laography | everybody wants to rule the world

[ Day one of living in the alpha's complex meant nothing but training. Interviews were kept to the second day and the arrivals, giving the candidates a chance to train in the facilities owned by the complex. Honestly, it wasn't like the training was going to help the ones who were well and truly screwed, so it seemed like a gracious gesture of the alphas, to give them a fighting chance.

Being one of those losers, Stiles can concur, totally freakin' sucks.

What he knows about combat is limited to sparring with his best friend. His survival skills are better--the son of the sheriff has an even shot, can identify up to forty strains of wolfsbane with little to no effort, and watched enough Bear Grylls to live out in the woods for like ten years. That part he's not worried about. Killing a bunch of other werewolves, some of whom train their whole lives for this? That he's a little worried about.

Derek had told him to pick a weapon that felt familiar. The bat, as useful as it'd been during the exhibition, was going to have to be put down, because the idea of bludgeoning someone's brains out with it made his stomach churn a little. Plus--that would take time. Stiles has a good swing, but it's not that great.

His eyes land on what looks like a poleaxe, similar in size to a lacrosse stick, with a viciously sharp, curved blade on one end and a shorter one on the other. He picks it up, tests the weight of it in his hands (nearly drops it on account of how light it is) and gives it a spin. Distance. Put distance between you and an opponent, but you don't want something you have to constantly load and reload.

Taking it into the testing room, he glances over his shoulder, watching the other candidate from Beacon Hills, a woman named Jennifer Blake, mercilessly destroying a couple of targets with what looked like miniature daggers.

Super. ]

[ Since having first participated in the games, having come into the alpha's complex, things have received some upgrades. He is grateful for them, in some ways, but the problem is that only certain upgrades are shared by all of the candidates. Fortune favors the rich, after all, and some candidates are given special attention where they truly don't need it. They're being shaped into proper killing machines by their sponsors, who provide trainers and special weapons.

But it's impersonal. It makes them cocky, doesn't remind them of the risks that come with entering the dome surrounded by other players that want to win or survive. A pair from Beacon Hills, recently sixteen and scared out of their wits, hadn't been given special treatment. Their sponsor did what he could for them, a sad but knowing smile on his face every time they spoke to him, but Paige had always made sure to keep their heads above water. Even towards the end.

Almost eight years later, Derek plans to do the same. He passes through the complex, citing to anyone that stops him that he's busy taking care of sponsor-related business, with only one destination in mind. He's been to the training room plenty of times since he first passed through, so it's an easy path that he takes almost subconsciously. He'd said, when he and Stiles first spoke, that he would train him himself if he had to.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

As he comes into the training room, he unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off, folding it over his arms neatly as he approaches where Stiles is examining one of the glaives set out for the candidates to train with. It's a good choice, and hopefully one that he'll click with. Because they need to get started, and fast. ] Good pick.

[ Jennifer goes completely unnoticed (or, more likely, ignored) as he comes to a stop next to Stiles. ]

[ Stiles jumps half a foot when Derek sneaks up on him--he'd been in his own little world, staring down the silver pole and trying to merit the weights of it against other werewolves. If he was allowed to, he would have coated the blade with wolfsbane, but that would have to come later, when he was actually in the games with the weapon in his hands. (If he could get to the cornucopia and back fast enough.)

The glaive clatters and he nearly drops it, grabbing it and jumping back half a foot as he points the thing at him. Stiles--is jumpy. He's really jumpy. Every second here makes him feel more than just nervous, it makes him hypervigilant, and Stiles scans Derek's face before he relaxes the glaive, holding it back down. ] Jesus, man, could you not sneak up on me in a room full of people that are actively going to try and kill me in three days? Uncool.

[ But his posture relaxes a little, and his brows furrow. ] What are you doing here?

[ Something like a small smirk curls across Derek's expression as Stiles jumps, as if he isn't pointing an incredibly dangerous weapon at him. Instead of seeming particularly bothered-- he's amused by the jumpiness, but it's also going to come in handy for the games-- he simply goes about unbuttoning his waistcoat, quickly losing that official air that many of the alphas carry around with them. He folds it up the same as he had his jacket, setting them down on the weapons table, then undoes his cuffs and starts rolling his sleeves up. ]

Your reaction time's pretty good. [ It's offhanded, and a bit of a nudge to see if he'll relax a little more if he pokes a little fun at him. ] I told you. You'll learn, even if I have to teach you myself.

