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Welcome everyone to my eleventh ever Hunger Games! Unlike all the rest of my previous Games, these will be a prequel. Keep reading for more information!

Introduction
First off, I’d like to note that these Games are a prequel. They are the 333rd Hunger Games and take place sixty-seven years prior to the War of the Hunger Games. That means things that happen here will not affect the storyline happening in the present day. These are meant to be a standalone project that, while canon, are not going to drop any major story news or events. Also, these are a side project of mine and will not be my main focus. I will not even begin writing these until the Black Games have finished and afterwards War of the Hunger Games will be my main project. So if you aren’t comfortable joining a Games that may take many, many months to finish then I recommend that you do not. If you don’t mind that, however, then keep reading!

Rules
1: There will be twenty-eight Tributes

2: You may have up to two Tributes (this is subject to change)

3: Each Tribute starts with $150 in sponsor money for their mentor (creator) to use as they see fit.

4: I will write Reapings, Group Training, and of course the actual Games

5: I will not accept any Tributes that have been in my previous Games

6: Reservations last 72 hours (this may be extended)

7: The Capitol is a Career district in my Games

8: Tribute Form:

Name:

District:

Gender:

Age:

Personality:

Backstory:

Height:

Appearance:

Weapon(s):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Fear(s):

Bloodbath Strategy:

Alliance: (can be filled out later)

Alliances
Careers: Alcmene (1), Valor (1), Lilith (2), Atticus (2), Zekel (3), Marina (4), Mako (4), Opal (5), Yewan (7), & Matiss (12)

Achlys Siblings: Discordia (9) & Harmon (9)

The Trio: Remus (C), Teal (6), & Solomon (13)

Briar's Alliance: Talia (3), Faren (5), Aiku (8), Briar (10), & Damian (10)

District 6 & 7 Alliance: Maximo (6) & Killen (7)

Loners: Mercia (C), Notcher (8), Shiloh (11), Chrome (11), & Lucia (13)

italics means that they have yet to be accepted by the alliance

underline means that they are the leader of the alliance

Sponsor Table
Items

Antidote (cures poison): $150

Anti-Infection: $125

Awl: $50

Alcohol: $50

Axe: $150

Ball and Chain: $175

Baton: $75

Blanket: $50

Blowgun: $150

Bow: $150

Bread: $50

Burn Cream: $125

Canteen: $75

Camouflage Paints: $75

Chakram: $175

Chlorine: $25

Cookies: $25

Crossbow: $175

Crackers: $15

Dagger: $100

Darts (12): $25

Dried Meat: $50

Dried Fruit: $50

Flail: $125

Flares x3: $125

Flashlight: $100

Iodine: $100

Knife: $50

Knife Glove: $100

Mace: $150

Machete: $125

Matches: $100

Metal Ball Bearings x25 (for slingshot): $75

Morning Star: $175

Gasoline $150

Hatchet: $125

Needles (3): $125

Net: $75

Net Trap: $125

Night-Vision Glasses: $150

Piece of Plastic: $15

Painkillers: $75

Poison: $150

Quiver of Arrows (12): $75

Raft: $100

Rocks: $15

Rope: $25

Scythe: $150

Shield: $125

Shield (Spiked): $200

Shurikens (5): $125

Sickle: $125

Sleeping Bag: $50

Sleep Syrup: $125

Slingshot: $75

Soup: $75

Spear: $125

Spike Trap: $225

Spile: $50

Sword: $150

Throwing Axes (3): $200

Throwing Knives (3): $200

Trident: $225

Water: $100

Whip: $75

Warhammer: $125

Wire: $75

Wooden Club: $100

Wooden Club (Spiked): $150

District One: Alcmene Eudia
Today is Reaping Day.

I stand before a mirror, taking in my own image as the scents of sakura blossoms waft through the room. A ribbon plays between my fingertips. In the past Mother would have tied this in my hair as she dressed me for Reaping Day. Oh, she’d spend most of her time doting on Citria and Hyacinth, but on Reaping Day she always had time for me. She made sure that her girls were at their best on the biggest day in the District. The Eudia family had a reputation to uphold.

I let the ribbon fall.

When I stare into the mirror and see my curly blonde hair, grey eyes, and notable jawline, I see my Father. A stern, serious man who so loved showing off his family. On Reaping Day he’d always gather us down in the garden and have us board the family carriage. The Eudia Family Carriage. Father was so proud of that. Would always boast of how it had been in the Eudia family possession since the Dark Days, and that it was passed down from father to son from generation to generation.

We would all board the carriage and have it take us to the square, where the Reaping was held. Citria and Hyacinth would sit next to Mother, laughing and arguing over who was prettier. Marcus would sit up front with Father and attempt to mimic his stern demeanor. Whenever we passed a Peacekeeper he would remind us that one day he would be out there, protecting the peace in the Districts.

I turn away from the mirror. Exit the bathroom and make my way down the hall. A servant bows as I pass. I give her a curt nod and descend the staircase, entering into the main foyer. I try my best not to notice the portrait hanging over the fireplace, an artist’s rendition of my family from back before…The Tragedy.

I fail.

Claude would sit across from me. He would stare out the carriage windows as we crossed main street. He would pretend not to care about the decorations and celebrations, but his face let me know he was loving every second. I would sit in the very back of the carriage. Solomon and I would whisper and play games, always—

Solomon.

I stare up at the portrait of my family. At Mother and Father. They stare right back at me. My brothers Marcus and Claude. Little sisters Citria and Hyacinth. Their eyes drill holes into me. Questioning. Begging. Even Bijou, who competed in the 316th Hunger Games and died before I was even born, watches me with those sad, somber eyes.

“The carriage is ready, Miss Alcmene,” A servant appears at my side. I thank him quietly. Say that I’ll be outside in a moment. But my eyes never leave the portrait. Never leave him.

Solomon.

“You have to kill him, Alci,” Mother’s voice whispers in my ear.

Solomon, my older brother, was once my best friend in the whole world. Then one day he murdered my entire family. He took a sword and just slaughtered them. Mother, Father, Marcus, Claude, Citria, and even little Hyacinth. I came home to find their bodies waiting for me. And him.

Solomon.

His grey eyes watch me from the portrait. I can still remember how they looked when I found him hunched up against the wall, covered in our families blood as he clutched the sword he used to slaughter them. And his eyes? They were glazed over. Devoid of any emotion.

It’s been four years and I still cannot get those eyes out of my head.

I rip my gaze away from the portrait. The Tragedy of the Eudia. That was the named given to the massacre of my family. It sounds so sterile. So unimportant. The Tragedy of the Eudia. My life was torn apart. I lost everything. It was a Tragedy, everyone agreed. The Capitol and the Districts mourned the loss of the Eudia family, one of the most prestigious families in all of Panem. They mourned, but they didn’t understand. How could they? They weren’t the ones to lose everything. To have their whole life ripped away by their beloved brother…

“Kill him, Alci,” Citria pleads. “''You have to avenge me. Kill him''.”

“Miss Alcmene, you’ll be late if you don’t hurry,” The servant reappears beside me and this time I heed his words. I exit the manor and make my way down the steep steps that lead down from the front door. When I reach the bottom I stop and turn to gaze back at my family home, aware that if my plan goes wrong this could be the last time I see it. It’s redbrick topped with copper domes and spires that shine brilliantly in the morning sun. Over a dozen windows gaze out at me. It is fantastically large…yet it is only a small part of the Eudia Family Estate. The dojo and several other buildings that make up the estate are equally as large. Just as impressive.

Yet their size didn’t save my family from Solomon.

I soon come upon a roundabout with a fountain at the center. Sweeping around it, I continue down to where a carriage awaits. Gilded and decorated with the Eudia Crest, I have to force away the emotions that bubble up at the sight of it. Not now. I can’t allow my focus to waver. Must keep myself steady as I press onwards to my goal.

I enter the carriage and rap on the side to let the driver know it’s time to go. Seconds later we’re on our way, the clopping of the horseshoes the only sound that fills my cabin. Even this, the simple act of alerting the driver, brings me thoughts of Solomon and the Tragedy. For years our carriage driver had been an elderly man named Luncan. He was a retired Peacekeeper who was quick with a smile and skilled at magic tricks. Oh, he’d always have a trick or two ready for me and Solomon anytime we asked. Oftentimes he’d give us candy, and he’d never tell if he spotted us misbehaving, which was quite often. Solomon and I loved Luncan like a grandfather, but then…

Luncan wasn’t working the day of the Tragedy. He wasn’t at the Estate when Solomon performed his massacre. He never got over the guilt of not being there when the Eudia’s needed him most. Even though he would have been knocked out by the same sleeping gas that took out the other servants, Luncan insisted he’d have been able to stop Solomon if he was there.

Two days after the Tragedy Luncan was found hanging from a beam in his house. He had killed himself.

Yet another casualty of Solomon’s.

The road bumps beneath the carriage as we turn off the private road that connects to the Eudia Estate and join the main thoroughfare that runs through the District. Even through the closed windows of the carriage I can hear the cheering and revelry on the streets. District 1, like always, is celebrating the arrival of Reaping Day.

Confetti rains from the sky as we join the procession of other vehicles headed for Main Street, where the Reaping stage has been set up. Little children call to each other, their excited laughter spilling into the air. I can remember a time when Solomon and I were like that. So joyful and full of life. But then he was sent to District 2 and when he came back…he wasn’t the same.

We didn’t hang out like we used to and he spent most of his time sleeping. Solomon hardly ate and refused to return to the Academy. Anytime I listened by his door I would only hear the sound of sobbing and incoherent muttering. I don’t know what caused the change. Solomon would never tell me and I wasn’t going to just ask him outright. I tried to get him to talk on his own. Thought maybe if I was nice enough he’d open up and tell me what was wrong.

Naive. I was so stupid and naive.

I was out buying gifts for Solomon on the day of the Tragedy. I wasn’t there when he murdered our family. Was it coincidence? Luck? Divine intervention? I don’t know. The only person who might know is Solomon, but for me to find out I’d have to ask him—

“He doesn’t deserve the privilege of speaking with you,” Father says sternly. “''He killed the very people who ensured that he had food in his stomach and gave him a comfortable, luxurious life. You must kill him. You'' must.”

I absently touch the pendant around my neck. The same yellow crescent-moon pendant on a golden chain that Solomon had given me as a gift. Once it was a beloved item of mine, but now it is something more. A reminder. A constant, painful reminder that Solomon is still out there, still breathing.

“He stole my future, Alci,” Hyacinth whispers. “''You must kill him. Bring justice, Alci. Kill him''.”

The carriage begins to slow. I peek out the window and see that we’ve arrived at the Event Square. A large, gilded stage has been set up in the center of what normally is reserved for festivals and other celebrations. Peacekeepers line the square, directing the reaping-age children into their proper lines, organizing the assembly of the crowd, and ensuring everything proceeds in a orderly fashion. I take a breath and exit the carriage. Almost immediately everyone’s eyes swivel to face me.

I take in their speculative looks, their wary countenances, and do my best to ignore them all. They recognize the family carriage. They know who I am. Everyone in the District has heard about the Tragedy. Not a person here doesn’t know about me and what Solomon did. I do not want their pity. I can handle their curiosity, their disgust for Solomon, but I will not accept their pity. Never.

I take my place in line, ignoring the murmured whispers that rise as I do so. Let them talk. They’ll have even more to say once I go through with my plan.

“It’s the Monster with the Club,” One of the girls in line whispers to her friend.

“The Disgusting Kin-Killers sister?” A different girl asks.

I keep my face stoic. Once their hatred of Solomon enraged me, but that was back before I accepted his role in the Tragedy. I kept myself in denial for too long. It took awhile for me to admit that Solomon was a murderer, but when I did my anger boiled over into cold rage. This rage was what fueled me during my long training sessions at the Academy. I dedicated myself to training, to finding any and all advantages that would give me the edge over Solomon. My proficiency with the spiked club is what led to the creation of my moniker “The Monster with the Club”.

It is a fitting name. The Eudia family has a long history with spiked clubs; my sister Bijou even used one back when she competed in the 316th.

I hope to fare better than she did.

The whispering falls silent as, up on stage, the fanfare and celebrations pause as the Mayor and our escort make their entrance. The crowd roars with excitement when the Mayor reads off the customary introduction, then hands things over to Puffy Heglow.

”Greetings, District 1!” Puffy beams at the crowd and bats her eyelashes. She’s been our escort for more than thirty years and is well liked by the citizenry. “Are you all excited for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games?”

A roar of approval rises from the crowd. I remain silent. There is no joy to be had for myself. Not until Solomon has breathed his last breath. I cannot allow myself to rest easy until that has happened.

“Before we get to the Reapings, allow me to introduce our most esteemed Victors!” Puffy swings her arms to the side and gestures at a long line of people up on stage behind her. The crowd lets out yet another cheer as they set their collective gaze upon each surviving Victor from District 1.

All of our living Victors are present, lined up from oldest to most recent. Lapis Fuchsia, Victor of the 257th Games, stands on one end of the stage, supported by her diamond encrusted cane. On the other end, standing beside his mentor Austin Aitken, is Lux Chanel, Victor of the 329th.

