Hellooooo my lovely readers! I am so sorry about the failed consistency of updates, eep! I was planning on this chapter being small, but I got a bit carried away...anyways, I hope you enjoy and I can't thank you all enough for reading it!

Chapter Six

Training

Early morning light streams through the towering windows as I make my way to the training room. Tributes from various districts begin to gather around the head trainer, some cracking their knuckles to show just how tough and robust they really are, sending a touch-me-and-you're-my-next-meal faces to on looking tributes. While others stand away from the group, biting their lips and nervously rolling back and forth on their heels. The trainer, a bulky squat man with the slightest peak of a Mohawk sprouting from his head (that strongly resembled a potato) herds us together and begins to instruct us about the different stations. (Survival, weapons, hunting, etc.) After a brief description of the endlessly potential ways to parish in the Games, we scatter to the stations.

"Hey." Someone crouches down beside me, plucking some of the plants from the artificial forest ground. I glance to my side. A tall, lean boy with dark, shaggy hair smiles and holds out his hand. "Ben."

"Mags." I reply, shaking his hand warily. Who are you and why are you here? Is what I really want to say, but I hold it in.

"So, District Four?"

"Yeah, District Five?" I say, glancing at the number pinned to his shirt.

"Yep. So you're stuck with the kid that doesn't know how to smile and looks like he could spit fire, right?" Ben drops the plant and brushes his hands on his pants, leaning back on his hands.

"That about sums him up," I twist the plant, cracking a smile.

"So what are you doing exactly?" Ben asks after a while, nodding to the pair of sticks that lay in my hand.

"Attempting to create fire, but as you can see, it's not going so well," I try once more to rub the first stick up and down on top of the wider stick as the instructor had advised.

"Hm. Maybe you're doing it wrong." Ben reaches down and is about to move the stick when suddenly a thin stream of smoke erupts from the stick-medley. He jerks his hand back, wincing.

"Gah I'm so sorry!!" Great, I've already managed to hurt someone before the Games have even started. Not that I plan on hurting anyone in the Games--I kind of hope to just slip my way through it without creating too much damage...because that's possible in the Games HAHA ha...

"It's all good Mags." He is about to add something when someone, the other half of District Five, calls his name over to the weapons table.

I roll the handle of the dagger between my fingers. "Now the key is to hold your wrist back towards your forearm, like so." The Knife instructor demonstrates, grabbing a short, deadly knife and flicking her wrist with such a force that it makes the knife drive deep into the center of the target. "Ready?"

"Uh..." I make a visible gulp and grip the handle of the blade tighter. I position my body correctly in front of the target and bend my wrist back towards aching point, flinging the dagger across the room--all of three feet.

"Again." She orders, grabbing another knife and placing it in my hands. "If you want to survive in the Games, you have to know how to defend yourself." She nods at the knife.

"O-Okay." Squeezing the handle to stop the small shaking in my hand, tossing the blade an additional six feet and having it clatter to the ground. I give the instructor a guilty look and flee to another station. Clearly, knife throwing is not my weapon of choice. After veering far away from the weight lifting station where Lorem is heaving practically a mountain across the room with the face of a tiger that had just been dunked in water, I end up back where I started: the "Forest."

My hands grab a long pine needle and some dried grass. Five minutes later, I find myself examining the carefully stitched fish hook. Suddenly I hear a grunt pass behind me. "Nice hook, Four." The tribute from District Two snickers alongside an almost abnormally tall girl from District 1. My fists clench, crushing the meticulous hook between my fingers, the needle digging into my palm like a pin cushion. They make their way to the rope climbing station, murmuring between themselves. But in a way, he is right. How am I to defend myself, let alone kill anyone with a fish hook? And who knows if there's even going to be edible, if any, fish in the Games anyway. With my luck, it could be as dry as a desert there.

* * * *

Three days of training pass, and at last the private sessions with the Gamemakers have arrived. "Loosen up, will you? You're making my hand hurt just looking." Basia leans back against the window, staring at Lorem. Lorem's hands are tightly clenched at his sides, his knuckles white from the pressure.

"Yeah, and you don't want to see Basia when he breaks a nail. Last time he practically pushed me off the roof." Theodore grunts and crosses his arms.

