skill zero | birdie

[mat]

[googlefont="Srisakdi:400;"]

zephyr
-=+=-
kostas

It never feels warm in the career academy training rooms. Hairs find a way to stand up on my back the moment I let my guard down to breathe. There's always someone yelling, or celebrating, or grunting from an intensive workout routine. The competition instilled between the districts is nothing compared to the hawkish career sentiment in District Two. People observe you to learn how to replicate your successes and to take advantage of your mistakes. It's one of the reasons I hate this place. No one is safe from criticism in Two, not even those who have no interest in participating in the games. It's a crucial piece to any resume in the district and a stepping stone to one of the highest paying jobs: Peacekeeping. If you can't fight for your district, they tell you to fight for your country and defend it at all costs.

That's what my family wants from me, too, an obedient boy with a good legacy to brag about in their elder years.

I succumb to the pressure in the form of a sword. It's the easiest of all the quality weapons to manage, other than a standalone knife. Ready your stance, anticipate your opponent's move, and swing the sword. Then repeat. Monotonous, sure, but I don't want to be significant. Despite my great-grandpa's hopes, I'm not the reincarnated version of my great uncle. Zephyr Kostas is not an unsuspecting martyr, who blindly became the motivation and face for District Two's careers in the first place.

My sword cuts into my trainer's arm and he lets out a sparked wince. He criticizes himself for not being more careful. I apologize, offering to run and get a wrap for it. He declines, though, telling me to hydrate and practice on my own for a little while. Okay. The moment he leaves, I drop everything to relax. Any opportunity to avoid training is a good one. I'm not built to kill or built to enforce hyperbolic laws. I unscrew the cap of my water bottle and let a couple swallows trickle into my throat.

Two tired eyes scan the room, watching as the other two dozen or so boys and girls continue to play with their trinkets. Only a handful have any sort of promising form. Most notably, a majority of the boys look like they're simply trying to show off like a gym class hero. They are fools if they truly believe that they can exchange swordsmanship for a lover. Soon enough, they'll move on to the Peackeeping academies, where they'll learn to be good little soldiers, carrying out discipline behind white helmets and tinted eyewear.

One boy seems to be genuinely struggling. It's a trainwreck, really. Hard to look away, but cringeworthy to watch, undoubtedly indicating that this kid is either way in over his league or a good enough person not to care about his training. A pair of boys nearby mock him with heavy panting and exaggerated expressions.

I make my way to him, bottle of water in hand and grabbing my sheathed sword on the way. It's not long before I recognize his face. Max's little brother. Cayden. He's from a family big on career training, which makes his form that much more pitiful to examine. The boys begin to chuckle once more as Cayden's spear flimsily pokes through the mannequin dummy. Poor kid must be embarrassed.

Sword still covered by its sheath, I whack it against one of the boys. I tower over them both by five or six inches each. "Hey, boys!" If being a Kostas has taught me anything, it's how to command attention. I break myself in between them, wrapping one arm around the boy on my left and my sword tapping the side of the other. "Maybe we should stop laughing at a boy who's trying his best," I whisper, careful not to draw too much attention to the conversation or Cayden. "Considering your asses and armpits look swamped just from standing here laughing, maybe you should both get cleaned up." Both walk away without much of a second thought.

"How'd you like a break, Cayden? Maybe a bottle of water?" I offer mine up as I walk over to him.

[Deleted]

I wanted out of here, now. Dad had been catching-on to me sneaking out of training early, whether the trainers told him, my brothers did, or he simply realised I've been getting home early didn't matter. What mattered was easing those suspicions before he had definitive proof of me sneaking out of training. After all, he spent a lot of money on all of us to do this and wouldn't want me wasting it. Then again, I keep telling Mom that me being here is a waste of money in general.

She, of course, doesn't listen. I don't know if it's because she agrees with Dad or she knows there's no getting through to him about me. Dad is convinced I can be like Max - sometimes so much so he even points to my younger brothers of what I should be more like. I hate it, truly. If anything it encourages me to be less like them. Sometimes I wish I was what he wanted me to be. What everyone wanted me to be. But that will never be the case, I know it. So why bother trying to change who I am?

After all, despite what this district will tell you there are more important things than brawn. They argue that we need Peacekeepers. What good are Peacekeepers without people to design the weapons? What good are soldiers without anyone with enough braincells to actually develop strategy? That's what the idiots making fun of me right now don't understand. Everyone who is strong and successful has someone with a brain behind them. Otherwise all of that muscle mass is for nothing.

They're all pawns. Everyone in here is a pawn whether they know it or not. And pawns without someone controlling them are just fodder. And looking at how poorly our district has been doing lately in the games, they may as well just be fodder. Like I love my brother Max, but I wouldn't be surprised if he forgot he was supposed to wait before stepping off the platform if he ever entered the Hunger Games. He'd probably see a canine mutt and assume it's a puppy knowing him. All brawn, honestly no brain at all there.