I watch them all with quiet trepidation. My goal is not to be standing up there beside them next year. That would be nice, but it is not my aim. The only thing I care about, the only thing, is ending Solomon’s life.

I will volunteer for the Games to draw Solomon out of hiding. He, wherever he is, will see me enter the Games and volunteer himself. He will seek to put an end to what he started. He will try and kill me to finally wipe out the entire Eudia Family. But he will fail.

I will kill him.

Puffy is still speaking but I can’t hear her over the roar of the crowd. Eventually she has to pause just for their fervor to die down. When it finally does she continues. “Let’s get to the fun part, shall we? Girls first!”

I tense up as the bowl is wheeled out in front of her. My stomach roils with unease. A part of me is worried about what I’ll do if my plan fails, if Solomon doesn’t volunteer. What then? I’d have to fight and survive the Games before I even get another opportunity to seek my revenge. But no. Solomon would never pass up the chance to end me himself. He wouldn’t be content to just watch me die at another’s hand.

He’ll volunteer.

Puffy reaches a hand in for a slip but pauses as she draws one out. “Are there any volunteers out there?” She asks. “Any brave young girls who wish to seek to bring glory to District 1?”

”I volunteer!”

My voice is the only one that rises from the crowd. I know exactly why that is, but I don’t dwell on it as I push my way through the other girls on my way to the stage. A few wish me luck as I pass, but most remain silent. They know who I am and are probably wondering why I’m risking my life for glory and fame when I’ve already inherited everything the Eudia Family had. They don’t understand.

I never expected them to.

Puffy is silent as I join her atop the stage. She, like everyone else in the District, knows exactly who I am. I expect her to say something about the Tragedy, to throw that horrid memory back in my face, but she just nods and turns to the crowd. “Alcmene Eudia, everyone! The Monster with the Club has volunteered for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!”

A wave of cheers and whoops of excitement wash over the crowd. The Victors on stage watch me quietly. Topaz leans over and whispers something to Austin, who nods slowly. I narrow my eyes but don’t say anything. I don’t care what they think.

When the cheering finally dies down Puffy goes back to the mic. Says it is time for to see our male tribute. A drumroll begins. A slow, steady beat that begins to pick up in tempo the longer it goes. The crowd is silent. Hushed with expectation. We all know who the male tribute in the 333rd will be. We’ve known it since he was still a child.

The drums continue. Other instruments join in. Rise to a crescendo. Then a cascade of fireworks go off behind the stage, dazzling and awing the crowd with a display of colorful lights. Then, when the fireworks fade, the music comes to a sudden halt, and a strong, steady voice calls out, “I volunteer.”

The eighteen year-old line parts like a sea as a large, broad shouldered boy approaches the stage. Almost six and a half feet tall and chiseled with muscle, Valor Forge takes his destined place as male tribute in the 333rd Games.

The crowd erupts with cheers.

Puffy gushes with excitement as she introduces him to the crowd. There is little point in doing so. Valor is almost as well known as I am, though for vastly different reasons. A lifelong student of the Academy, Valor has been trained in practically every field there is. He’s excelled at everything he’s ever attempted, quickly rising to become one of the most hyped prospects the Academy ever taught. He’s also a graduate of Topaz and Austin’s special curriculum; a program that has already produced a Victor in Lux. Valor has been set to volunteer for the 333rd, the year he turned eighteen, since he was twelve. That is why I was alone in volunteering. No one else wanted to compete alongside Valor.

“It is an honor to represent District 1 in the Games,” Valor is responding to Puffy’s questions, standing straight backed as he faces the crowd. “The Games are the most glorious form of entertainment and art. Truly a spectacle of mankind. When I emerge as Victor I will proudly represent District 1 as a true paragon of righteousness. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

The crowd goes wild for him. I remain silent as the Reapings are wrapped up. At one point I’m told to shake hands with Valor. I do so without question. “It is an honor to compete alongside the Monster with the Club,” He says. Of course he knows my moniker. He’s basically been inside the Academy for his entire life. “It is a shame that your family’s bloodline will come to an end. The Eudia Family has been loyal to Panem for generations.”

I nod curtly. My family’s bloodline will come to an end? Obviously he believes that I am going to die in the Games and he’ll emerge as Victor. And why wouldn’t he? His entire life has been nothing but people telling him he’s destined to win the Games and become one of the greatest Victors ever.

“I always knew your brother was a degenerate,” Valor is still speaking. Puffy and the Mayor are wrapping the Reapings up on stage. “We were in the same year at the Academy, you know. He was always absent. Everyone just started calling him “The Truant”. Obviously a bad seed.”

I can’t tell if he’s trying to provoke me or if he’s just tone deaf. Fortunately, I am saved from having to respond when Puffy calls us over to present us to the crowd once last time. District 1 predictably goes crazy for us. A chant of “Valor!” starts up and takes several minutes to die down. I am unfazed by their love for him. I didn’t volunteer for glory or fame; Solomon’s death is all I wish for. So what does it matter if they love Valor more than I?

Soon the Reaping comes to an end. Peacekeepers escort Valor and I off the stage and into the Justice Building. I am taken to a room where I’m told I will say my goodbyes to visitors, but I receive none. Who’d come visit me? My family is dead and I spent the last two years training endlessly, not making friends. So I just wait until an hour passes and the Peacekeepers return to take me to the train. There, situated in the fancy dining room aboard the high-speed train on our short trip to the Capitol, is where I meet Valor once again.

He stands at the end of the table, still dressed in his Reaping finery. Arms clasped behind his back he greets me with a cordial dip of his head. “We will be allies in the Games, I presume?”

I sit down at the table and grab an apple from the basket before me. I absently roll it across the table as I try to to keep myself stoic. The other District’s Reapings will air later tonight, and that is when I’ll find out whether my gambit succeeded. If I drew Solomon out.

“Yes,” I finally answer Valor’s question. “I will be joining the Careers.” Just like he will.

One of the train doors open and two men shuffle into the room. Both tall and blond, their faces have been familiar sights to me for my entire life. Austin and his erstwhile apprentice Lux. “You did a good job, Valor!” Austin flashes a grin at my District partner and I am reminded of why every female in the District swoons over this man. “You played up your strengths excellently. You’re bound to be one of the Capitol’s favorites now!”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that these two are our mentors for the 333rd Games. Austin has practically mentored every Games since his own Victory in the 327th, and Lux was a result of his success. District 1 is clearly hoping lightning will strike twice with Valor.

The tall boy dips his head respectfully. “I merely spoke from the heart, sir. Only people who respect the Games deserve to win them.”

Lux laughs and sits down beside me. He is a miniature version of Austin; tall, blond, and handsome. Sometimes I think his training program is designed solely to create carbon copies of himself. “You got this, bro! After all, I won and you bested me in every category there is!”

Valor smiles slightly. “Overconfidence has killed more tributes than swords.”

Austin nods approvingly. That’s a quote of his own making. I should know; he repeats it every time he does a lecture at the Academy. And the girls go crazy for him every visit. Austin is the biggest bachelor in the District. Most people are surprised that he hasn’t married yet, considering he’d be able to pick literally anyone he wanted. Some think that he hasn’t gotten over his girlfriend Eliza, who died in the 324th Games, while others believe he is not allowed to marry until the Capitol says so; there’s even a theory that they want him to marry the next female Victor of District 1 to create a power couple. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true. It’s happened before. Unfortunately the only Victor District 1 has produced since Austin himself has been Lux.

The fact that I may be the next female Victor isn’t lost on me. And what better result could the Capitol hope for than having Austin marry into the Eudia Family? As the sole survivor and heir of a family that has been loyal to the Capitol for ages, tying me to a figure as beloved and influential as Austin would be a situation too good to pass over. If I should win it would not be surprising in the least for the Capitol to decree that I must marry him.

I am unsure how to feel about that.

“You two are both strong competitors,” Austin says, studying us both with a critical eye. “I wouldn’t be surprised if District 1 has yet another Victor this year.”

Valor smiles at the prospect, I find myself unable to feel joy at the thought. I can’t be happy while Solomon is alive. Not until my murderous brother is dead at my feet will I be able to envisage my future. And that will happen soon.

Soon…Solomon will die.

District Three: Zekel Zin
I am going to die.

I sit on my bed, staring blankly at the wall as that thought endlessly repeats inside my head. I am going to die. Today the Reaping for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games will take place. My parents will expect me to volunteer. I will take my place on that stage, be paraded around for everyone to see, then shipped off to the Capitol. A few days later I will rise into the arena…

And I will die.

I stand up and begin to pace. Shake my hands to wring the tension out. Exhale loudly. Death approaches. Looks over me like a shadow. I can see it, sense it, taste it. The 333rd Games will be the death of me, much like the 331st Games were the death of my brother.

He was stronger than me and smarter than I am. He always excelled at the training regimen our parents put us on. I am skilled with both swords and spears, proficient enough to be a Career. But my brother was better. He was a master swordsman who I never once managed to beat in a training bout. When he volunteered I knew he was going to win. He was my hero. Everything that I wanted to be and then some. I knew he’d become Victor.

Then the Bloodbath occurred.

“Zekel, hurry up and get down here!” My Father’s voice rises from the kitchen. I flinch in fear at the sound of it. I’d hoped that he’d forget what day it was, or maybe oversleep. That way I wouldn’t have to go to the Reaping. Wouldn’t have to volunteer and march towards my own death.

I will not be so lucky.

I slowly make my way down the staircase and into the kitchen. Father is sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. Mother has just finished making breakfast and is setting the plates. I carefully sit in my own chair, conscious of the way my body trembles.

Mother frowns as she sets my plate before me. “You don’t need to be so nervous, Zekel. You’re going to do great in the Games.”

Just like my brother? I want to ask, but don’t. They don’t understand. Not even after his death. The two of them have trained us since we were children to love the Games. Taught us that it’d be an honor to compete. Instilled in us the idea of winning great valor by becoming Victor. For sixteen years I wholeheartedly believed that.

Then my brother died in the bloodbath.

I saw my brothers bloody corpse flop onto the hard, rocky ground of the arena, blood steaming out of the stumps that were once his legs. My brother had joined the Careers, entered the bloodbath, and had his legs chopped off by the male from District 7.

The Games had been on for a few minutes, but he was already dead.

As the cameras zoomed in on my brother, I watched his long hair blow in the breeze, and realised the cold, hard truth. I was going to die.

It didn’t matter how hard I trained, what I knew, or even how skillful I was. There was no stopping this inevitability. If I enter into the Games, I am going to die. Painfully. Horribly. Awfully.

Permanently.

“You should eat, Zekel,” Mother says as she begins her own meal. “You’ll need the energy for the Chariot Rides tonight.”

I stare at my plate and know that I could never keep the food down. Not today. “I’ll eat on the train,” I say softly, standing up and pushing my chair in. “I…I need some air.”

I rush out the door and make my way down the porch, sitting on the bottom step. A soft summer wind rustles my clothes as I close my eyes and breath in deeply. This will be the last time I sit here in this neighborhood. Once I attend the Reaping there will be no coming back. I will get on that train to my death and never be able to look back.

Hard to believe that I once looked forward to this moment. That I deluded myself into thinking that survival was possible. What was I thinking? So stupid. If only…

I open my eyes and gaze down the street. My family lives in the richer section of District 3, in a neighborhood tucked away from all the factories and warehouses. I watch as the other families begin to wake up and leave their homes, headed for the square and the Reaping. What if…I just ran away? Didn’t attend the Reaping? The Peacekeepers would chase me, maybe execute me for avoiding the Reaping, but how would that be any different than dying in the Games? If I am going to die either way, why not in a method of my own choosing?

Yet even as I think this I know that I will not run. I am too much of a coward for that. But there has to be a way to avoid dying. There has to be!

I spend the next hour deep in thought, only broken when my parents emerge from the house and tell me that it is time. My throat goes dry. Time for me to die, then.

Everything goes by in a blur. I cannot think clearly. Any plan or idea for escape slips away as we arrive at the square and my parents wave me off as I get hoarded into the eighteen year olds lines. Several of the boys make note of me but don’t speak. I don’t have any friends here. Never had the capability of understanding social niceties. Everyone just feels so fake to me. Eventually I decided it was easier to just ignore everyone else. Yet now I find myself wishing I had made at least one friend. I’d have liked it if there was someone to miss me when I die.

“Helloooo, District 3!” Up on stage the escort, Quinzel Quigley, has taken up the microphone. I stare at the man, with his electric blue hair and dark skin, wondering why he has chosen this profession. Is picking who gets to die a fun job? “Are you all ready for yet another fantastic, fabulous, Reaping?”

There’s scattered applause. Some people, evidently, aren’t worried that they’ll be the name chosen. The males don’t have to worry. After all, if I volunteer there will be no chance of them being Reaped.

But if I don’t…

I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss Quinzel introducing our past Victors. They’re all up on stage; the most recent being Watt Chargy, co-Victor of the 327th Games. Since her Victory, all of District 3’s tributes have just been corpses, my brother included. She smiles and waves to the crowd, drawing cheers and applause. Watt is beloved by most of the citizenry.

