Chapter Text

[1] Dyno

dy·​no | dynamic movement; a jumping or leaping move where both feet leave the wall to grab the next hold

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

Florence Désiré was intimately familiar with the sound of pain. When it echoed across the cavernous hall, she paused her rush to the next hold. The howl was broken by a gruff shout - a trainer yelling at the students who had been sharpening their blunted training blades on the concrete floor again.

Florence was not a trained medic. She was the daughter of one, and that had been enough to tarnish her with the same reputation. Her initial, half-hearted protests at the assigned role had fallen upon the deaf ears of students who did not want anyone else to know about their careless injuries. 

If it had been anyone else, she would have continued to climb. Florence did not care for any of the cocky eighteen-year-olds who trained alongside her. However, she recognised the whimpering voice and reluctantly dropped back down to the ground.

Topaz, his blonde hair sticking to his sweating face, had wandered away from the initial group that had hurt him. He had tried to silence himself by biting down on his lip but now, that was bleeding too. There was usually an energetic flush across his face when he trained. Instead, his pallor matched the grey steel of a blade. Blood ran in a stream from his arm. He tried to stifle it with his uninjured hand.

“You’re fine,” reassured Florence, as she walked past him to steal a bandage from the empty first aid station. She brushed the chalk powder from her hands. It surrounded her in a comforting cloud. “It’s going to hurt, and it might bleed a lot, but you’re so fine.”

If a child arrived at the family’s clinic, Florence was the person that would be sent to their bedside. She had the calm voice, the blunt demeanour and the sheer compassion to handle the difficult conversations that normally arose with a younger patient. Topaz had recently turned fifteen. He was still the youngest in the higher class, and he still leaned into Florence’s caring touch as she moved his hand away for a better look at the wound.

The cruel training knife had left a jagged wound stretching from the curve of his elbow down to his wrist, blood flowing across his fingers. “Nasty,” said Florence, so that the younger boy understood his pained shout was not a sign of weakness. To reassure, she added, “but not untreatable.”

“And it’ll help you get used to the sight of blood,” scolded Topaz’s brother. Older by thirteen and a half minutes, Sapphire often took the lead between himself and his twin. They could only be told apart by the differing freckles across their cheeks

Florence’s family had taught her how to wrap a neat bandage before they taught her to tie her own shoelaces; it was a far cry from the academy’s half-hearted attempt at teaching military medicine.

“It’ll be alright?” mumbled Topaz.

With a teasing grin, Sapphire replied, “I think you’ll live.”

“You screamed the whole building down in your first week, so I’d watch your mouth,” scolded Florence.

The twin pair had arrived in the higher class at the beginning of the year, armed with the cockiness and confidence to match their early promotion. They had swiftly been humbled by the indifference of the other students - those hoping to volunteer wanted very little to do with the fifteen-year-old prodigies. Sapphire, pushing himself to prove himself, had started to arrive early to train alone.

Florence had also been in the training hall before sunrise; it was one of the few places she could go without a frustrating interrogation. When the younger boy fell and twisted his knee so badly he could not stand, it had been Florence who had treated him and ensured he made it home. He had begged for the incident to stay a secret. She had never told a soul - other than his twin.

“You could keep on training today if you wanted,” Florence continued, turning back to Topaz, “but I’m going to make you go home because you look ready to pass out.”

She tried to hide the uncertainty that crept into her voice when the stench of blood finally reached her. Florence pulled her hand back from her patient and tried to wipe them clean on her clothes, even though there was nothing staining them. 

“I’ll walk you back,” Sapphire offered. For all the bravado he painted on his face for an audience, he would never put his brother at risk. “Flo can cover for us.”

Florence scoffed. “Call me that again and I’ll cut your fucking arm off.”

“I’ll be fine,” reassured Topaz, swaying in an unsteady stance. “Give me a minute. I’ll be-”

His voice stuttered away.

“We’re going.” Sapphire took his brother’s hand, as if they were best friends walking into their first day at Brigade Camp. “Home’ll be quiet about now anyway.”