I was trying with an axe. The key word being trying. Maybe something ranged or with a blade was better suited to someone with my physique, but I noticed some older guys by the bladed weapons and decided not to engage. You may call it anxiety, I call it survival. Dad taught me one thing, people can appear calm and friendly on the outside - but in a moment they can suddenly explode into rage and fury. And I've taught myself to spot the signs of a gun about to go off.

I tried to pretend I didn't see him when Zephyr Kostas headed my direction. Of course I knew who he was. And he probably knew who Max was too, and maybe Cleo. As he got closer, I felt my face flush slightly in embarrassment. One thing I had been working on is controlling my emotions. No one can make you feel inferior or embarrassed without your consent was my philosophy. And I tried not to feel embarrassed at the fools around me, but it was hard. Especially when Kostas felt the need to interject. I wanted to say something, but bit my tongue at least for now.

"How do you know my name?"

I completely ignored his question about water and pretended the boys never existed in the first place. It made sense why I knew his name, he was significant. I was not. I wasn't Max, I didn't make nor need friends. I was perfectly happy to be by myself. After all, without any people there are no expectations. And there's no chance in disappointing them or having them lash out. I assume he knew me from Max, but I wanted to make sure my Dad didn't somehow have something to do with this.

[mat]

[googlefont="Srisakdi:400;"]

zephyr
-=+=-
kostas

It's obvious that I offered Cayden an amount of attention that he wasn't willing to accept. He almost shrugs me off with his demeanor, but I persist through it. We have similar interests. Okay, maybe not similar in the sense that we're at all alike. Perhaps a sentiment might be the better word for it. A negative one, in fact, toward the walls that trap District Two's ambition behind one painful export: their children. That's all this place is, and anyone who doesn't see that is right in the Capitol's firing line.

"How do you know my name?"

I set my sword and bottle of water down on the elevated platforms. It's a silly question to think up an answer for. I know everyone's name. It's part of what Mom and Dad expect of me. Know the people of District Two by name, even if you couldn't care any less about them. Future Peacekeepers need to understand their community, and competition, flawlessly. A smile creeps up on my cheek as I come up with an excuse that doesn't have to do with memorizing prominent family trees in the town hall. "Your brother is pretty well known around these parts of Two, Cayden. What's his name again.."

Incoming: involuntary thought break so he doesn't think that I'm some sort of stalker. "Marshall.. Maxwell.. Max, right? Max Valerie!" I think I sold it pretty well?

I lean down a little bit to get onto his level. It's a habit, albeit a bit condescending, to act like Cayden's a little kid. He's not a child, probably a few years younger than me, but in District Two, you must grow up fast or you won't grow up at all. Fifteen years and he still looks like a beginner around here. Thankfully, the incentive to volunteer on the basis of pride is growing. He won't see the games if he doesn't want to.

"You didn't answer my question. You should take a break. I can go get you some knives if you want to keep working on your stance. But if you want to go and grab a snack or something from the market, I'd cover for you."

It feels awkward to prod instead of leaving him alone, but I don't trust the boys and girls of the career academy to leave Cayden alone. Once they get a glimpse of a target, they won't stop preying. That's the mindset of a career.

I cannot stoop to, nor become complicit, in their behavior.

[Deleted]

Of course he knew Max. Max was everything my father wanted me to be, everything I would never be, nothing I even wanted to be. That's what people don't seem to understand. I don't want to be a career because I'm bad at it. The reason I'm so bad at this whole career thing is because I don't want to do it. Not because I think killing people is wrong or whatever. I just know I'm more than fodder. I was born with a brain, why shouldn't I be able to use it? Sometimes I feel like I was supposed to be born in Three or Six. But here I am.

The way he crouched down started to anger me, but I took a deep breath. You only feel how you allow yourself to. No one can make you feel angry or embarrassed unless you let them. And that included this guy. If I got annoyed it would only make the situation worse. After all, he was offering me a chance to leave training early. I would be a fool not to take it. But, everything has a cost. Every gift comes with strings. I needed to find the strings and cut them before it was too late. I needed to figure out what game he was playing so I could get two moves ahead of him.

That was the good thing about me. People underestimated me. They didn't realise how easily I saw through all of the bullshit. The gears in my head are always turning, they never slow down or stop. My thoughts race at 1,000 miles an hour. People forget that strength isn't the only quality to look out for when it comes to your opponent. If you can get your enemy to stab themselves in the foot, you won't even have to get blood on your hands.

"Are you going to be coming with? If not, the moment I leave they're just going to come back."

Truth be told I didn't care if they came back. I cared about finding out what this guys problem was. Careers weren't nice to just help each other out. They always wanted something. There was always some sort of fine print or hidden text between the lines. I also cared about Dad not getting mad at me. If he found out I left training early again he'd be pissed. But if he found out I left with someone like Zephyr Kostas, I could use that. He simply agreed to give me some training tips. That's all I had to tell Dad.