“But-we-really-want-to-get-to-the-fun-part!” Quinzel lets out a rapid stream of words as the giant, fishbowl shaped vase of names is rolled out. I stare at it. If I volunteer, I won’t look any better than my brother. I will just be a corpse. I won’t be missed. My parents will just forget about me, like they did with him. “Let’s start with the girls! First, any volunteers?”

I don’t know why he asks. Is it just because of how my brother volunteered? In any case, the crowd remains silent. There will be no female volunteer this year.

Quinzel shrugs and digs a hand into the bowl, emerging with a slip. He unrolls it and reads the name. “Talia Mignonette!”

The name hangs over the crowd for several moments before someone stirs in the fifteen year old line. A small, slight girl makes her way up onto the stage, hands held at her side. Quinzel claps for her and introduces her to the crowd. “Talia Mignonette, everybody!”

I stare at the girl. Wavy brown hair hangs past her shoulders and bright blue eyes stare back out at the crowd. I know. As I watch her gaze into the crowd, I know that she is not returning. She will die in the Games. Talia won’t return home. And, if I volunteer, neither will I.

Just like that my decision is made. I will not volunteer. I will not force myself into these Games and offer myself up to death. I will stay here in District 3 and live. My parents will be angry, will probably kick me out, but that is not a concern. Because I am not going to die.

Quinzel is speaking with Talia, saying something about the Games, but I’m not really listening. A sense of relief has washed over me. I’ve made a decision for myself, to be my own man. I can’t believe it’s taken this long to realize the simple solution. I won’t volunteer.

“Time to find out who Talia’s partner will be!” Quinzel returns to the bowl and grins out at the crowd. “But first, any volunteers?”

I keep my mouth shut. I will not volunteer. I refuse. Let someone else throw their life away and allow me to keep mine. The seconds tick away, and then Quinzel is reaching into the bowl. I let out a sigh of relief. Allow my eyes to seek out my parents. I find them standing in the front of the line, near the stage. They’re staring back at me, a mixture of shock and disgust in their eyes. They don’t understand my refusal. But of course they don’t. Their lives were never in risk.

Quinzel has pulled a slip free. His eyes study the name, then he calls it out. “Zekel Zin!”

My world is shattered. The relief and happiness that I had just attained are ripped from my hands. My parents eyes shine with delight. They hug each other. Mother is crying tears of joy. Their son gets to compete in the Games after all.

I am going to die.

My body moves on its own accord, ascending the stage. The crowd is silent as I take my place beside Quinzel and Talia. No doubt they recognize my name and have pegged me and my brother as siblings. Two corpses. That’s what we’ll be soon. Two bloody corpses.

“Good to see you!” Quinzel offers me a handshake but I stare blankly past it. So close. I was so close to escaping this fate. Thought that maybe…

I am going to die.

Talia and I are ushered into the train. Neither of us speak as we are seated in a dining room and left to our own devices. Fear has gripped my heart, threatens to overtake me. But I can’t let it. Though my death is now guaranteed, I must fight tooth and nail against it. I will die, but I’ll go down swinging.

Careers. I must join the Careers. They’ll doubtless accept me. I have trained like one of them for my entire life, adopted to their mindsets, and learned everything there is to learn about the Games. Zevran and I spent countless hours sitting on the couch studying the Games. Analyzing what the tributes did right and what they did wrong. Surely that will help? Give me an edge and allow me the chance, however slim, of surviving?

But it didn’t help Zevran.

I look up from the table and catch Talia staring at me. She quickly glances away, cheeks burning red. I’m confused. Does she know me? I certainly don’t recognize the girl, and she’s several years younger than I am, so we weren’t in the same classes. But then—oh, right.

My brother.

“You’re right,” I say softly, surprising myself by even speaking. “Zevran Zin was my brother. He died in the Games. Just like I will. Just like you will.”

“I-I’m sorry!” Talia ducks her head meekly. So many people have told me “I’m sorry” or “condolences for your loss” but never once did I hear any apology from my parents. They set Zevran and I up on the path to death, trained us for these Games, yet they didn’t see the need to apologize when he died.

I meet Talia’s gaze. Stare into her blue eyes. “My brother was sorrier.”

She avoids my gaze. Absently plays with a lock of her hair. For a long time I think we’re going to fall back into silence, but then she speaks. “I…had a friend who went into the Games. Last year. He…he also died.”

I know who she’s talking about. Landon Dion, a fourteen year old who was Reaped last year. He was injured in the bloodbath, where I thought he’d die like my brother, but managed to escape with his life. His wound got infected, though, and he was struggling the entire time. Eventually he was beheaded by Alfyn Sapp from District 7, who would go on to become Victor. My biggest takeaway from his death was both him and my brother were killed by the male from District 7.

The same fate will probably befall me.

I’m dwelling on this thought when our mentors finally arrive. Watt Chargy and some old guy who looks to be a million years old. I’m not sure how helpful he’ll be, because the moment he sits himself down in a chair he falls asleep. Watt looks embarrassed as she faces us. “I’m sorry.”

I’m getting real tired of people apologizing to me. “Get to the point.”

Watt flinches. She won her Games when she was just thirteen, but that was six years ago, making her nineteen now and older than me. The sweet young girl who won the 327th has now become a woman. “I understand that this is horrible for you,” She continues, “This is probably the worst moment of your lives. But I’m here to make sure that at least one of you comes home alive. And…well, I want to help you both in whatever way I can.”

It’s too late to help me or Talia. We’re both just corpses now. Watt can try as hard as she wants, but we’re both beyond saving. Just walking, talking corpses.

Talia, however, seems keen to learn from Watt and the two of them soon fall into conversation. Maybe the girl sees herself in the young Victor, or maybe she just hasn’t realized the truth yet. Not that it matters. Her eventual fate will be the same either way.

Death.

District Four: Mako Melanesia
I sit on the dock, staring out at the waves as the ocean spray washes over me, the pounding of the surf creating a harmonic rhythm to which I match my thoughts.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Reaping Day presents me with the biggest opportunity of my life. When I win the Games and become Victor I will gain riches beyond my wildest dreams. And with those riches I will buy—or build, either one works—myself the biggest, baddest boat possible. Then I will set sail on that big, beautiful ocean and I’ll see where the waves take me.

A wave crashes over the side of the dock, dousing me with ocean water as it slips between the cracks of the boards, disappearing back into the ocean. I laugh to myself and wish for the umpteenth time that I could be out there on the horizon right now, sailing those awesome waves. But today is Reaping Day and only fishing boats and government ships are allowed out. All pleasure crafts have to wait until the Reaping is over to get cleared for takeoff.

It’s kind of a bummer, but it’s not too big of a deal. After I win the Games and get my Mega-Boat I’ll be able to set sail whenever I want. I’ll explore the ocean, discover its secrets, and maybe even lay claim to a new landmass. Man, what could be greater than that? Imagine if I discovered a new continent! I would be a legend!

Smiling to myself, I rise to my feet and make my way back down the dock, passing by a pair of fishing ships that have just returned. A young man aboard one of the ships salutes me. “Ho, Mako!”

I stop beside him, returning the salute. “Ho, Brian! Get a good haul?”

“See for yourself.” He kicks the gangplank down and gestures at a large net filled with flapping fish.

“Nice.” We fist-bump and then he asks me about the Reaping. I take my time before responding. I’ve been friends with Brian for years; he’s always down by the docks, fishing or otherwise just enjoying the ocean. He knows what my plan for today is. “I’m going to volunteer, of course. Make my dream a reality.”

Brian takes his gloves off, sticks them in his belt, and leans against railing. “You ready to risk everything for that?”

I’m used to people trying to change my mind. My parents have spent years attempting to dissuade me from volunteering. Neither of them thinks it’s worth it. Does Brian think the same?

“It’s not really a risk when I know I’m going to win,” I say with a chuckle.

Brian gives a small smile but there’s still doubt in his eyes. “I believe that you have a shot. You’re the best swimmer here in District 4, you’re strong, and you have enough charm to make the Capitol fall in love with you. All the ingredients needed for a Victor.”

“But?” This is definitely a conversation that has a but coming.

“But all those things will also work against you,” There it is. “All of the other tributes will pick you out as a threat right away. In the last five years how many Victors were the odds-on favorite?”

I actually have to stop and think on this. “Uh…Lux Chanel?”

“Exactly. Just one.” Brian leans back and stares at his haul. Most of the fish have stopped flapping. “Volunteering is a risk. The odds of you dying are high. Do you really want to risk losing everything when you have so much life left?”

I let his words wash over me, even though I know they have no shot at changing my mind. Once I’ve picked a path, that’s it. Come hell or high water I’ll accomplish my task. But I also understand where he is coming from. His brother Ryan competed in the Games not once, but twice. He died both times.

Brian knows the risks of the Games better than anyone else. He understands that just one small screwup could cost you your life. I know this as well. But I won’t let it stop me.

I turn and gesture at the ocean. At the waves on the horizon, gently swelling as the tide rolls in. Despite the sheer freedom it presents, there’s a limit. The Capitol only allows fishing ships to go so far. At some point they’re forced to turn back. “Have you ever wondered what is out there? Past the Capitol blockade?”

Brian stares at the horizon. I can see it in his eyes. The call for adventure. “Every day of my life,” He admits.

“So have I. Every single time I look out it that big, bold, beautiful horizon, I stop and wonder what’s just out of sight. What oceanic wonders await me. I want nothing more in this life than to set sail and discover everything there is to find. But there’s something in my way.”

“The blockade?”

I accede his point with a nod. “Yes, but that’s not all. I also need a boat. A big one. And riches so that I can finance my journey. So what way can I receive both riches and enough prestige to bypass the blockade?”

Brian taps the railing. “You need to become a Victor.”

“Exactamungo, my man!” I wave at the ocean. “Everything I’ve ever dreamed about is out there, waiting for me.”

“You’re willing to die for a dream?”

I turn and face him. Smile broadly. “If you’re not willing to die for your dreams then why bother having any?”

Brian is silent for a moment. The only sound is the lapping of the waves against his boat. Then he bursts out laughing. “Oh, Mako. You make me believe that there’s actually a chance you’ll pull this crazy scheme off.”

I hold up a finger. “Not a chance. A guarantee.”

“You’re sounding pretty cocky there, bro.”

“I’m not cocky. Just confident in my own abilities.” I have to believe in myself, because no one else is going to do it. When everyone else is telling you to back down, to not take any chances, that’s when you should cast your net.

You might just catch everything you ever wanted.

Brian checks his watch and lets out a curse. “I have to unload all these fish before the Reaping!” I nod and let him be, jogging off down the dock. I only get halfway before he calls to me. “Mako?”

I glance over my shoulder, still moving. “Yeah?”

He’s watching me, a serious look etched on his face. “If there’s any Spectri in the Games…kill them for me, would you?”

I give him a thumbs-up. “Got you covered, my man!”

I depart the docks. Weave between the dozens of warehouses that dot the waterline, then slip between two chain link fences and rejoin Main Street. Here I find a literal parade of people as they march down the street, singing and dancing. Several large floats fill the street, most in the likeness of sea life.

I smile as I take in the sight. I love life so much. That’s why I’m willing to take this chance to make mine even better.

I follow the parade along the street. It’s ultimate destination is the same as my own: the Reaping Square. That’s where I’ll take my first step to becoming Victor.

“Is that Mako?” A group of girls pause as they notice me on the sidewalk. Then one of them squeals in excitement. “My God, it is! I love you, Mako!”

The girls shout out their adorations and I give them a wink and a smile as I bypass them. People have always loved me. That’s one reason I believe I’ll have no trouble convincing the Capitol to put their money and support on me.

Soon the parade ends and Peacekeepers take over the arduous task of trying to order everyone into lines. I take my place with the seventeen year olds, and several of the guys wish me luck. I don’t have to worry about anyone else volunteering in my place; everyone at the Academy has agreed that this will be my year. The only other guy willing to volunteer was an eighteen year old named Anchor, but he dropped out when he proposed to his girlfriend. He’d rather have a simple life than one of fun and adventure.

There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but it’s not for me. I need to be sailing those seas.

As the crowd is settled in our escort, Adira Wytautas, takes the microphone. She’s an interesting sight, a young woman with ocean-blue hair that comes down in tendrils designed to look like an octopus’ arms. She’s also, from this distance at least, wearing a dress made entirely out of seashells.

I like her style.

“Hello, District 4!” She speaks into the mic and is almost immediately drowned out by the cheers. She pauses, smiling as the crowd unleashes its pent up energy. Eventually it dies down enough for her to speak. “Today we will find a special pair to take their place as tributes in the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!”

More cheers and applause. This time Adira doesn’t let the crowd take over and rolls right along as the first bowl is presented before her. “To begin we’ll select our male tribute!” She strikes a pose and sticks a hand atop the bowl. “But I know that I don’t even need to pick a name out. Which one of you is volunteering?”

A confident smile breaks out across my face as I raise a hand. “I volunteer for the 333rd Games!”

There’s the usual round of cheers as I stride up onto the stage, offering a quick wave to Brian as I notice him in the crowd. I don’t spot my parents, but that’s fine. No doubt they’ll have some last words for me before I depart.