"Excuse me! I had JUST gotten a 5-star MANICURE and then you decided to come along and--and run. Into. Me!" Basia huffs, instinctively hiding his shiny blue nails (with a minuscule 4 on each), between his arms.

"Psh. It's not my fault that I didn't know those drinks were alcoholic."

"YOU WERE AT THE BAR WHAT DID YOU EXPECT, CHAI TEA?!" Theodore opens his mouth for another retort when I jump between them.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Back to the whole training session thing." I glance at the clock, feeling my stomach drop. "We have five minutes. Any advice, please? Other than not to mess with Basia's apparel."

After a complete minute of Theodore and Basia exchanging murderous expressions, nearly matching Lorem's usual attire, our mentor clears his throat. "Right. Advice. Let's see, Mags, your talent is being as quiet as possible. Hm. Lorem, I'm fairly sure with a face like that you could kill your opponents with a raw fish. Or maybe you would just eat them. The opponents I mean, not the fish." I hear a gaging noise behind me, not surprised to see Basia mimicking puking.

"HEY." Lorem growls from the corner.

"Man you guys are hard to work with...I suppose just do what you mastered during training. This is one of the most significant moments before the games. Your score defines you now. Do poorly now and you will most certainly pay for it in the games."

"So...." I trail off, brow furrowed.

"So whatever talent you're hiding up your sleeve, now is the time to pull it out, because trust me, you are going to be needing it."

* * * *

My shoes sound like knocks on a door through the light chatter in the Training room. Buffet tables are festooned where the Game makers sit at the end of the room, plates packed Theodore-style: mountain high and smothered with heart-attack. "Mags Flanagan, District Four. Please begin."

For the first few minutes, I tiptoe through the artificial forest, plucking edible plants and gathering kindle for a fire. But I know this isn't enough. The Gamemakers' bored expressions say it all. Theodore's voice drifts into my head. Your score defines you now. Sighing, I drop the plants to the ground and head to the knife station, plucking a small dagger from the pile. My wrist flings back, and the knife sails to the side of the bodily target, biting into the corner of the shoulder. I bite my lip. At least it's progress...glancing over at the Gamemakers, I finally decide to move to plan C, pulling out my hidden talent.

Five minutes later, I look at my meticulous fish hook. My father would be proud. I can just imagine him standing beside me, patting my shoulder and admiring my handiwork. His voice whispers in my ear. "I won't be impressed until it catches us cash, but for now, it'll do." My small smile disappears at the thought of my greedy, deceptive father, a comforting figure built off lies. A wave of hollow sadness washes over me. People say to put the past behind you for a better future, but for me, right now, my past is fueling my future. My feet suddenly pull me to the knife station again, and I reach for a deadly knife. I pull my wrist back, all the while my dad's image plastered in my mind. The knife flings deep into the chest of the target.

I can't help but smile. This must have caught their attention for sure. I spin on my heels, expecting at least a few raised eyebrows. My smile disappears. They continue to dig into their steaming food and sip from their peculiar colored drinks, acting as if it were a casual get together, which for them in a way, it is. I'm not looking forward to seeing the disappointment on Theodore's face when my score is revealed. I wonder what Theodore did in his training session...wait. Theodore. Suddenly a thought comes to mind. It's not strong, but it'll do. I go back to the artificial forest and carefully pluck several long blades of grass and get to work.

I hear an exaggerated sigh behind me. "That'll do. You may leave now." My back stiffens. Is it time already? Have I failed their interest that much? I drop my nearly finished piece and stretch, as if relieving the past twenty minutes of hidden judgment and pressure. Nodding my head, I walk lightly away from my creation and head towards the door, but not without seeing one of the Gamemaker's eyebrows raise, recognizing the woven bowl that had saved my mentor's life few years ago.

* * * *

"A nine?! THAT'S MY BOY!" Theodore roars and claps a shoulder on Lorem's hunched back. "Whatever you did in there, keep doing it!" A smirk appears at the corner of Lorem's mouth. Only Lorem can make smiles look that awkward. The room explodes with whoops and cheers but then quickly dies down once his face and score disappear from the screen.

"Mags Flanagan, District Four with a score of..." Cosmos Fletcher, the Capitol's one and only Hunger Games Host, looks down at his paper. "Four." I can feel Theodore's disappointment hang in the air like the plague. If the score defines you, then what does that say about me?