Topaz managed a weak smile. The pair disappeared, skirting around the edge of the hall to avoid being asked questions by any of the swarming staff. Florence was finally able to drag herself to the water fountain and use the cold flow to scrub the thought of blood from her hands. She enjoyed her training at the academy. She thrived on the expectation of poise, power and practice because it was not what was longed of her at home. The constant threat of blood was still a concern and if they kept asking her to treat people, there was a chance that-

“Admiral is going to get himself kicked out,” murmured Maren, sidling alongside her friend at the fountain under the pretense of filling her own water bottle.

“Why?” Florence dried her hands on her training uniform. “Is he the one that’s been sharpening the knives?”

“He brought one in from home. And he deliberately went for Topaz. They weren’t even sparring. Admiral knows he isn’t going to be picked to volunteer and I think he’s trying to prove himself.”

“And he went for the youngest person in the room?” Florence scoffed. “That’ll definitely help.”

As the intensive training programme wound down for their winter break, the set schedule was loosened whilst the volunteering pair was finalised. Florence had hoped to spend her time climbing whilst Maren had been messing around at a survival station, no pressure to be picked on her shoulders.

Maren took Florence’s hand, dragging her away from the fountain. “Want to go hiking later?” she asked. “If we get out of here early, we’ll be back before the snow starts falling tonight.”

“What if it’s already snowing?,” countered Florence. Their friendship thrived on friendly arguments, confidence clashing with charisma.

There were no outside windows in the academy’s grey training hall. Instead, the staff lounge’s glass wall was the only opportunity to stare at something else. Florence glanced up like it would reveal the weather to her. There was a figure - a victor - watching them as if they were performing on a screen.

Maren pulled the attention back to her. “You scared of a little cold?”

“Can’t climb if you can’t feel your fingers,” Florence retorted. “I’m needed at the clinic anyway.”

“You’d never give up a hike to go work at the clinic.” Maren nudged Florence, and her hand lingered a little longer than it needed to. “Sack it off and come out with me.”

Florence grabbed her friend’s hand for herself, prepared to agree. They could bicker and banter through anything but Maren was correct - she would never give up a hike, and she would never give up the opportunity to spend time with her. Together, they were free.

“Désiré,” barked a voice, before they could finalise their plans together. Florence obediently turned to the stern trainer and then immediately wished she had not. “You’re wanted in the staff lounge.”

“Staff lounge,” teased Maren, with another nudge. “Look at you!”

It was impossible to ignore a summon to the staff lounge. When you were told to attend, it was for either scolding or success. Florence had no idea which one would find her.

She left her friend to their unstructured training and disappeared up the metal staircase. The staff corridor was barren; a silver sign, engraved with Staff Only, was the only adornment.

Florence knocked before she entered. Occasionally, it paid to be polite.

“Come in,” ordered Gem Lustre’s tired voice.

Whilst the training staff were the backbone of the academy, it was officially run by the three victors. Carnelian Jade was the first of the new era. Having been dragged back into mentoring aged forty-three, she would often stay out of official business. Dazzle Lustre had once been a confident audience favourite but as time ticked on, she became reliant on the calming pills prescribed by Florence’s parents. Now, Gem was the sole figurehead. He fulfilled his role with darkening shadows beneath his eyes.

Florence pushed open the door into the tired room. She had been there once before - when she had agreed to continue training despite the fact Fiona would no longer be there - and knew exactly what to expect: a square of cracked, leather chairs and a kitchen filled with outdated technology. 

“Take a seat,” offered Gem, when he saw her in the doorway. He had been the figure watching her from the window. “Did you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” replied Florence, perching on the edge of a chair. She did not have the stomach for bitter coffee or weak tea or sickly-sweet hot chocolate.

Gem did not make a drink for himself either. Instead, he sipped constantly from a dented bottle. Florence hoped that it was filled with water.

“It’s about this time that we start to consider who’s going to volunteer,” Gem explained, as he took a seat opposite. The peeling leather made a grating sound. “You’re fun to watch from up here, you know. It’s rare that we have a trainee spend so much time on our climbing wall, and you were very quick to tie that bandage.”

Florence tried to listen to each word as they ran together in her howling head. Her mentor was waiting for an answer but he had never asked her a question. “Are you asking me to volunteer?” she clarified, eventually.

“It’s an option,” Gem shrugged. “We have the opportunity to do something different with our volunteers this year, if you want to do it. I can tell you the details and then you can tell me your decision.”