“What’s your name, you brave boy?” Adira presses the mic in my face as I stand beside her. Now that I’m up close, I can confirm that her dress is entirely made of seashells. Awesome.

“I’m Mako Melanesia, bay-bay!” I turn to the crowd and pump my fists in the air. They, naturally, respond with raucous cheers. I allow myself another smile. Everyone loves someone whose confident.

Adira has the next bowl rolled out and I take a step back as she begins the process of selecting my District partner. She doesn’t have time for that, though, as a girl steps out from the crowd. “I volunteer!”

I watch her curiously as she ascends the stage. A pale girl with long black hair and deep brown eyes that seem to treat everything and everyone with suspicion, she makes short, simple movements as she steps beside Adira.

“And your name is?”

“I’m Marina Mattel.”

Oh, right. Now I know why she seemed so familiar. She used to be in the Academy with me before dropping out last year. I think it had something to do with a scandal? I don’t know for sure, but I think I heard some of the other guys talking about it before. But prior to her leaving we shared classes, including some of the ones reserved for the most skilled students. Despite that accolade, Marina never really seemed liked she was trying all that hard.

So it’s kinda surprising that she volunteered now.

Adira introduces her to the crowd and she gets a similar reaction to the one I got. Not as loud, of course, but that’s only to be expected. Not everyone can be as impressive as I am. Marina doesn’t seem to notice. She’s preoccupied with staring out into the crowd. I try to follow her gaze and find myself watching a group of instructors from the Academy. Odd. Why does she care so much about—

One of the instructors, a young man named Tristen, whispers to his friend and points up at the stage. At Marina. That’s when it clicks. The reason Marina left the Academy had something to do with an incident between the two of them at a party last year. I was actually invited to that party—I’m invited to practically every party in District 4–but I didn’t attend. I was out on the ocean instead and so can’t say for sure what happened. All I know is that sometime after Marina ended up leaving the Academy, Tristen told us guys it was because she made false accusations against him.

I don’t know what the truth is and to be honest I don’t really care. My focus is on winning these Games and making my dream a reality.

Adira instructs Marina and I to step forward as she presents us to the crowd. I smile and play to the audience, but Marina just scowls straight ahead. I know enough about the Games to figure it that she’s probably going to want to fix that attitude before reaching the Capitol; happy, confident tributes are easier to market to sponsors than angry, emo ones.

Not that it’ll matter in the long run. When all is said and done there will be twenty-seven dead tributes and one Victor. Which, of course, will be me.

Mako Melanesia, bay-bay!

District Five: Faren Gomery
It’s still early in the morning as I slip out of the house and make my way down the cold, empty streets of District 5. Factory smoke rises in the air, obscuring the sun as it dawns yet another day. My stomach feels like it’s twisting itself in knots. Today could be…

The route I take has been long since burnt into my brain and my body moves as if on autopilot. But inside my head I am doubting my every thought. Is what I am going to do the right thing? It has to be. But what if it’s not? Then both Joule and I will be…

I can’t lose Joule.

Her house comes up on the right. I ascend the porch and knock on the door, arms trembling as I do so. A combination of fear and nerves, I suppose. Soon it opens to reveal Joule’s father. He greets me with a nod and lets me in. After uttering a quick thanks I head up the stairs and make my way to Joule’s room.

She’s lying on her bed, staring out the window at the factories in the distance. As usual, the mere sight of her takes my breath away. Beautiful. Kind. Smart. Joule is all these things and more. She is undoubtedly the best thing that has ever happened to me. I still think back to when I first met her. It was two years ago, we were both working the same engineering internship. She was only fifteen.

And she already knew she was gonna die.

Joule turns her head and spots me. She gives a small, soft smile. “Hello, Faren.”

My breath nearly catches in my throat. “H-hi Joule. I’m here for…I want to talk before…”

“Before the Reaping?”

I nod. We both know it’s more than that, but neither of us are willing to say so. Not yet. I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed. Seeing her here looking so weak and helpless is more than I can bear. That is why I am going to…

“How are you?” I ask quietly.

She reaches over and places her hand atop mine. “I don’t…some days I’m stronger than others. But today…”

She’s not at her best today. That realization strikes like a needle to my heart. Joule is so strong. Stronger than I could ever be. For years now she’s had a serious illness that has slowly been chipping away at her. Recently she was told she only has anywhere between a week to a month left. There’s a treatment, but it costs money. More money than we could ever possibly afford. Unless…

The Hunger Games and the riches it offers. If if I could win, secure the Victor’s crown, I’d find myself with more money then I’d know what to do with.

I could save Joule.

She was against the idea when I first brought it up. Said she didn’t want me risking my own life for her. But she also admitted that she didn’t want to die. I also want that. Want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Joule told me she’d respect my choice. Whatever it ended up being.

My choice…

“I think today is when I die.” I look up in horror. Joule is staring at me, tears in her eyes, body trembling. So lost. So forlorn.

“No!” I shake my head adamantly. “No, you won’t die today. You’re stronger than that, Joule.”

“Am I?” She averts her gaze and looks back out the window. Dark factory smoke plumes in the air, disguising the sun and making everything seem darker than it truly is. “Am I really? Sometimes I can’t believe that.”

I stand up and kneel beside her, clasp one of her hands between mine. “Yes, you are. You’re the strongest person I know.” No one else I know could have faced what she’s faced and remained so kind. So loving. Joule has never lost to despair.

I won’t let her do so now.

“But your plan…” She looks back to me. The tears are gone now, yet the sadness remains, reflected back from my own eyes. “The odds of you winning are…”

“I’m not going to just sit back and lose you!”

“Faren.” I pause at the sound of her voice. So level and calm. She squeezes my hand, demanding my full attention. “If you lose the Games, you die. You’ll lose your own life and any hope for a better tomorrow.”

What's tomorrow without you? I can’t ask that. I could never. If Joule knew how much losing her would hurt me…I would never put her in that position.

“I’m not going to lose,” I say. The bravado in my words is fake. Deep down I know that she is right. What are the odds of me winning? I have no weapon skill, no ability to survive in the wild, and barely any real body strength. The only things I have are my mind and sheer determination. But will those save me when the Careers come? When the giant who seems to exist in every Games has me in his sights?

Joule meets my gaze. “Is this our last goodbye?”

Those words strike me right in the chest. For a moment it becomes difficult to breathe. Doubt threatens to spill over and ruin everything. Then I shake my head. “No. I’m going win and get you that treatment. You’ll see.”

Joule is silent. Then a small smile crosses her face, brightening my day. “Of course. I believe you, Faren.”

If only I could believe it myself. I don’t have what it takes. Maybe there’s another way to afford that treatment. A path forward that doesn’t require my death. But how…

The clock on Joule’s mantelpiece chimes. She glances at it then looks back to me. “You…you have to head for the Reaping soon.”

Because of Joule’s illness she and her family are excused from having to attend the Reaping. They won’t be there to see…my choice. Somehow that hurts me even more. I stand to rise but Joule pulls me back down, grabs something from behind her pillow and presents it to me. I recognize it immediately.

“That’s your music box,” I state the obvious as Joule turns the key on the small wooden box.

She smiles as soft music begins to play. “Yes, it is. I want you to have it. As your token.”

I shake my head. “No. I couldn’t possibly. Your great-grandfather made that!” It’s Joule’s most prized possession. I’ve both witnessed and heard about the many hours she’s spent just listening to it. To take such a thing with me into the Games…I just couldn’t do stomach that.

“Please. Take it,” She places the box in my hands and sets her own hand atop it. “For luck.”

“I couldn’t…it means so much to you. If I were to lose it…”

“If you lose then it’ll just be returned with…with you.” Joule stutters the words out. With my body, she means. If I were to die than my token would be sent back to District 5 alongside my corpse. The thought of Joule having to see that almost makes me cry right here and now.

“But what if…I break or lose it in the arena?” I’m grasping at straws now and she knows it.

Joule slowly takes my hands and envelopes them over the box, then pushes it against my chest. “I don’t care if you return without the box. You’re more important to me than any item could ever be.”

The danger of me breaking into tears is very real now. I do the only thing I can think of to prevent it. I lean forward and kiss Joule.

My fear and doubt slip away, if only for a moment. When I’m with Joule I can believe that anything is possible. That there’d be no end to what I’ll do to save her. Because losing her would be more than I could feel.

When we break apart I am unable to speak. She wishes me luck. I give her a numb nod and depart, cradling the music box in my arms. Despite it being summer the morning is chilly as I make my way down the streets. Or maybe it’s just my body shutting down on me. My dilemma is threatening to make that a very real possibility.

I can’t lose Joule but I don’t want to die. The Games give me a shot at saving her, but also present me with the chance of death. It’s an impossible puzzle that has been laid before me, one with no clear answers. Either way I risk losing everything I hold dear.

The streets begin to fill up as I near the Festivities Square. That’s the fancy name it has been given, even though in actuality it’s just an open slot of land in front of the District’s second largest factory. It’s where we set up the tents and carnival booths any time we have a celebration in the District.

It’s also where the Reaping stage is.

Peacekeepers are gathered around the factories fence, doing their best to sort the people. My chest flutters with trepidation at the sight of the stage just behind them. If I do this, that’s where I’ll be standing as I’m presented to the entire District.

“Faren!”

I practically jump in surprise at the sound of my name. Who’d be calling me? My parents and I agreed to meet up after the Reapings—because I didn’t dare tell them what Joule and I were planning—so who could—

I freeze as I spot him in the crowd that is waiting to be sorted. His face has lit up at the sight of me and he seems to be trying to disentangle himself from those around him, eager to head this way.

Rotor.

No. I can’t face him. Not today of all days. Not after what he did. He never even apologized to Joule; just me. But I wasn’t the one he hurt. Not truly.

I hurry forward and nearly barrel into a Peacekeeper. He grunts in annoyance and shoves me into line, impatient to get a move on. I slip into the crowd, aware of how they didn’t even take my blood.

Rotor’s face disappears from sight. But not before I catch a glimpse of the despair in his eyes.

Guilt gnaws at me as I join the others around me in approaching the stage. Once Rotor was my friend, but—no. No, he was never my friend. I was his friend, the truest friend I could ever be, but he never really reciprocated that friendship.

Not in the ways that mattered.

The Mayor has already finished his speech by the time I’m close enough to hear, and has passed things off to our escort, Sicilia Sylvester. This year the young woman has her platinum blonde hair tied back in two braids, and she’s already in the middle of a spiel about finding two good tributes. I was later than I thought.

Which means my time is fast approaching.

What will I do? If I volunteer then I risk everything, but not volunteering isn’t an answer. How could I help Joule otherwise? But to lose my own life and hers at the same time…Joule couldn’t face that. I wouldn’t want her to.

I can’t volunteer.

“It is time to reap our male tribute for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!” Sicilia reaches a hand into the bowl and selects a slip. I remain frozen with fear. Joule will die without that treatment. But if I fail in the Games…“Mychal Hypos!”

A name is called. The crowd stirs. There is no legal way to procure the money for Joule’s treatment beyond the Games. If I sit here and do nothing Joule will die. I don’t have a choice.

I never did.

“I volunteer!” I jump up and wave my arm in the air, hoping they don’t miss me. “I volunteer for tribute!”

Sicilia claps excitedly and points straight at me. The crowd turns to gaze at me in astonishment as I slowly begin to approach the stage. Nerves flutter in my stomach as I take the steps one at a time. Mychal Hypos, some boy I’ve never seen before, stares at me incredulously as I take his place as tribute. I try to give him a nod but I somehow fail something as simple as that.

“What’s your name?” Sicilia asks me.

“F-Faren Gomery,” I stammer the words out, feeling like I’ve just made a fool of myself before the entire District. No, wait, the Reapings are televised. It would be the entire country.

“You must be quite the brave boy, to have volunteered me that!”

I don’t quite know how to respond. I open my mouth and close it several times, but the words die before they’re even formed. What do I say to that? I’m not the brave one. Joule is.

Sicilia must see that I’m struggling to respond, so she just nods and moves on. She stands before the female bowl, ready to dip her hand in. “As for who the District 5 female will be—”

“I volunteer.”

A calm and collected voice rises over the din of the crowd. A girl pushes her way past, ascending the stage with a poise that is almost regal. Sicilia claps excitedly as the girl pauses next to me. She’s a strange sight; jet-black hair streaked with blue and arraigned into several bobs and braids, forming a hairstyle that is certainly unique. And her outfit is not at all like that of the average District 5 citizen.

“What’s your name?” Sicilia asks.

The girl sets one hand atop her hip and waves a hand dismissively. “You may call me Opal Crane.”

The girl’s face is dotted with freckles, which I normally find to soften the features of a person. But not here. Opal’s eyes are cold and distant. Who is she? The fact that she looks so athletic and well-fed in comparison to most of the District begs the question.

“And why did you volunteer, Opal?” Sicilia can’t contain her excitement. Two volunteers from District 5? It’s almost unheard of.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Opal turns away from Sicilia and appears to stare into the cameras. “But suffice to say that I have a goal in mind.”

Sicilia pauses, as if she expects further elaboration, but Opal doesn’t speak. I fidget on stage as the Reaping process continues without anymore input from us tributes. Will this work? Or is everything I’m doing going to be utterly useless? Fear and guilt swell up inside me and I am terrified of what the answer will be.

