thoughts about how this is all Dylan’s fault . . . somehow.
At least Mr Motivator over here has managed to put his digipad away. He calls to Alixis and waits in silence as she stumbles towards us. My legs are like empty shells as I drag the extra weight up with me.
‘Where’s Dylan?’ Alixis asks, at last.
‘He has a Demonstration in city Sierra. I’ll be training you this week. Although I’m not very impressed, Dylan usually has the newbies fitter than this by now.’
Something—aside from the insult—squirms at that. I don’t like the thought of Dylan training other people and not me. How long has he been doing this, I wonder? Mental note: try and find his Debtbook profile after training. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.
Gideon paces in front of us, arms folded behind his back like the army general I saw in a historical film once.
‘Anyway, we need to move on from basic training. You’ll still participate in your endurance drills morning and evening, but this week you’re on defence. Next week you’ll learn to attack with precision and how to give the audience a good show. By your fourth week here, you should be able to combine all of these to conduct yourself appropriately within the Stadium. You must not kill too fast, or too slow. You must read the audience well, judge when they want brutality. Then, you’ll be ready.’
I take a sharp breath. Only three more weeks. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I feel as though I’m picking the petals off a flower; like a damsel trying to decide whether or not somebody loves her: I want to live, I don’t want to kill again, I want to live . . .
‘So we could be home really soon then?’ Alixis asks, her eyes glimmering.
‘In theory. Although you’ll die in your first Demonstration unless you get very good, very fast.’ His eyes rake the field behind us. He’s not even paying attention. Alixis’ mouth opens as if to protest, but she looks away, blinking fast. I give Gideon my best scathing look, which must be terrible because when he finally glances at me, he looks as if he’s going to crack up. When he clocks Alixis’ expression though, he lets out a short sigh.
‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger. You’re not good enough, either of you. Finishing the fight alive can come down to who has the most energy left. If you can’t run this field forty times before you go out to fight, you’ll lose. Dylan has been soft on you, and it could cost you your life.
‘Persistence and resistance, remember.’ He finishes his speech.
I hate those words.
‘Anyway, let’s stop that from happening, eh?’ Gideon says, attempting a happy expression. His raised eyebrows and weird, open-mouthed smile is actually quite funny; being upbeat really doesn’t come naturally to him.
We spend the rest of the day learning self-defence techniques for when you have been disarmed. They run through my head like the recipe to a tasty dish, and I imagine them read out by a woman with a high pitched, cheery voice:
-To escape one bear hug, you bend, put all your weight to the floor, and elbow your opponent in the head until you are free.
-If you find yourself being choked face-on, simply sweep their hands away in a fast motion while applying one knee kick to their groin, proceed to punch them in the neck and face until they are on the ground.
-To evade one sword attack in a downwards trajectory, place yourself between the hilt of the blade and your attacker. To do this you will need to slide the arm closest to the weapon towards your attacker’s neck. Use one free hand to punch the face, and mix in a knee kick to the groin.
The drills go on and on until the sun casts a murky grey through the camp and my arms are as heavy as, well, the weights which I carry. Gideon’s right, though: the moves become instinctual, almost to the point where I’m worrying about someone so much as placing a hand on my shoulder to say hello. I think I would have
At least Mr Motivator over here has managed to put his digipad away. He calls to Alixis and waits in silence as she stumbles towards us. My legs are like empty shells as I drag the extra weight up with me.
‘Where’s Dylan?’ Alixis asks, at last.
‘He has a Demonstration in city Sierra. I’ll be training you this week. Although I’m not very impressed, Dylan usually has the newbies fitter than this by now.’
Something—aside from the insult—squirms at that. I don’t like the thought of Dylan training other people and not me. How long has he been doing this, I wonder? Mental note: try and find his Debtbook profile after training. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.
Gideon paces in front of us, arms folded behind his back like the army general I saw in a historical film once.
‘Anyway, we need to move on from basic training. You’ll still participate in your endurance drills morning and evening, but this week you’re on defence. Next week you’ll learn to attack with precision and how to give the audience a good show. By your fourth week here, you should be able to combine all of these to conduct yourself appropriately within the Stadium. You must not kill too fast, or too slow. You must read the audience well, judge when they want brutality. Then, you’ll be ready.’
I take a sharp breath. Only three more weeks. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I feel as though I’m picking the petals off a flower; like a damsel trying to decide whether or not somebody loves her: I want to live, I don’t want to kill again, I want to live . . .
‘So we could be home really soon then?’ Alixis asks, her eyes glimmering.
‘In theory. Although you’ll die in your first Demonstration unless you get very good, very fast.’ His eyes rake the field behind us. He’s not even paying attention. Alixis’ mouth opens as if to protest, but she looks away, blinking fast. I give Gideon my best scathing look, which must be terrible because when he finally glances at me, he looks as if he’s going to crack up. When he clocks Alixis’ expression though, he lets out a short sigh.
‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger. You’re not good enough, either of you. Finishing the fight alive can come down to who has the most energy left. If you can’t run this field forty times before you go out to fight, you’ll lose. Dylan has been soft on you, and it could cost you your life.
‘Persistence and resistance, remember.’ He finishes his speech.
I hate those words.
‘Anyway, let’s stop that from happening, eh?’ Gideon says, attempting a happy expression. His raised eyebrows and weird, open-mouthed smile is actually quite funny; being upbeat really doesn’t come naturally to him.
We spend the rest of the day learning self-defence techniques for when you have been disarmed. They run through my head like the recipe to a tasty dish, and I imagine them read out by a woman with a high pitched, cheery voice:
-To escape one bear hug, you bend, put all your weight to the floor, and elbow your opponent in the head until you are free.
-If you find yourself being choked face-on, simply sweep their hands away in a fast motion while applying one knee kick to their groin, proceed to punch them in the neck and face until they are on the ground.
-To evade one sword attack in a downwards trajectory, place yourself between the hilt of the blade and your attacker. To do this you will need to slide the arm closest to the weapon towards your attacker’s neck. Use one free hand to punch the face, and mix in a knee kick to the groin.
The drills go on and on until the sun casts a murky grey through the camp and my arms are as heavy as, well, the weights which I carry. Gideon’s right, though: the moves become instinctual, almost to the point where I’m worrying about someone so much as placing a hand on my shoulder to say hello. I think I would have
Similar Books