“I’m guessing this is a time-sensitive decision,” said Florence.

“We can give you some time.”

Florence did not train to volunteer. Instead, she trained because it was the closest she could taste to freedom without wandering along a hiking trail. It was easier to meet expectations when no one expected you to be there. The life of a victor had never been on her radar.

Gem continued, sipping from his bottle in between sentences. “We have not considered everything yet. There’s a few people that we’re currently deciding between.”

“Like Maren,” Florence interrupted. Her friend had effortlessly climbed to the top of the higher class - when you stopped caring, it was easier to thrive under the pressure.

“No,” confirmed Gem. “I would never do that to the poor girl even if she wanted to volunteer. Her brother deserved far better than what we were able to give him, and Maren does too.”

The statement eased the ache of confusion. Florence had wondered if her friend would be forced into the arena despite her indifference - and fear - of the fight.

“Who are you choosing between, then?” pushed Florence.

“You,” said Gem, “and Sagitarria.”

Gita was a passionate, brave archer who would have made a strong volunteer. Florence had spoken to her on occasion; whilst they were not friends, they never bothered with each other enough to become enemies.

“However, Maximus has asked to keep Sagitarria as his project for this year, and I trust his training,” Gem continued, “so I’m recommending you.”

There was no room for modesty in the academy. Florence knew that she climbed brilliantly, and that she threw knives better than anyone in the higher class, and that she could heal difficult wounds - sometimes.

It was never that simple.

“When do you need my decision?” she asked.

Gem shrugged. “Let’s say, as soon as possible.”

Without pausing to wait for permission, Florence stood and turned to leave the staff lounge. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

By the time they reached their favourite hiking trail, the snow was swirling in the fading sun. Florence and Maren bundled themselves tighter into their winter training uniform and stood together to share the remnants of their body heat.

“I told you, we can’t climb if we can’t feel our fingers,” grumbled Florence. There was an opportunity to scale a small cliff-face alongside the trail, but neither girl wanted to attempt it in winter temperatures. If they wanted to, they had the supplies - Maren still had her beloved chalk bag attached to her belt loop with a carabiner. 

Laughing at the complaint, Maren made a point of wrapping Florence’s hand in her own. “I’m not the reason we were out late,” she teased. “Someone was busy getting told off in the staff lounge.”

Florence considered herself to be strong, but she still had not gathered the courage to tell her friend about the decision. It would change the air between them to something colder than the winter’s howling wind. 

“You’re keeping secrets from me,” stated Maren, as they continued to trudge along the path. The gentle flurry of snow was beginning to settle on the stone. “Go on - why did they want you?”

There was nothing to be gained from lying. Florence trusted her friend enough to wonder about spending the rest of her life with her - but that was impossible.

“Gem asked me to volunteer,” Florence admitted.

Maren stopped, turning to watch her friend’s face. There was a rare flash of judgement between them. Then, it softened.

“You’d be good,” Maren said. “You’d win, I think.”

Florence tried to ignore the tightening feeling in her chest. It appeared whenever she hiked on a dark night and whenever another expectation was placed upon her. When both happened at once, she struggled to catch her breath. “You think?” she asked.

“Yeah! You’re skilled, and you’re brilliant whenever you’re off on an adventure. I think you’d be good at winning over sponsors, too.”

Maren’s voice became softer as she spoke. If her brother had not alienated a large portion of potential sponsors, he might have been a victor rather than a forgotten second place.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Florence reassured, when she began to feel the tension in her friend’s body. “I’m meant to be taking over managing the clinic as soon as I graduate.”

“And would that make you happy?” asked Maren.

Florence had learned the value of selfishness and impulsiveness from her sister, Fiona. Prior to tasting that freedom, she had simply nodded along with everyone’s plans for her future - but the future you planned for was never guaranteed. 

“You should do whatever will make you happy,” Maren reminded, and Florence made her decision on a hiking trail in a flurry of snow.

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

In the middle of the winter break, Florence was ordered to dress up in her ceremonial uniform and attend a training session solely to be seen with the latest victor. There was no longer an incentive to hide the existence of district training academies. Instead, they were being pushed to the population as much as possible: if your district behaved, you were granted privileges.