I sit on an armchair aboard the train headed for the Capitol, hands clasped together as I ignore all the food on the dining table and try not to cry. My final goodbyes with my parents were…devastating. They didn’t understand why I hadn’t told them my plan. Thought what I am doing was reckless and ill-advised. But I know it’s not. If I stayed in District 5 and did nothing…

Joule’s death would have been guaranteed.

Opal is here with me. She sits on a chair near the window, casually looking out it and paying me no mind. She’s the only person I’ve seen aboard since the Peacekeepers ushered us on. I look up and glance at the clock on the wall. We’ll be in the Capitol near dusk, then…

I silently count out the days in my head. Several will pass before I even set foot in the arena. What’ll I do if Joule passes away in that time? I’m on a ticking time clock. Every second of every minute of every day is time I can ill afford to lose. The Games will need to end decisively fast.

For Joule’s sake.

I turn back to Opal. Maybe I can befriend her and make it so she’s less likely to target me in the Games? That would help, wouldn’t it? “So, um, hello. I’m Faren—”

“Don’t talk to me!” Opal gives me a disdainful look. “You have nothing to offer me, and I hardly wish to associate myself with someone of your ilk, so please do us both a favor and remain silent.”

I’m both dismayed and shocked at this brusque dismissal. How could—

The dining room door swings open with such ferocity that I literally jump out of my chair. A man strides into the room and grabs a chair, pulling it up as he plops himself into it. He reaches out and pulls a wine bottle off the table, uncorking it as he pours himself a glass. Leaning back, he drowns the glass in one gulp as he finally turns to face us. “So, you two rats are the tributes this year?”

I recognize the man. With his black hair hanging loose around his shoulders and sharp blue eyes it’d be hard not to. But his most noticeable feature is the scars. Marring his arms and face, the scars practically define him. Everyone in District 5 knows him as Kulver the Terrible or Madman Tarros.

He’s a former Victor and my mentor.

Kulver narrows his eyes as neither I nor Opal respond. He pours himself another glass and downs it just as quickly as the first. “You both volunteered, so that means you have something you’re trying to get. Isn’t that right?”

I glance at Opal but she’s taken a file out of her pocket and is busy maintaining her nails, practically ignoring him. I was too young to remember watching Kulver’s Games, but everyone knows that he was brutal and, in some people’s estimations, insane. He etched a scar into his own skin after each kill and went on to say that he didn’t regret a single thing he did in the Games. He honestly frightens me.

But he is also my mentor and I’ll take whatever help I can to save Joule.

“I…I volunteered because m-my girlfriend has a…” Kulver’s eyes swivel to face me as I speak and I nearly lose my train of thought. “She has an illness…and can’t afford treatment, so I thought—”

“You thought you’d win the Games and become filthy rich?” Kulver laughs. A short, humorless sound that is like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. “Gotta say, you’ve got balls, boy. But you need more than that to win. You need to be willing to do whatever it takes.”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to save Joule!”

“Can you?” Kulver leans back and smiles. It’s almost predatory in nature. “Can you really bring yourself to do whatever is necessary?”

“Yes!” There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Joule. Haven’t I already proven that?

Kulver points a finger at Opal. “Could you kill her?”

That gets Opal’s attention. She looks up from her fastidious nail maintenance and narrows her eyes. I’m remembering how dismissive she was of me. How cold and callous she has behaved. Could I kill her to save Joule?

“Yes.”

Kulver stands up and, within seconds, has crossed the room and is in my face. Despite his famed reputation he is not very tall, standing around the same height as me. His blue eyes, like two chunks of cold ice, stare into my own. “Could you kill me?”

I’m taken back by the question. “What?”

“When you’re in the arena and find yourself face-to-face with a man like me—yes, man, not boy—could you kill him? There won’t be time for doubt. Hesitate for even a second and you’re dead. So answer; can you kill me?”

Does he mean it literally? Kulver Tarros is an unhinged maniac; everyone says so. Is he actually asking if I would kill him? He can’t possibly—

Kulver slaps me. I reel backwards, catching myself on the table to prevent a fall. My face burns with pain. Pain so bad that tears well in my eyes. I try to blink them away as Kulver grips me by the back of my shirt and drags me in front of him. “Answer the question, boy. Can you kill me?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

My words dissolve into a cry of fear as Kulver’s face contorts with sudden rage and he shakes me like a rag doll. “Answer the question!”

“Kulver!”

I stumble backwards as he lets go of me. I hit the ground and quickly scramble back to my feet, fearful that Kulver will continue his assault. But he’s returned to his chair and is pouring himself another glass of wine, laughing at a woman who stands in the doorway, glaring daggers at him.

She’s a slight brunette woman wearing a purple dress and matching headband. She too is someone I recognize instantly: Missy Randos, Victor of the 325th Hunger Games. “Kulver! You’re supposed to be mentoring, not terrorizing them!”

I adjust my glasses as she begins to verbally tear into Kulver. Missy is a living legend in District 5, as beloved as Kulver is feared. Sweet and generous, she has been vocal about how guilt-ridden she is for her actions in the Games. Missy is basically the template that every weak, soft spoken tribute seeks to follow.

When her tirade is over, Missy turns her attention to me and Opal. “I’m sorry,” She speaks softly. “Kulver is a sad, empty man. You shouldn’t have to put up with him; especially not in this terrible situation.”

“I was helping them,” Kulver grunts from his spot at the table. “Your mollycoddling won’t turn them into Victors.”

“Yes, because I’m sure they’re just dying to emulate the behavior of Madman Tarros!” Missy snaps.

He falls silent. For a frightening moment I fear that he’s about to lunge forward and strike out at Missy. Maybe kill her and me both. Who’d stop him? But no. He just refills his glass and swirls it around. “What was it you said? That I’m an empty man? Well, that’s true. Least it was before the Games.”

Missy eyes him scathingly. “Because you were a maniac who loved to kill!”

“Aye, that’s what they all say.” He downs his glass and slams it atop the table. “Before the Games I was a street urchin. An orphan. Whoever my parents were I don’t remember. I was on my own, scavenging in the trash like a rat searching for its next meal. Yet even if I found anything good it’d be taken from me by those bigger and stronger. Every other day I’d be beaten to an inch of my life and have my possessions stolen. Every day was a living hell. When the Reaping came around and my name was drawn, I didn’t care. Far as I was concerned I was already dead.”

He pauses to refill his glass and drink again. Slower this time. Missy bites her lip, looking troubled. “I…I didn’t know that. That’s terrible. But it still doesn’t justify—”

“I was in a dining room aboard a train much like this one when I met my mentor,” Kulver slams his glass back down. “He was a great big whale of a man who was sitting at a table laden with more food than I’d ever seen in my life. I asked him what I should do in the Games. He took one look at me and laughed. Told me that it didn’t matter, that I had no chance of winning, so I may as well just die right now.”

Missy gasps, her mouth forming a perfect “O”. “That’s despicable! How—”

“Shut up! I’m not telling this story for you.” Kulver shoots her a glare. He jabs a finger in my direction. “It’s for them.”

A strange sensation is brewing in my stomach. One that feels like a combination of fear, nervousness, and…something else. Anticipation.

“I resolved to live. Went into training eager to learn whatever I could. At the private sessions I scored a three. After I won everyone said that I was hiding my skills and pretending to be weak. A lie. I had tried my hardest and yet the Gamemakers saw fit to give me nothing better than a three. Shows you what they know.” He pauses to scratch his ear and squint at the bottom of the glass. “Anyway, then the bloodbath came. I ran out and grabbed myself a spile and small knapsack. Didn’t get more than a few feet before I was attacked. Knocked to the ground and given a vicious beating. Suddenly I was back in District 5, on the streets. They were beating me and taking my stuff. That’s when the rage overtook me and I decided I was done being the victim. I took the spile, rose up, and used it to rip my attackers throat open. After I fled the bloodbath I found a knife in my knapsack. I used it to carve a scar into my arm, a reminder of what I had to do to stay alive. Of what I’d continue to do.”

Kulver takes a finger and taps his right forearm, where a pale white scar runs down the length of it. “Few days later three Careers stumbled upon me. They thought I was easy prey until I killed their leader before they could even react. The other two put up a fight before their deaths. They became three more reminders. Yet one of them got me good with his sword and I thought for sure that my wound would get infected, that I’d die. That’s when she came.”

“She?” I never watched any of the reruns of Kulver’s Games. Never wanted to. But now I find myself enthralled in his story.

“Quintana,” Missy’s voice is hushed. “She was the District 8 female. She found Kulver as he was weak and used her medicinal skills to bring him back to health.”

“She had run out of food and water,” Kulver gives Missy a glare, annoyed she was interjecting in his story. “And had no way of finding more. She was a civilized girl, didn’t know how to procure her own sustenance. But I did. So she used me to find supplies, and in the coming days we worked together to drive off a pack of mutts. And another tribute. Later on I learned he was the odds-on favorite, but he was nothing to me at the time. Quintana landed the killing blow.”

I find myself troubled. An ally? That doesn’t seem to fit with the image of Kulver the Terrible or Madman Tarros. How could he have gained such an ill reputation, scars aside?

“Are you going to tell them what you did to Quintana?” Missy asks.

Kulver smiles grimly. “The night after killing that tribute I was on guard duty. I was staring at the stars, thinking. The numbers were dwindling and I knew that soon we would have to turn on each other. Quintana was faster than me, stronger than me, and she damn well was smarter than me. I realized that I didn’t stand a chance against her in a fair fight.”

“So you killed her.” Missy says flatly.

“Aye. I took the axe she’d given me and used it to cleave her head in two while she slept. Then I gave myself another scar. A reminder of what you had to do to survive.” He places a finger on a scar just beneath his right eye. He trails it down his face, to his jawline. “And the following day proved I was right to off her. Two tributes killed one another in a brawl, and that just left me and one other. A thirteen year old. Had Quintana been alive she’d have killed us both.”

He killed his own ally. Murdered her while she slept. That’s horrifying. What kind of person could do that to someone who trusted them? But what if that was the only way to survive? If not doing so would result in your own death? Would you be justified in that situation?

What if killing her saved Joule?

“That thirteen year old and I met face to face,” Kulver is still talking. He holds his glass in one hand, staring into the bottom. “We stood eye to eye and realized that the circumstances of our lives had already made us both into men. I knew that neither one of us would hesitate to kill the other. Words were meaningless. So we fought. It was bloody and brutal, with no quarter given. But in the end I won, he died. And as they crowned me Victor, I took my knife and carved one last reminder into my skin. A reminder that you can’t gain anything without sacrifice.”

There’s a period of silence after his words. I feel as if I should say something, but can’t think of what. Eventually it is Missy who breaks the quiet. “The replays don’t show a fight. They just…show you brutalizing the boy.”

Kulver snorts. “‘Course they didn’t. Madman Tarros struggling to defeat a thirteen year old boy? That wouldn’t fit their image of me. The only time anyone saw the fight was during the live airing.” He flexes his left hand. “Kulver the Terrible. That’s what you people call me. And why? Because I refused to show remorse or sympathy during my Crowning. And I didn’t act like it was some wonderful honor either. I was just content to be alive. You wanna know why?”

No one responds. Missy has a napkin pressed to her face, eyes blurry with tears. Kulver refills his glass. “The night after my Crowning was the first time in my life I went to sleep with a full belly and no fear of death. I didn’t have to worry about being beaten, or having my possessions stolen. I was finally content. So what if they called me a madman? That they hurled insults at me, despised my very existence? Woman like her,” he jerks his head towards Missy. “Can call me a “sad, empty man” all they want. I don’t care. I’m finally living life. Not just existing. Living.”

He downs his glass one more time then chucks it across the room. It hits the far wall, shattering on impact. Missy hurries out of the room. I think she’s sobbing, but i can’t be sure. Opal, for her part, sits in her chair looking decidedly bored. Indifferent to everything that she has heard.

Kulver stands. He crosses the room and stops right in front of me. His cold blue eyes stare right into mine. “So tell me, boy. When you’re in the arena and find yourself face to face with a man like me, one who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you or your pitiful story, will you be able to kill him? There’ll be no time for doubt. Hesitate for even a second and you and that pretty girlfriend of yours will both be nothing more than two corpses. So, let me ask you one more time…Could you kill me?”

I stare at him. Kulver the Terrible. A man who’d sacrifice whatever it took to make his dream a reality. A man with no qualms about what he did or who he’d do it to. Would I be willing to do the same for Joule?

There is only one answer I could ever give.

District Six: Teal Arden
I lie on my cot, staring up at the concrete wall of my cell and wondering just when my life spiraled out of control. How far back did it happen? Was it when I first became involved with Starling? Should I have quit right when I found out? I don’t know. Honestly I don’t know how to feel about anything anymore. Everything has just slipped out of my grasp.

