Our Love Could Be Lethal

Act III: Will the Tribute From 2 Please Stand Up?

Octavia's POV

One.

I take a deep breath and move my sword into the first position, gripping the hilt with two hands above my head so that it's slightly tilted down in front of my face.

An image of the mausoleum Snow was building with mine, Finnick, and Johanna's crypts reading 61-75. As quickly as the image comes into my mind, I shove it away; I need to focus.

Two.

I slowly and controllably move the sword diagonally across my body into a blocking position and try to focus on my stance.

Three.

I swiftly and sharply thrust the sword forward into a stabbing motion.

The image of Ares, my district partner from my Games, standing in front of me, covered in blood flashes before my eyes and I quickly blink it away. I take another deep breath and place my feet back into the starting stance of the exercise and start again. And again. And again. Repeating it until I can do it without receiving some sort of unwanted image being burned into my brain or my thoughts wandering.

With my head finally clear, I can move on to the trick that's been the focus of my attention lately. I load the arrow into the machine and once I hear the click that lets me know it's in place, I move in backwards and into the arrow's path. But I make sure to stand slightly to the right of where I know it will eject from, just in case I don't end up doing it quite right. If I'm going to die, I might as well do it while saving the life of someone I love. Not bleeding out unceremoniously on the academy floor that smells of sweat and feet.

I hear the arrow release, and instinctively, I move my left hand in a grasping motion through the air. Sure enough, I feel the smooth wooden shaft in my hand, letting me know that I caught the arrow. There's a slight burn on my hands from its speed, but it sits firmly in my hand nonetheless.

The sun starts to shine through the windows of the training academy and some of the older Victors, and the ones who feel like they are safe from going into the Games, start to file into the Academy. It's uncharacteristically empty for this time of year, something we can thank the new twist for because it's occupied the vast majority of our trainers in, well, their own training. I make a point of trying to finish my in-academy training before everyone else gets here, that way I can leave.

After not training for seven months, I had a lot of catching up to do in terms of my fitness. That meant a lot of dreaded runs through the forest. But ever since the announcement came three months ago, I became laser-focused on my training. Every waking moment of the day has been spent either training, preparing nutritious meals, or studying the other tributes' Games. Other than the time I carve out in the morning to go and visit Cato that is.

Once I reach my locker, I quickly change out of my workout clothes and into a light spring jacket. I'd been offered to watch back the tapes of the other Victors and do analysis with the rest of the Victors in the academy and as I leave, I notice them all huddled around the television with Brutus up at the front pointing at the screen. But something else catches my eye. The locks of sandy blonde hair in the frozen frame are unmistakable, even though it's incredibly blurry.

Finnick Odair.

I re-adjust my bag on my shoulder and decide to hang at the back of the room for a moment to listen in since they haven't noticed my presence. As much as I know I shouldn't, the lack of seeing Finnick has my feet cemented in place, almost mesmerized at the sight of him. The thought of re-watching his Games has always felt violating in some way, even though I watched them live when I was younger. Watching any of my friends' Games felt like an invasion of privacy, even though it was aired on national television.