[ He loosens and undoes his tie, dropping it on top of his jacket and waistcoat. Maybe he could've snuck down here in something more suitable than his dress clothes, what everyone expects him to be wearing while the games are going on and the media is breathing down all their necks, but the fact that they are breathing down their necks is a bit of a problem. ]

[ For some reason, Stiles hadn't really expected Derek to follow through. Maybe it was cynicism--he wasn't exactly one of the favorites, and Derek wasn't looked upon so hotly here, either. But he continues to surprise him, and Stiles grips a little tighter at the glaive in his hand, adjusting it so he can grip it with two hands. He does, in fact, shoot Derek a flat look at the reaction time thing, but rolls his eyes and shakes his head, trying to work the nerves out. ]

This better be like Rocky kind of training or else I'm screwed. Probably literally. [ Giving the glaive a toss, he looks at Derek with those same bright eyes, examines his figure, his fighting stance. ] What's on the menu?

[ The smirk grows a touch at the flat look, but it's not mocking in the least. Derek rubs his hands together almost thoughtfully, surveying the training room at large and deciding what exactly they need to do first. There's a patch of space that seems about the same distance from the lift station that Stiles will rise out of to the cornucopia, and he decides almost immediately upon seeing it that above all else, they need that. ]

You're not going to want to move for an entire day, if that consoles you. [ Probably a good thing there's the day of reconcile. Turning to look at the weapons, he reaches and grabs a baton, giving it an experimental spin before he tucks it under his arm and starts to walk away. ] Bring the glaive and come over here.

Considering there's only three days, awesome. [ He's gonna have to get over it. All Stiles can really think of is his old lacrosse coach, yelling at them to run suicides, and he watches the baton get tucked under Derek's arm before following him. He's not letting go of this glaive if his life depends on it, and he's hoping with every fiber of his being that whichever side they put him on ends up getting him near to his weapon of choice. It probably won't, and he's already mentally formulating a plan of distraction, but with no sight of the arena until the day of, he's pretty screwed on that front.

He at least knows how to use a baton, if he's totally screwed.

Stiles makes his way over to the space chosen and sets the glaive in the ground, holding onto the light silver pole tightly. ] Bring it.

Nothing we can do about it except drill whatever we can into your head. [ Moving even as Stiles stops at one end, Derek closes his eyes and keeps walking, remembering the rush of grass and Paige right behind him, other tributes shouting around them. One, two. One, two. His footsteps continue, until he's a fair distance away from Stiles, where he turns and examines him. They're going to have to train with the glaive, no doubt about it, but the thing here is making it so that Stiles can get to it, and get away with it, alive.

He gives the baton another spin, out from under his arm, and taps it against his shoulder. ]

This, first. Put it down for now. [ His eyes flick to the pole in his hands, before up to Stiles again. After a moment, his voice lowers-- not enough to be completely drowned by the rest of the training room, but enough to make it a little more private between them. ] You're standing the approximate distance between the lift you'll rise up out of and the cornucopia.

[ Stiles blinks at being told to put it down, because that was the exact opposite of what he was expecting. Talk about Coach's suicides--he looks at Derek almost incredulously for a minute before he carefully puts the glaive down on the ground, half expecting Derek to come up and lunge at him when he does, but he rises again and stares him down, trying to focus, listen to what he's saying.

The cornucopia isn't that far away, but it's not that that's worrying. It's the people who will be surrounding him. Every single person in this complex is more than capable of killing Stiles with their bare hands--hell, they probably wouldn't even need claws to do it. Stiles has the same physical advantage as everyone else, but he's smart, and that's...about all he's got. Steeling his shoulders, he meets Derek's eyes again. ] Sooo lacrosse training, just with a much more deadly ending. Great.

It's training that you'll be thankful for when you can get in and out before someone takes your head off. [ There's another tap against his shoulder with the baton, before Derek brings it down, as if poised to strike. He's thinking of all the things that he could've used, before. Everything that he could've taught to past betas, in an attempt to keep them alive longer, help them reach it to the end. Stiles has to survive-- and it's not just his guilt for the deaths of others that tells him this. It's a sinking feeling in the pit of his chest, and he can feel it practically thrashing against his ribs at the idea of something happening to Stiles. ]

You'll just have to hope that you can find what you need before you have to run again. [ Pushing down that sensation, the one that's suddenly alive again after eight years of being burnt out of his chest, he brings the baton up and gestures for Stiles to come to him. Because if they want to train, they have to get started. Now. ]

everybody wants to rule the world

training yup

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