I roll onto my side in an effort to keep comfortable. My new view isn’t much different from the old. Just a concrete wall and an identical cot. My cellmate and former coworker, Gab Hartwell, occupies the cot. She sits upright, hands clasped together as she stares at the floor. She was the one who snitched on Uncle Starling, I learned. That’s the only reason she avoided being executed like so many of our fellow runners were. As for why I was spared…

I growl in annoyance, drawing a look from Gab. I scowl at her and shift myself back around so that I don’t have to see her stupid face. It’s not that I dislike her. It’s just…

It’s complicated.

Its been three weeks since my life completely fell apart. Three weeks spent in this detention cell with barely any contact with the outside world. I hate this. Hate being cooped up. I want to be out there doing something. Anything. Just languishing in this cell is killing me…

What is my family doing? Obviously they’d have heard about Starling’s fall. The whole District has probably heard. According to Tatius it’s pretty much the only thing anyone will talk about.

Tatius!

I let out another growl and roll over again. It’s his fault I’m even in this situation! If he hadn’t come with his friends to arrest us then this wouldn’t have happened! Of course, I also don’t know what would have happened if he didn’t do that. My family had discovered what Starling’s operation truly was and they were threatening to pull me out of working for him if I didn’t leave on my own accord. And I can’t imagine how I could have distanced myself from Starling if not for the arrest. Not that Starling was arrested. Oh, all the kids and teenagers who worked for him were, but he himself tried to make a run for it.

He was shot and killed in his attempt.

Starling, my uncle, and the drug baron of District 6 was dead. Killed by Peacekeepers in a sting operation. All of his subordinates were arrested. Or maybe not all. I suppose there’s a chance that some of the higher ups in his organization got away. I never met them, so I don’t know. But I do know that all of his runners, all of the teenagers that I worked alongside, were caught and arrested.

Then they were hung.

All of them except for me and Gab.

Gab was spared because she was the one to snitch on Starling. She lead the Peacekeepers right to the leader of the operation, so it’d only make sense for her punishment to be lighter. But as for me? I was his niece, and thus you’d think they’d be especially hard on me, but I was also spared. There’s only one reason I can assume I avoided the noose, and that was because of…Tatius.

My boyfriend and the Peacekeeper who led the mission to arrest us runners. I don’t know what he did to spare me, or if he somehow thinks that makes up for everything he did. I never asked. He routinely drops by the cell to give me information on my family and where my situation could be going, but I brush him off every time. He’s the reason I’m stuck in this cell…

…or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is that I’m the only reason he was ever in a position to arrest us. I didn’t quit when I learned the true extent of Starling’s business, I kept making deliveries even though I knew what was inside those packages and the risks carrying them entailed. And then I willingly got myself involved with Tatius, a Peacekeeper. Everything that has happened occurred due to my own actions. All the repercussions can be traced back to my decisions…

And that’s what frustrates me the most.

I’m the reason I’m separated from my parents and brothers right now. Not Tatius. Not Starling. Me. At any time I could have made a different choice and prevented this, but I didn’t. The ironic thing is that all my choices were meant to protect my brothers, Allan, Axle, Miles and Beam. I tried my best to be a good sister and protector, but in the end what was I truly? Did I fail? I don’t know. Can’t decide that yet. Still need to see them again. Maybe I can—

“Good morning, convicts!”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sudden appearance of two Peacekeepers. They stand behind the cell bars, watching us. One of them is smiling and spinning a set of keys around his fingers. The other just stares blankly ahead. Despite knowing several Peacekeepers due to my connection with Tatius, I don’t recognize either one.

“We’re not convicts,” Gab says with a glare. “This is a detention center, not a prison.”

“Well, excuse me princess!” The guard with the keys throw a hand up in mock despair. “It’s not my fault you’re enough of a criminal for me to confuse the two.”

“Wedge, do we really need to antagonize them?” The other Peacekeeper looks bored.

The first one, Wedge, shrugs. “Need to? No. But it’s a lot funnier this way, right?”

I roll off the bed and onto my feet, wondering what this unannounced visit is about. Typically the only times Peacekeepers come to our cell is during mealtimes or when Tatius is trying to pass along information to me. But breakfast had already happened and it’s too soon for lunch. Why are they here?

Gab decides to ask. “What is the point of this?”

Wedge pauses mid-speech. “Huh? Point of what? Life? I couldn’t tell you. Now, I once heard that—”

“Wedge.” The other Peacekeeper taps him on the shoulder. “Can we hurry this up? I don’t want to be here all day.”

“Sheesh, Julius. You’re no fun, are you?” Wedge takes his keys and sets them in the lock, then pauses. “Don’t try anything funny, girls. We’re going to handcuff you and bring you out.”

“Why?” I’m slightly concerned by the direction this is taking. They haven’t decided to hang us like the others, have they?

“What does it matter to you?” Wedge is struggling to get the door unlocked. “You’re Tatius’ girl. Nothing bad will come to you. Hell, he’s the reason you weren’t executed with your friends.”

Beside him, Julius frowns. “That’s the reason?”

I feel a faint stir of annoyance at that. For the fact that apparently Tatius is the sole reason I’m still alive and because Wedge is enough of an idiot to say so aloud. “Oh, uh, you didn’t know? Shit.” Wedge mumbles something incoherent as he finally succeeds at unlocking the door. “Well, yeah, that girl belongs to Tatius. Apparently she was a spy or something and was working for us, embedding herself in the organization to get information. At least, that’s what Tatius is telling the top brass.”

My annoyance has transformed into something between anger and relief. Anger that Wedge said I “belonged” to Tatius, and relief at the fact my execution seems pretty unlikely at this point.

“Are we being released?” Gab asks. I notice the looks she sends my way. Apparently she didn’t know about my relationship with Tatius. Not that anyone did, really.

“Today? Nah. But if Tatius’ ploy works you’ll both be on your way out next week.”

“Where are you taking us?” I ask as Wedge files into the cell and begins to handcuff me. If we’re not headed for our execution then where…?

“You don’t know what day it is?” Julius sounds surprised. He still stands outside the cell, one hand on his baton. I roll at my eyes. Does he really think we’ll try to run?

“Kinda hard to know the date when you’re locked in a cell,” I say as Wedge pushes me out.

“Oh. Right. Well, today’s Reaping Day.”

“For the preliminaries?” District 6’s population is so large that not everyone can attend a single Reaping, so we have preliminary Reapings leading up to the day itself. If your name is drawn during the preliminary it’s added to the bowl for the main one.

“What? No. Those already happened.”

Gab gasps as she’s shoved into the hall beside us. “Our names were drawn in the preliminaries?”

“Yep!” Wedge locks the empty cell behind us, for some reason. “Which means if your name is drawn today you’ll be headed into the Games! Exciting stuff, huh?”

Gab is worried, but I’m not too concerned. I’ve had my name drawn in the preliminaries before, and while it was frightening having to attend the main Reaping, I didn’t actually get picked. But then, what if my brothers are picked? Miles and Beam are too young, but there’s nothing stopping Allan or Axle from being selected.

This thought troubles me as we’re lead through the detention center and out the front doors. A white Peacekeeper van awaits us, already running. “We’re going in our uniforms?” Gab asks.

I look down at my own gray one-piece suit. I’d almost forgotten I was wearing it. “Why does it matter?” Wedge climbs up beside the driver of the van. “You’re being brought back here afterwards.”

“But what if I’m Reaped?” Julius opens the back of the van and ushers us inside. I climb up the steep step, which is quite difficult when handcuffed, and settle down on the bench inside.

Julius helps Gab up and has her sit beside me as he shuts the van doors and takes his spot across from us. “If you get Reaped you’ll have bigger things to worry about than what you’re wearing.”

The van takes off. I’m glad that Wedge decided to sit up front, because I know that he would have been obnoxious and talked the whole ride. Julius, however, is content to sit in silence. Once he pulls a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and taps it against his thigh, as if debating whether to light one, but he slides it back inside with a sigh and returns to his silence. That’s fine by me. It gives me time to sit with my thoughts and think things over. If what Wedge said is true, then I’ll be released a week from now. My only punishment for being apart of Starling’s drug operation will be a month long detainment. Inconvenient, yes, but at least it’s not permanent like death. I can return to my family. Be with my brothers and apologize to my parents for not telling them the whole truth. I should have done so. I can see that now.

The ride takes longer than I’d expected, but eventually I feel the van pull to a halt. Julius rises and throws the doors open, letting a beam of sunlight shine through and half-blind me as I’m led out of the van. The murmur of a crowd becomes audible as I rub at my eyes and turn around. We’re at the Reaping Stage, positioned at one of the Peacekeeper checkpoints. A line of people getting their blood taken is just behind us.

“Attention!” A Peacekeeper wearing a blue sash, the mark of a captain, approaches as Wedge and Julius take ahold of Gab and I. They both salute at the sight of the man; Wedge doing so noticeably sloppier. The Captain nods. “At ease, men.”

“We’ve received the prisoners, sir!”

“I can see that, Ring,” The Captain frowns at me and Gab. I wonder if he even knows who we are. Eventually he turns away. “Good job. I have a new assignment for you. Both of you are to head to the station and join Delta Squad. You’ll wait for the Reaping to finish, then escort the tributes to the Capitol. Understood?”

”Yes, sir!”

The moment he’s gone they turn to one another. “We’re going to the Capitol?” Julius seems troubled.

Wedge laughs. “Don’t look so glum! This is the best assignment ever! After we arrive we’ll have a layover where we can do whatever we want! And let me tell you, the ladies of the Capitol love men in uniform!”

The two depart after Gab and I are pushed into our appropriate line, taking their handcuffs with them. I run my wrists ruefully, casually glancing around the crowd. Is my family here? Technically they don’t have to be; unlike other Districts not everyone has to attend the Reaping. Only those who’ve had their names drawn in the preliminaries and curious spectators usually come.

The way the crowd is structured doesn’t help my task. The stage is lined up directly ahead of us, the Justice Building in the backdrop, with all the Reaping age children assembled before it. The spectator crowds are gathered to either side, effectively being split in two. It’s anyone’s guess as to which side my family would be on.

I decide it’d be simplest to look for Allan and Axle first. If their names had been drawn in the preliminaries then they’d be in the fifteen year olds line, conveniently placed right beside my own. Yet as I scan the faces I don’t see any sign of them. Gab and I draw stares of our own. Our uniforms are a clear giveaway: everyone probably remembers that the kids hung three weeks ago—in this very square—had been wearing similar outfits. Doesn’t take much for them to put two and two together.

The escort takes the stage. I don’t pay them any attention. I’m still scanning for my brothers. The fact that I don’t see Allan or Axle gives me some relief; if they’re not here than they must not have been picked in the preliminaries. Of course, that then makes me wonder if my brothers are even here at all. There’d be no reason to attend if they hadn’t. My name was drawn, but do they know that? Would they come out just to see me in the crowd? If the situation were reversed I’d do so.

I return to scanning the spectators. They’re probably in there somewhere. I just want to see their faces again. Everything I’ve done has been for them, so just getting to—

Gab lets out a gasp.

“What?” I don’t take my eyes off the crowd. There! Is that—

“It’s you!” Gab elbows me in the chest, breaking my concentration.

I turn to her, annoyed at this interruption. “What’re you talking about? What’s me?”

In response she points up at the stage. At the escort and the bowl I’d been ignoring. Right now she’s waving around a piece of paper as she peers into the crowd. For a moment I’m confused. What is she doing? Then it hits me. It’s you…

I’ve been Reaped.

It’s hard to breathe. My first thought is of my brothers. Who’ll protect them if I’m gone? My parents, yes, but I was always there, a third protector, someone who’d give her life for them. But now I’m going into the Games…a fate worse than any imprisonment could ever be. For me to return home I’ll have to outlive twenty-seven other tributes in a free-for-all death match. The odds of that aren’t good.

Gab hits me in the shoulder and gestures at the stage. Slowly I begin to move. The crowd notices and starts murmuring to themselves. The more cynical among them might be wondering if this was all a conspiracy: if my name was drawn on purpose to further my punishment. I don’t believe that. If the Capitol wanted me dead they’d have hung me, I’m not special enough to warrant this treatment. No, my name being drawn was just rotten luck.

When I reach the stage I find myself face to face with the escort. I don’t know her name. I’ve never seen her before, so she must be new. Yet she’s still dressed in the same pastel, candy colors that most Capitol citizens seem to enjoy, and her ghoulish grin is no different than our past escorts. “Why hello, Teal!” She grabs my hand and shakes it too vigorously. “It took you quite a while to reach the stage! You must have been very excited!”

I don’t know what to say. Don’t trust myself to speak. So I nod numbly and hope the cameras get off my face. I can see what they’re showing up on the large holographic screens projected onto the sides of nearby buildings; right now they’re lasered in on me.

The escort says some more stuff before heading off. Thankfully the cameras follow her to the next bowl. I take the opportunity to scan the crowd once more. Are my brothers in there, watching? If so, then they must be terrified. Their big sister is going into the Games, possibly to die.

“You must be one of the girls from Starling’s operation.” A woman speaks from behind me. Tall and skinny, with blonde hair tinted blue at the edges. She’s older, maybe late forties or early fifties, and her expensive looking clothes mark her as someone rich. Who’d be up on stage? A Victor?

Yes. I recognize the young man beside her as Robert Iran, Victor of the 328th Games and District 6’s most recent. So the woman must be…I try to name another Victor but come up blank. I never paid much attention to this stuff. “Who’re you?”

