A Try to Be Normal {Royce & Red// Mattio}

[Cameo {RIP Charlie}]

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The extent of reserved Tributes is beyond expectations. Surely within all clusters for every Game, there’s a sprinkle of the shy and bashful - but it almost appears as if this is the year of the timid. The boy spared from the 80th, solely to volunteer for this Game, is not so much on the shy side while still quite reluctant. The girl from the District of strength and wealth appears to be as secluded as a small child selected from a poor district. Hell, even my District Partner seems rather quiet for his tittle of a Victor’s kid. It was imagined that this center of training would be consumed by egotistical jocks puffing up their chests in a sea of loud chaos; while instead everyone’s surprisingly distant from one another, as if we were training for the Silent Games instead.

Boredom quickly spices me in my routine I’ve personally set for training - that is, until the guy from Ten swiftly catches my vision. Broadness reigns him, like he’s spent many years choring on a farm. Attractiveness graces him, like he’s been gifted with pristine genetics. And of course, quietness curses him like conversing with someone may plague him. A soft inhale sucks through my thinned lips in disappointment. Without a bat of her eyes, Mycelium would reject a timid client like him from us. And though payment’s not expected from these helpless souls, another reward burns at my core. Not even the timid can be passed.

While exploring the weapons I never believed I’d need for this purpose, I study my fresh target as he slams his knuckles into a punching bag. Frustration sounds to coaxes him, as if furious with his lack of instant perfection. Memories flicker of spotting him in the recent past, always practicing and training - never accepting a break, as if he’s as scared of having fun as he is of talking to someone. The practice blade, I’ve been studying already, is set back down. A sudden determination overtaking me to veer this guy away, if even only temporarily, from the sternness that’ll just leave him with wrinkles one day.

“I think the bag of sand is long dead, Tribute.” A mockery tone of the Trainers weaves through my voice, as I stand with crossed arms beside him. “Or it at least has severe internal bleeding that’ll kill it in a matter of days tops.” Instantly my normal voice returns with a hint of sarcasm tracing it. “You don’t look like the type to have fun.” Or perhaps he is, but he certainly doesn’t have my sort of fun by the looks of it. “Need to change that? Hi, I’m Red - the bringer of fun.” A cheeky grin spreads across my expression, as I extend my hand like we’re two normal people, on a normal street, within a normal day.

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{Beautiful Table made by the Amazing Arrows <3}

[mat]

[googlefont="ZCOOL KuaiLe:400"]

royce benstaloe

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His fist lines up neatly with the cylindrical bag in front of him, still swaying from his previous punch. This was his training: practicing how to hurt something stationary or knock it back in hopes of stalling to create an escape plan. He never hit anyone- or anything, for that matter- in his consciousness before now, except maybe his pillow. In his dreams, however, his knuckles were bloodied and bruised. Everything he hated clustered itself into one small dream that felt like seconds and he was able to release.

Waking up again, though, they returned, and so he was never truly satisfied.

This was the first time that he punched something with the intention to harm it, but each time, the bag, held up by ceiling, swung right back to him, and Royce would be forced to punch again. Even when he pictured his father, his fists could only do so much before it came back to mock him, it’s supporting chains cackling like an ear-splitting wind chime on a breezy day.

He did this for what felt like hours, but in reality he had been doing so for twenty minutes. Not a dent, not even a scratch mark was made on the dummy, but his bones swelled, and he imagined they might burst soon. Royce continued to punch, not knowing when enough was enough. If he couldn’t create an indentation in a fucking bag of sand that moved no more than a few inches back and forth, how could he challenge an enemy in the arena, who actually has their own instinct.

“I think the bag of sand is long dead, Tribute,” the voice initially appeared to be that of a trainer who wasn’t satisfied with what she’s hearing, but when he looked back, Royce saw a girl, flashing red hair and all, critiquing him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, turned back, and continued punching the bag without a word.

“You don’t look like the type to have fun,” she said of him. She is a trial, Royce thought, a distraction from what little time he has left. “Need to change that? Hi, I’m Red - the bringer of fun.”

And I’m red, in my knuckles and fist

He retracted that last statement. “Royce - the person that really doesn’t have time for this.”

He didn’t, that was for sure. And just like he would try with any nuisance, he punched at the bag. And just like any nuisance, it came back, fatiguing Royce a bit more.

[Cameo {RIP Charlie}]

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A name is gifted in return, purely for a rejection of attention to swiftly follow next. Shoulders tense from the lack of experience in being denied company, a corner of my stomach curling in distaste - while the pulse of my heart remains the same, unaffected. He is correct after all, time is limited to us, though that doesn’t necessarily mean it should all be wasted on improving those slim odds of surviving. Being that one out of twenty-four was more luck of the draw then odds that can be improved anyways. Surely some fun is deserved between the odds.

“I agree. No offense, but punching a bag full of sand does look like a waste of time.” Not what he was implying, while sarcasm swirls from me despite - a grin playing upon my lips to prove the innocence of my humor. “So why not break from that for a little bit, and come have some fun for a change?” An inviting smirk shifts the creases of my cheeks, tempting to persuade the unmistakably stubborn.

The offers would brave up to Mycelium and I’s pristine features, structuring their words with confidence to convince us - never the other way around. Yet despite the unfavorable change, entertainment is slightly deriving from such. “Let’s sneak out of training for just a little, and go explore. Maybe even go up to the roof? I’ve heard some other Tributes have done it.” And for the cherry on top, the addition of other’s doing such sprinkles upon my words. Perhaps they hadn’t done it while we’re all supposed to be training, but details are left better to one’s own imagination.

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{Beautiful Table made by the Amazing Arrows <3}

[mat]

[googlefont="ZCOOL KuaiLe:400"]

royce benstaloe

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“No offense, but punching a bag full of sand does look like a waste of time.”

There’s nothing there that Royce is able to deny. She has a fair point. After all, it wasn’t like he would magically become the most skilled fistfighter overnight. He knew that very well, and the only reason he started to punch was because Royce Benstaloe learned to settle for second best.

She offers him a breath of fresh air from the teenage sweat that consumed every part of the training center from floor to ceiling. Still, he allowed his knuckles to rush into the bag again and again, giving himself no room to wince or shake off the pain that surged through every hit. If a fight hurt this much while he was on the attack, Royce wasn’t sure if he’d be at all capable of handling a defensive battle.

Red continues to speak, but her words, mentioning escape, are met with Royce’s backside and stubbornness. He strived for defiance every since he stood on the stage and looked at his father, but Royce Benstaloe followed the rules of those he feared, including the Capitol. Rick, his father, was no longer a scary thought. He’d never see him again because Royce would soon be dead. And if he didn’t die, which he made no plans not to, there was no intention, not even in his deepest sympathetic heart, that he would seek to see his father again. Or mother. Or brother. Ever.

“You can’t go up to the roof. You’ll get in trouble,” he stopped his swings for a moment to turn back to her, and the first thing that he noted was her red hair. Fitting. “The one time that I decide to go up there is the one time they’ll find out and I’ll be the one in trouble.”

He denied her invitation, and then moved back to the punching bag and slammed it as hard as he could.