Sasha Vetrano was not as fierce as he had appeared in his arena. The wide-eyed boy, who had become famous for pushing another tribute down into a cavern of sharp stalagmites, seemed surprised by the amount of weaponry on offer to the academy students. Florence reasoned that he was simply exhausted; it was nearing the end of his victory tour and prior to the arena, the poor boy had never stepped foot outside of District Thirteen.

Following the instructions of an excited escort, he posed with every member of the higher class. Florence was photographed half-way up the climbing wall with him waving beneath her. She disappeared to the back of the crowd to brush the chalk from her hands as soon as her time in the spotlight had finished.

“Have you made a decision yet?” Gem asked, joining her behind the other students.

He had pushed the photographer to stage Sasha with Sapphire and Topaz at the same time. They were the closest to the victor’s age when he won, after all. The camera’s flashing bulb reflected off every metal surface in the training hall as they played some silly game with a ball.

“If I play,” said Florence, “I’m playing to win.

Gem answered immediately. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t think you could win.”

The expectation still weighed heavily. Florence was often asked to do things that she was not capable of. When someone had once been begging her for help, she had been unable to pull herself together enough to save them.

“I’ll do it,” she agreed, because it was better than remembering the alternative.

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

Florence awoke earlier than she intended on reaping day. It was not early enough for her household, as her two mothers were already downstairs and throwing themselves into the work that needed to be done. It was impossible to tell who was at the stove frying breakfast and who was loudly organising their extensive medicine pantry.

There was very little choice in her closet. Florence lived in her academy training clothes or in the neat uniform she wore in the clinic. Her reaping dress had been buried at the very back: cream lace, because white was only for a first reaping, hemming a navy velvet which was too hot for the stifling sun.

She forced her body into the tight garment, glanced at her reflection and immediately hated the sight. The skirt was too short. It highlighted the scrapes and scars that Florence had collected on her legs from her climbing, and the harsh bite mark which still scarred her left calf. She could not volunteer whilst dressed like a school girl who had fallen in the playing field. Her childhood reaping dress was no longer fit for purpose.

Preparing herself to deal with the complaints her choice would prompt, Florence tore off the dress and left it in a pile beneath her mirror. Instead, she chose a checked skirt paired with the blouse she often wore to the clinic. The thick, black tights from her winter uniform helped to hide the evidence on her leg. When she looked in the mirror again, she was mature, professional, and more likely to pierce a skull with a knife from thirty feet away. Florence preferred that reflection.

“That’s not your reaping outfit,” complained Allesia Désiré, as soon as her daughter walked into the kitchen.

“The dress didn’t fit anymore,” lied Florence. “This will be fine.”

“Fine is not good enough.” Alessia used a spatula to transfer eggs from the pan and onto slices of home-baked bread. “Would you accept fine treatment if you were a patient?”

“I’d be grateful for any treatment if I was a patient.”

When her breakfast was placed in front of her, Florence immediately picked up cutlery rather than waiting for her mothers to join her. The weight of a knife in her hand lightened the trepidation blooming in her stomach.

“It’ll do,” said Willa Désiré, silenced the brewing argument as she walked in from their adjoining stock room. There was no need for a pantry when imported medication needed to be stored somewhere dark and cool. “The attention will be on the volunteer anyway, and you can come and help us at the clinic straight after without needing to change.”

Florence clutched her knife tighter.

“Do we know who is volunteering?” asked Alessia, as she sat down for her own meal. She scowled when she realised her daughter had already begun. “The academy usually announces it long before now.”

“Haven’t a clue,” Florence replied. The lying came easily to her after Fiona had initially shown her how. 

“Maren, potentially. It’d do that girl some good to be successful on her own rather than live in her brother’s shadow,” offered Willa.

Alessia shook her head. “I don’t think she wants anything to do with the reaping. And who can blame her, after losing her brother like that? It must be awful to lose your older sibling in such a traumatic way.”

They continued to eat their breakfast in silence, as if there was not an empty chair at their table.

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

Florence attended the reaping with a scowl and a churning feeling in her stomach. It was not anxiety - she was too confident in her decision for that - but she could not find another name for the emotion. Instead, Florence settled on it being nausea from seeing her own blood pressed against the page during registration.