The woman’s face turns into a scowl. “What has become of the youth of today? Are they so illiterate that they don’t even recognize their Victors?”

I turn back to the crowd. I don’t have time for this. I think that could be my brothers, out there on the edge of the crowd. It certainly looks like Allan’s face—

A bony hand clutches my shoulder and spins me around. The woman’s hawkish face greets me. “Looking for your family, yes? You’re the niece of Starling, so that’d make it your brothers out there?”

“What does it matter to you?” I don’t like this woman. The way she pries and seems to know stuff she shouldn’t. What was her connection to Starling? Considering what his business was, it couldn’t be anything good.

“Maximo Gallardo!”

The escort has chosen the male tribute and I lose the woman’s attention as she turns to observe him making his way through the crowd. I take this opportunity to sidle along the stage away from her, eyes already searching for my brothers again. I’m fairly certain I can make out their forms in the back of the crowd, obscured by people leaning forward to get a better look at Maximo.

The guy himself comes into my view as he finally ascends the stage. He’s not anything special; just a normal looking guy of average height and middling build. He sort of pauses for a moment before continuing on towards the escort, whose name I still don’t know, and making a displeased face. “You’re Maximo?” She asks.

“That depends. If I say no, does that mean I don’t have to enter the Games?”

The escort laughs uproariously and even some of the crowd let out chuckles. I notice his face though; it doesn’t seem like he’s amused. After being introduced to the crowd he wanders over to me, muttering to himself. “Months of preparation ruined…of course, just my luck.” He shrugs and forces a smile onto his face. “Oh well, at least I can investigate the training center for ghosts.”

I tense up at the word. Ghosts? I don’t want to say that I’m afraid of ghosts, per se, it’s just that…I’d really rather not see or hear about one. The last thing I need right now is to spend the night in a haunted training center. That would not suit me. At all.

We’re presented to the crowd once more, together this time. Maximo is mumbling about a demon cursing him or something, but I tune him out and focus on the crowd. I finally see them. My brothers. They’re all together, bunched up as they gaze out at me with horror etched on their faces. Their big sister is going into the Games.

And will have to fight if she wants to survive.

District Eight: Notcher Stott
I weave my way through the crowd, bumping into people as they jostle me on their way towards the Reaping Square. I head the opposite direction. South, towards the abandoned factory district, now known as the slums. I keep my head low and gaze forward as I hit a well-dressed man and careen sideways off the sidewalk. He turns to give me a distasteful look and tells me to watch where I’m going before continuing on his way. I duck into a nearby alleyway and squeeze myself through a gap in the wooden fence at the far end.

Once I’m safely behind it I open my fist and stare at the pouch in my hand. I toss it up and down and smile at the satisfying clinking that signifies the presence of credit coins.

Moron. That man was carrying a small fortune in his pocket and decided to venture into a crowd that large? He was practically asking to be robbed.

I open the pouch and pour the coins out into the palm of my right hand. A faint sense of disgust stirs in me as I see my disfigurement; two of my fingers are gone and the rest covered in a multitude of scars that likewise mar the entirety of my right arm. A result of my prior carelessness.

I will never allow myself to be caught unaware ever again.

That feeling of self-indignation is what inspires me to look up and scan the alley for any threats before counting the credit coins. When I am content that it is safe, I proceed to do so and find myself shocked. More than thirty credit coins rest in the palm of my hand. They are a valuable currency in Panem, highly sought after. Used often in the Capitol, they’re quite rare in District 8, normally only in the possession of the wealthiest citizens. In scrap value alone, a single coin could get me enough food for a month. But with thirty…

My mind blanks at the possibilities. With these I could more than afford a home for myself and Lanon. Something beyond even the pension room we currently reside in. A true house, one in the suburbs and nowhere near the treacherous factories and their smoke. I could—

I stuff the coins back into the pouch. Something feels off. Why would that man have so much wealth on him? He was merely making his way to the Reaping, wasn’t he? I’ve pickpocketed rich men before, even procured some credit coins on occasion, but never anywhere near this much. So why now? The uncertainty of the situation makes me uneasy, and I hate being uneasy.

I tuck the pouch into my belt and take off down the alley. I want to put as much distance between myself and the scene of the robbery as possible. With such a large sum missing the man is sure to notice. And when he does he’ll go searching. I’m sure he will remember our encounter. Probably will peg me as the culprit; the tactic I used was a common one, easy and without much effort.

I dart between allies, sidestepping the occasional homeless person as I make my way down familiar streets and common pathways. The pouch weighs heavy in my belt. Early in my career as a thief I was caught by Peacekeepers several times. As a repeat offender I was sentenced to a caning, performed in the District square for all to see. It was painful, humiliating even, but I found strength in it. As the cane left scars on my back, joining the ones which traveled along my right arm like skeins in wool, I realized that the scars were a reminder to never let yourself get caught.

My scars taught me a valuable lesson. They let me understand what all those grim and serious men who line the streets and work as Peacekeepers have yet to learn. The law exists to punish. Authority seeks to assert its dominance over others. No one cares about justice or righteousness or anything of the sort; it’s all just pretenses to flaunt their power. But the law holds no power if I fail to prescribe to it, or evade its reach. Authority can only harm those who it catches.

That is why I have made myself uncatchable.

There would be no caning this time, I realize as I slip between two walls that stand close together and emerge on the other side. For having stolen something as valuable as thirty credit coins my sentence would be death. I would be strung up in the square and left to rot. I can’t allow that. Who’d take care of Lanon if not me?

For the entirety of my life he’s been my only confidant. I lost my parents when I was young enough that I could hardly remember them, but Lanon was there for me. Majority of the wealth I attain from my forays into thievery are spent on his nourishment and health. Lanon is a sickly man, a result of long years spent working and living by those damnable textile factories. But with these credit coins I could change that. Might be able to fix him up for good. Wouldn’t that be something? I can almost imagine the smile on that crusty man’s face.

’Course I have to avoid being caught first.

The fact that it’s Reaping Day poses a problem. First off, I’m forced to be in the square within the hour. Secondly, I don’t want to be holding those coins when I get there. I’m known for being the swiftest hand in town and if the man has noticed the theft and reported it to the Peacekeepers I’m sure they’ll frisk me. So how to avoid that? Stash the coins somewhere else and come back for them after the Reaping.

But where? Not our pension room. I won’t put Lanon at risk like that. I have several hideouts hidden throughout the District’s, small cubbies and the like where I go to lie low to avoid the heat during a theft, but most of them are too far away for me to reach and be back at the square in time for the Reaping. Except one. It’s a small shed in the yard of an abandoned factory, hidden amongst some scraggly trees and and an outhouse. No one ever really goes there and it’s close enough to the square that I could get there and back in time. I rarely use that hideout though.

Because it’s in Rupert Silks territory.

The Silk Gang is a group of teenagers and young adults that occupy the part of the District where the abandoned factory is. Unlike most bands of delinquents, they go beyond simple vandalism and petty theft and venture into outright terrorism. Originally led by Rufus Silks, a boy who eventually competed in the 327th Hunger Games, the group were the cause of several arsons and even bombings. Though I was still just a child when Rufus entered the Games, I’ve heard the stories about him and wouldn’t dare enter his territory if he were still alive.

But he’s not. Rufus met his end in the arena and his reign of terror is in the past. Yet his gang lives on. Nowadays they’re led by a guy my age named Rupert, apparently the younger brother of Rufus himself. It’s a dubious claim and while many doubt the veracity of it, few are willing to outright deny it. While Rupert may lack the fame and success of his predecessor, he shares the same love of violence and brutality.

It’s always a risk when you enter into the gangs territory because, Rupert himself aside, they’re short-tempered and ill-mannered, always ready to inflict violence at a moment’s notice. But I’ve found myself within it often enough that I set up a hideout. Mostly because few people are willing to follow me inside. Usually it’s an emergency situation…which this just might be.

I set off at a brisk jog. Time is ticking. If I’m not at the Reaping in time bad things will happen. So I’ll be there in time. The streets are empty as I pass through. This is an already depleted area of the District and most people are headed to the Reaping, so it’s not surprising that no one is here. Rupert and his gang may even be among them. No matter how highly they think of themselves, they’re still not exempt from the Capitol’s rules.

As there is nothing to slow me down I reach the factory ground within minutes. I pause on the edge of an alley, beside a dinghy tenement, and stare out at the grimy, filth-covered building that was once a factory. Though it is broken and decrepit, the smokestack rises high in the sky, black and dark as the gloom of the deepest night. But there isn’t any sign of movement. No people. I zero in on the small shed at the far end of the grounds. Its roof is lopsided and practically leaning against the factory’s outer walls. The way it looks, you’d think a strong gust of wind would knock it right over. But I know from experience that it’s tougher than it appears.

I’m fast and agile. It’s a skill that I’ve cultivated over the years of being a pickpocket. More of a byproduct than skill, I guess. If you weren’t quick, you were caught. And if you were caught, you were dead. It was simple as that.

Needless to say I’m the quickest in District.

I rush out to the shed and dart around to the backside. Dropping to my knees, I dig in the dirt until I find a small box buried beneath. I flip the lid open, deposit the pouch inside, and close it before re-burying the entire thing. Then I’m on my feet and hurrying back to the alleyway.

I pause on the edge, slightly winded from the exertion. Wasn’t my best time, but it could have been worse. Still, I don’t allow myself too much time to rest; only a little over half a minute. Then I’m off and rushing back towards the Reaping Square.

I only get a few streets away before they strike.

Something slams into my side as I’m sprinting down an alley. I have no time to react and am driven into the ground. Hard. Breath escapes my lips in gasps as a fist buries itself in my stomach and I’m being hauled to my feet. Two figures grab my arms, both grungy teenagers slightly older than me.

Stepping around the corner, three figures appear. Two large and bulky men flank the boy in the middle, a youth with flaming crimson hair and a wicked grin plastered on his face. I recognize him immediately.

Rupert Silks.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” He crouches down and picks up a discarded cigarette butt. He runs his fingers along it and glances at me. “Notcher Stott, the swiftest hand in District 8! What brings you to my territory, Notcher?”

Crap. This has gone as bad as it can get. Rupert himself? I wasn’t expecting this. I remain silent as he tosses the cigarette aside and pulls something out of his gray jacket. It glints in the morning light. Brass knuckles?

“Being quiet will only make this harder on you, Notcher,” He slides the knuckles over his hand and makes a small Tsk! sound. “I expected someone of your caliber to know that.”

Two of his thugs have their hands on me. Two more lurk behind him. But what about behind me? It’s possible there’s some back there, though I can’t see from my position. Makes planning harder. Annoying. I fix Rupert with a flat stare. “Dyeing your hair red doesn’t make you Rufus’ brother.”

Anger flashes in his blue eyes. “Shut up! I am his brother.”

“Is that right? Because you look like a little boy playing dress up to me.”

He growls and steps forward, planting a punch straight in my gut. As I expected. I gasp, sucking in breath as the pain rips through me. The thugs grip on me slackens, just for an instant, and I lean forward to reach into my boot before they snatch my arms and haul me back up.

“What would a street rat like you know about Rufus?” Rupert snarls, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

“Could ask you the same question.” I close my fist around the needles I pulled from my laces. I have a knife in my jacket but it’d be too difficult to pull out. Have to play this smarter.

Rupert snarls in rage and sprouts off something that’s probably as asinine as everything else he’s said so far. But I’m not listening. I’m focusing on the thugs who have me in their grasp, how they grip me and where they have their hands. I’ll only have one chance at this.

“Everyone knows I’m Rufus’ brother!” Rupert is still ranting. I must have really rankled him. But if he really wanted people to believe they were brothers he should really have chosen a better name than “Rupert”. It just sounds like a cheap knockoff of the real thing. Which he undoubtedly is. “Meloni knows! She’s the one who found me! Brought me into the gang! She is—”

I strike. Jab one of my needles into the hand of the thug holding my right arm. He howls in pain and lets go of me. Immediately I swing my arm around and it forms a three fingered fist as it collided with the nose of the second thug. As he drops the the ground I grip the rest of my needles and fling them at Rupert and his remaining thugs. He ducks behind the larger of the two, squeaking in surprised fear.

I’m already sprinting down the alley, back the way I came. There’s no thugs that way, luckily for me, and I make weaving turns as I adopt a crisscrossing route through the District. At first I can hear the shouts and footsteps of the thugs pursuing me, but those quickly fade away as I put distance between myself and Rupert’s territory. Soon I find myself back on a larger street, swallowed by a crowd that forms around me. I keep my head down and go with the flow. There’s only one place all these people could be headed.

The Reaping.

I stand sullenly in the crowd as the escort, some trash lady from the Capitol, begins the proceedings for the Reaping. I’m stuck here with the fifteen year olds, meaning that there’s nothing worth stealing. What would some scrawny kid bring with them to the Reaping? Nothing worthwhile. So I’m forced to sit in silence with my thoughts as the escort continues to prattle on.

