. The Career pack notes their names and kills them first. You want to be the one they forget about."
"And me?" Katniss asked.
"You're the archer." I met her eyes. "That skill can't be hidden—someone will notice eventually, and better to control the reveal. Show them you're dangerous, make them respect you. But don't show everything. Never show everything."
She processed this. Her jaw worked, chewing on objections she didn't voice.
"Split strategy," Haymitch said. "The weak one and the dangerous one. It could work." He looked at me. "You'll need to commit. Three days of being nobody. Can you do that?"
I thought about my first life. All those years of being invisible, unnoticed, safe. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"I've had practice."
The Training Center occupied the bottom levels of the tribute tower. When we arrived, twenty-two other tributes had already gathered on the massive gymnasium floor. Weapons stations lined one wall—swords, spears, bows, maces, everything designed to end human life as efficiently as possible. Survival stations filled the rest: fire-starting, camouflage, trap-setting, edible plants, shelter construction.
Atala, the head trainer, welcomed us with a speech about the rules: don't fight other tributes, rotate through stations, trainers available for individual instruction. Her voice echoed in the cavernous space. Nobody listened. Everyone was too busy sizing up the competition.
I cataloged threats.
Cato from District 2 immediately claimed the sword station. His movements were precise, economical, deadly. He'd trained with that weapon since he could walk. Beside him, Clove threw knives at a target thirty feet away, hitting center mass every single time. Her smile when each blade struck was the most unsettling thing I'd seen since arriving in the Capitol.
Marvel from District 1 worked with spears. Good form, respectable power. Dangerous at range. His district partner, Glimmer, tried the archery station but struggled with the draw weight. Average. Overconfident. She'd be trouble in the bloodbath but wouldn't last if the games went long.
District 4's tributes moved with the fluid grace of swimmers, comfortable with tridents and nets. Career alliance material, but not the primary threats.
The outer districts scattered across survival stations, looking lost. Most wouldn't survive the first day.
And District 11...
The massive tribute—Thresh, my borrowed memories supplied—stayed alone at the weight station, lifting things that would break normal spines. Intimidating enough that even Cato kept distance. His district partner was different.
Rue.
She drifted between stations like a shadow, quick and light, touching things but never committing. At the climbing station, she scaled the practice wall faster than seemed possible. At the trap-setting station, her small fingers tied knots with mechanical precision.
Survivor. Not a fighter—she'd lose any direct confrontation—but smart. Adaptable. The kind of tribute who might last longer than anyone expected.
Don't get attached, Katniss had said. Sound advice.
I wasn't good at taking advice.
"Fire-starting station," I said to Katniss as the opening orientation concluded. "I'll work my way around the survival skills. Meet back here at lunch."
She nodded once and moved toward the weapons wall. Not archery—not yet. She browsed, testing grips on knives she'd never need to use, getting a feel for the space before committing to anything obvious.
Smart girl.
I found the fire-starting station and got to work.
The trainer was happy to demonstrate. He showed me standard technique: friction, tinder, patience. I followed his instructions, producing a small flame after several minutes of effort. Competent but slow. Exactly what I wanted.
Around me, the training floor filled with the sounds of preparation. Metal on metal from the weapons stations. Grunts of effort from the combat mats. The thud of arrows into targets.
My Blind Spot sense guided me through the room's attention patterns. When eyes moved elsewhere—when the Careers focused on their drills, when trainers engaged other tributes—small gaps opened. In those gaps, I took things.
A length of cord from the trap station, stored between one heartbeat and the next.
A fire-starter kit—flint and steel—palmed while the instructor demonstrated for someone else.
A packet of dried fruit from the nutrition station, vanished into inventory while pretending to taste it.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone would miss immediately. But each stolen item improved my odds when the arena's gong finally sounded.
At the edible plants station, I asked basic questions about identifying food sources. The instructor brightened, happy to lecture someone who seemed genuinely ignorant. I memorized everything while appearing to struggle, letting my act of incompetence mask real learning.
When the lunch chime sounded, I'd visited seven stations and been dismissed as unremarkable by everyone who mattered.
The dining hall occupied a corner of the training floor. Tributes clustered at tables by district or by alliance—Careers claiming the center, outer districts scattered at the edges. I loaded my plate with more food than most tributes combined, my healing factor's constant hunger burning through calories faster than I could replace them.
Katniss found me at a corner table, her own plate modest by comparison.
"You eat a lot," she said.
"Fast metabolism." True enough. "How was weapons browsing?"
"Careers are as dangerous as Haymitch warned. The boy from 2—Cato—he's a machine." She pushed vegetables around her plate. "I went to archery."
My head lifted. "Already?"
"Couldn't help it." Her expression mixed frustration and defiance. "The instructor was terrible, and someone was going to notice eventually anyway. Better they see me hit the target than watch me pretend to miss."
She was right. The moment she'd touched a bow, anyone paying attention would have noticed her comfort with the weapon. Hiding that skill was never really an option.
"How'd it go?"
"Center mass. Every arrow." Something like satisfaction flickered across her face. "The whole floor went quiet."
"Good. Let them watch the archer while I fade into the background." I ate another bite of protein. "The girl from 11 has been watching us. Rue."
Katniss's gaze sharpened. "She's fast. And small. I saw her at the climbing station."
"She climbed that wall like she was born for it." I thought about the twelve-year-old who had no business being here, who'd been sacrificed by the odds just like Primrose nearly was. "She's not a threat."
"Everyone's a threat."
"No. Everyone's not." I met Katniss's eyes. "She's a survivor, not a killer. Different thing. Different rules."
Katniss considered this. Her expression didn't soften exactly, but something in her posture shifted. Recognition, maybe. She'd been twelve once. She'd been small and scared and trying to survive in a world that wanted her dead.
"Don't get attached," she said.
"Wasn't planning on it."
The lie sat between us like a third plate at the table. Katniss didn't call me on it. Maybe she was lying to herself too.
That night, after training and dinner and strategy sessions with Haymitch, a knock came at my door.
Katniss stood in the hallway, hair loose from its braid, looking younger than she had all day.
"The girl from 11," she said. "She's been watching us."
I leaned against the doorframe. "I know."
"Threat?"
"No. Survivor. Different thing."
She processed this, the same calculation I'd watched her make at lunch. Then: "Don't get attached."
"Wasn't planning on it."
The lie echoed between us. Katniss held my gaze for a moment, then nodded once and turned toward her own room.
I closed my door and looked out the window at the Capitol's blazing skyline. Tomorrow, more training. The day after, more training. Then the private sessions, the evaluations, the scores that would determine how sponsors saw us.
In my inventory: a knife, medical cream, cord, a fire-starter, dried fruit, a fork, a decorative pin. Not much. But more than most tributes would carry into that arena.
Somewhere in this building, twenty-three other teenagers were preparing to kill me. Some with training. Some with advantages. Some with nothing but desperation and the will to survive.
I thought about Rue's smile in the staging area. About Katniss's hand warm against mine in the firelight. About Haymitch's grudging approval and Portia's quiet faith.
About the cold calculation in President Snow's eyes.
Two more days until evaluations. Twelve days until the arena.
I started planning.
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