The market square was only big enough for the eligible. If it was their first reaping, a child was allowed to bring a single parent to comfort them. Florence had never been more grateful for the rule as she was at that moment, with her mothers several streets away and watching the day’s proceedings on a large screen. She had Maren with her instead.

Florence knew that she could be herself with her friend.

“Nervous?” asked Maren, who had managed to stay beside her as they fought their way to the very front of the crowd.

“Nope,” Florence replied, honestly. “This is the easiest part.”

“What did your family say?”

“I haven't told them.”

Maren stopped, hanging from Florence’s arm as their hands entwined together like in the cold winter. “You look ready. You look calm. That's good.”

“Are you calm?” asked Florence. She did not pull away from her friend’s familiar touch.

“No.” Maren’s honesty was refreshing. “I’m not going to be calm until you’re back here, with me.”

She had not been calm at a reaping since her own brother’s year. Florence had stood by her side for each one since. Knowing that she would be leaving her friend in the same way that her brother had, Florence reconsidered her decision to volunteer.

On the stage, the mayor was tapping his hand against the microphone. It had still not been plugged in, and the reaping was only minutes away. Florence did not have time to re-think.

“You’re bouncing,” commented Maren.

“I’m not,” retorted Florence, making a conscious effort to stop jumping around on the balls of her feet.

“Who’s volunteering with you?”

“No idea.”

The stage had been constructed around the staircase to the Justice Building. At the top, there were three chairs for the three victors. Carnelian was sitting with her hands tucked neatly in her lap. Dazzle was tapping her foot in a quick, unsteady rhythm. Gem was late.

Suddenly, the market square was startled by an explosion of feedback from the podium’s microphone. The mayor coughed awkwardly and the sound echoed across the enclosed space. “I suppose we should begin,” he mumbled, as the crowd fell silent.

There was no opportunity for a speech. Florence remembered her earliest reapings desperately counting down to the drawing of each name whilst the mayor droned on about rebellion and respect. She would watch the waving of the large purple flags draped from the building’s windows, or try to count the paper slips in the bowls on the golden pedestals. Now, the Capitol did not want to give any district person the opportunity to speak to their fellow people.

The escort was as polished as the marble columns. He stepped forward, orange hair neatly parted and combed, and nudged the mayor away from the microphone. “We honour our Capitol through an annual sacrifice of our own people,” he announced. “To choose our contenders, we either choose from an eligible pool or allow the bravest amongst us to volunteer. District One, may the odds be ever in your favour.”

Gem interrupted the polished performance by stumbling as he tried to sneak into his chair. Hesitant, the crowd rippled with laughter at his performance. He held up a hand in apology whilst the escort scowled.

“We begin by reading the names of each victor in this glorious new era,” continued the escort, as soon as everything had settled back into a solemn silence. “We shall only acknowledge those who are loyal to our wonderful Capitol. Carnelian Jade, 76th Hunger Games. Gem Lustre, 90th Hunger Games. Dazzle Lustre, 93rd Hunger Games.”

After each name, there was a brief applause like rain pattering on a thin tin roof. The audience would each know a fallen tribute - Maren’s brother had only been runner-up - but District One did not acknowledge the losers.

Florence was hardly listening. She had the simple task of shouting, I volunteer. There was no chance for her to get it wrong.

She had been wrong before.

Maren took her arm, linking them together like they were skipping into the academy for the first time. She looked at her friend’s tense face and brushed one of Florence’s curls behind her ear. “You’ll do great,” she whispered.

The escort finally stepped to a bowl, pulling a name from the top of the pile as if he could not care about which name it contained. “Ladies first,” he announced, attempting a smile but forgetting the enthusiasm. He broke the seal on the slip with a painted nail. Florence steeled herself to keep the promise she had made to herself.

It was a promise to be free. It was a promise to live without expectation. It was a promise to make her own way in the world, ignoring the plan which other people made for her - and it was a promise to her sister, who had taught her the value in herself.

“Ivory Demure,” called the escort, but it did not matter.

Florence raised her hand before the girl could be found in the crowd, pulling her arm from Maren’s tight grip. She was shouting before the escort could complain that they were not following protocol. She was on stage, smiling and introducing herself, before anyone could stop her. She was a volunteer.