I’ll need a plan if I want to fetch those credit coins from Rupert’s territory. Him and his men will be on high alert for the next week or so, meaning that the safest play would be to lie low and let the heat die down. Problem with that is the longer I wait the higher the chance someone stumbles into my hideout becomes. Though I doubt some idiot in Rupert’s gang would be clever enough to find it, I can’t rule the possibility out.

“We’ll start with the gentleman!” The escort—I think her name is Vesperia—has the bowl brought before her and watches as it spins. The slips of paper look like little snowflakes as they are churned about inside. “Now then, let us discover who will be District 8’s male tribute for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!”

The other boys beside me begin to tense up. One breaths so heavily that I think he’s about to pass out. I remain still, thinking. I look down to find myself absently rubbing the spot where my two missing fingers would be. I quickly pull my hand away with a scowl.

Vesperia reaches a hand into the bowl and removes a slip. She deftly opens it and, in a loud and clear voice, reads out the name. “Notcher Stott!”

Well, damn. Looks like fate has finally caught up to me.

I briefly consider running, just to see how those lazy Peacekeepers would react, but the risk isn’t worth the reward. Even if I got away there’d be no guarantee Lanon would be safe from any repercussions. And where would I even go? District 8 is my entire world. I have nowhere else to go.

So that’s how I find myself ascending the stage with nothing more than a scowl and fear in my chest.

And I am afraid. Death frightens me. I don’t want to die. I’ve fought too hard for my life to die. But the Games aren’t a conducive environment for someone like me. Winning them will probably be the hardest thing I’ll ever do. But despite the fear I feel inside, I don’t let it show. I keep my face stoic as I stand beside Vesperia, absorbing all the stares from the crowd. Is Rupert in there? If so, he’s probably laughing. The thought of that makes me furious.

“What a cheery lad!” Vesperia goes to ruffle my hair only to find her hand slapped away. She frowns at that. “Well, Notcher, please take your place on my right as we draw your district partner!”

I ignore her order and remain where I stand. Vesperia doesn’t notice; she’s too busy talking to the crowd as the females bowl spins. I clench and unclench my fists, filled with anger that has no outlet. Lashing out here would do me good. In fact, it could harm me. While I despise the Capitol and the pathetic pukes who do its bidding, I know that those who are dumb enough to make those feelings known never survive the Games. I refuse to give them any reason to work against me. I need to survive. For Lanon’s sake as well as my own.

“Aiko Kinu!”

The female’s name has been drawn. It hangs over the crowd for a moment or two before someone in the back of the twelve years old line begins to move, drawing a loud sigh from the crowd. Anger wells in me at their reaction. So they care that some little kid has to die but not me? Damn District. To hell with them all!

The little girl turns out to be some asian girl with long black hair tied up in two ponytails. Though, in my experience, girls of her descent typically live in the richer portion of the District, that must not be the case here. She’s too small and scrawny to be anything more than another starving urchin.

When the girl climbs the stage and stops beside me I notice how small she is. Has to be almost a full foot shorter than I am. Guess she won’t be a threat. “What a lovely girl you are!” Vesperia rubs Aiko’s head and flashes her a broad smile. “I’m sure you’ll do well in the Games!”

Aiku returns the smile. “I like games.”

Something about her unnerves me. I don’t know if it’s that creepy smile or just the way she’s reacted as a whole. Normally twelve year olds break down into tears when they’re Reaped, but this girl…she’s just taking it all in stride.

I don’t like it.

Vesperia presents the two of us to the audience. When she instructs us to smile and wave to the crowd, Aiku complies but I just stick my hands into my pockets and scowl at the combined mass of District 8 as they gaze at us. No one in that crowd has ever done anything to help me. They’re a worthless lot good for nothing but being easy marks. Why should I care about being presented to them?

Soon we’re told to step back as the Reaping is wrapped up. While I try to retire to my thoughts and think of a way to let Lanon know about the hidden credit coins, I find that Aiku has other ideas.

She taps me on the shoulder, still wearing that creepy smile. “Are you going to play the game with me, mister?”

This brat is annoying. Hasn’t that already been made clear? I shrug my shoulders and turn away from her. I have no desire to communicate with her or any of the other tributes. They’re just obstacles to me. Living, breathing obstacles that need to be put into the ground so that I can return and give Lanon the life he and I earned.

It really is that simple.

District Nine: Discordia Achlys
The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is take a shower.

I stand under the faucet and close my eyes, imagining that everything is peaceful as the warm water washes through my hair and down my neck, beading along my body before disappearing down the drain between my toes. It is easy to imagine a peaceful world when I’m in here. The patter of the water and the feeling of warmth help me disguise and hide the cruelty and fear that lurk just out of sight.

But the fear cannot be hidden for long. Not on today of all days.

I lean my head back and let out a scream, knowing that it’ll be drowned out by the shower and go unheard. The water splashes into my eyes and I blink it away, turning to lean my head against the wall. Worry gnaws at me. Tears me apart from the inside. What is it that my family always says? That I "make mountains out of molehills"? Well, they’re usually right. I can admit that sometimes my anxiety and stress can make me overreact to little things and treat them with more fear and worry than they deserve.

But today is not one of those times. Today is the Reaping and that means I have a chance of being Reaped.

And if I’m Reaped I’ll die.

Suddenly the shower doesn’t feel so inviting or warm. It feels like a cage. I hop out, barely remembering to turn it off, and bend over the sink, palms flat on the linoleum surface as I stare into the mirror at myself.

I feel nauseous. Look nauseous too. Pale and trembling with fear, to my own eyes I appear to be nothing more than a weak, scared girl that can’t get over her own anxiety. I’m eighteen, a woman grown, and yet I’m still held back by my own irrational worries. But they’re not irrational. Not in my own mind.

I take a towel and dry begin to dry my hair. The familiar action brings some sense of normalcy to my thoughts and when I’m done I find myself calm enough to exit the bathroom and renter into my attached bedroom. I pick up a brush from my drawer and sit down in the edge of my bed as I begin the process of brushing my hair.

The smooth, repetitive strokes soothe me and brings a further sense of calm. Nothing is wrong. Today is just another normal day in District 9. I try to regulate my breathing as I brush. Everything will be fine. I’ll get past the Reaping without incident and our family will have a big dinner as usual. I won’t be Reaped. I won’t be Reaped. I won’t—

The calm dissipates and I let out a gasp as the brush slips from my hand. It bounces off the floor before coming to a stop. I bend down and pick it up. I did my hundred strokes. Hair should be fine, but…

I rub my hand along the smooth, knobbed end of my brush. I try to use that to bring me a pleasurable calm, as it has before, but still the fear and worry won’t go away. So I toss it aside and walk over to my closest, where I dig through it to find my best dress hidden in the back.

The color of green and cream, wrapped around my neck, it leaves my shoulders bare as it flows down into a simple keyhole neckline. As I dress myself in it I take a bow and wrap it around my waist, positioning it slightly to one side. Below the waist it widens and has several asymmetric layers from top to bottom. The dress reaches to just above my knees, but is slightly longer at the sides and back of the dress. I debate styling my hair but end up deciding against it; it’d be too much of a hassle.

When I’m finished I do a twirl in front of the mirror and manage a slight smile at the sight of myself. This dress reminds me of happy days. The last time I wore it was on my grandparents anniversary. We all went to Grandpas farm and held the party in one of his empty acres, just across from a golden field of wheat. Dozens of tables had been set up and there was food galore as our entire family celebrated the momentous occasion with dancing, carnival games, and just simple laughter. That day was one of the happiest of my life.

Unfortunately today will not be so joyful.

I take myself away from the mirror and finally force myself out the door. Entering into the hallway, I take a right and find myself in the kitchen. Instantly the scent of food assaults my nostrils.

“Mornin’, Cora!” Harmon sits at the table, one foot set atop its edge as he leans back and bites into a piece of toast.

Tall, with dirty blonde hair and an easy charm that lets him get along with just about anyone, my brother Harmon is about as different from me as it gets. Yet our bond is strong. I hold him in high esteem and, despite him being two years younger, there is no one in this world who I respect more.

“Discordia! You look beautiful!” My Mother turns around from the stove, hands full with two bowls of porridge, and breaks into a smile at the sight of me.

I give her a slight smile of my own. “Thank you, Mother.”

She sets one of the bowls down in front of Harmon, who ravenously begins to eat, and crosses the room to give me a tight hug. I return it, feeling loads better now that my family is around. “Today is my last Reaping, so I thought I should look my best.”

Mother continues to fawn over my dress as I settle myself into one of the chairs. Anxiety still gnaws at me, despite her cheer. “Where’s Father?”

She pauses mid-sentence. “Oh, he’s out taking care of the field. I probably should check on him. Eat up, you two!” She slips out of the room and leaves us alone. I take a breath and try not to let my concern bubble over.

Harmon looks up from his bowl and frowns. “Something wrong, Cora?”

He always could read my mood. I debate lying, to avoid worrying him, but I know it’d be pointless. My family knows me too well for that. “It’s just…what if I’m Reaped?”

Harmon sets his spoon down and pushes his bowl aside. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table as his hands clasped together. A strange gesture, but my brother has always been a very specific and intentional man. “The odds of that happening are low. You’ve never taken tessarae, so your name is only in there six times.”

Six times too many. “What if one of those six slips is picked? I’ll die. Especially now that we’re cursed.”

Harmon frowns. “Cursed? Who? Our family?”

I shake my head. “No. District 9. Hazel’s curse has ensured we’ll never have another Victor.”

Harmon’s lips quirk slightly as he leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling. For a moment neither of us says anything. I’m worrying that I said something dumb when he glances back at me. “Who told you about this curse?”

“All the girls at school talk about it.” I’m surprised that Harmon hasn’t heard it himself. Pretty much everyone brings it up when talking about the Reaping or Games. “They say that Hazel cursed us by killing Jake like she did.”

For some reason that causes Harmon to sigh. “How does that make sense? Plenty of tributes kill their District partner—and they didn’t curse their District.”

“But they didn’t become Victor. No tribute kills their District partner and becomes Victor.”

My brother grabs another piece of toast. “Watt Chargy did,” He says, stuffing it in his mouth. “And she became Victor without cursing her District.”

“Well, that’s different. Courage asked for her to kill him.”

“Uh-huh. And the curse knows the intent behind a murder and decides based off that on whether or not to activate?” There’s such a cheeky grin on his face that I’m tempted to reach across the table and smack him.

“Of course not! Harmon, you’re trying to apply logic to something like a curse, which just doesn’t—” I cut off as I realize what he’s trying to do. I just undermined my whole argument for him!

He allows himself a smile. “Exactly my point, Cora. The idea of a curse being on our District doesn’t make any logical sense. Thus, the curse is nonexistent.”

Somehow that makes me feel better. Harmon always knows what to say to calm me. It’s been this way since we were little. I’d rile myself up with some worry or fear, then Harmon would comfort me with his patient explanations. The two of us would share a laugh and be amazed that the situation even occurred.

Until I found something else to fret about.

And though Harmon has temporarily calmed my worries, he hasn’t made them disappear. Even if there is no curse on District 9 that doesn’t mean I’d survive being Reaped. I have literally no skills that would be useful in the Games. If my name is drawn then I’m dead.

Guaranteed.

“You going to eat that porridge?” Harmon is eyeing the bowl laid out before me.

“No.” I don’t feel well enough to eat. Doubt I’d be able to hold anything down right now. “You can have it.”

“Awesome!” He reaches out and slides it towards him. “More breakfast for me!”

Harmon and I follow behind our parents as we head towards the Reaping. This year the stage has been set up in one of the many fields that lie on the outskirts of the District. I can see it now, rising up against the backdrop that is the golden field of wheatgrass. Already a sizable crowd has gathered and the Peacekeepers seem to have their hands full trying to sort everyone.

“We’ll meet back here afterwards,” Mother says as she gives Harmon and I a hug. “Then we can start planning what we’ll have for dinner.”

Harmon grins. “It’ll be something great, I’m sure! Has to be. After all, we’ll be celebrating Cora’s last Reaping!”

My stomach feels like it’s doing a somersault. Everyone looks at me and I force a smile. I just can’t overcome this worry. How does everyone else do it? How are they not swamped with the distress that dogs my every step?

Our parents leave us as they head off for the spectator crowd, so me and Harmon are in our own as we approach the Peacekeepers. Like usual, I squeal when they take my blood.

“Big baby,” Harmon smirks at me. He’s completely silent as they take his own blood.

I stick my tongue out at him. “Takes one to know one!”

We both laugh and I can feel the stress slipping away. Unfortunately it’s not lasting. We’re both different ages, so we’re split into two different lines. The moment Harmon is gone I can feel the despair crash back atop me. I’m surrounded by people I don’t know and that only intensifies my discomfort. I have a hard time interacting with people, let alone socializing.

“It is my honor to welcome you all to yet another Reaping!” Up on stage Mayor Price has taken up a microphone. It was his own nephew, Jake, who Hazel killed to draw the ire of District 9. And, speaking of Hazel, she too is here on stage.

She stands behind the Mayor, in the shadow of the veranda with several of our other Victors. We don’t have many. Even before Hazel and her curse District 9 hadn’t won often.

The crowd soon takes note of her and the usual raucous of boos and jeers drown out Mayor Price. He dutifully pauses and waits it out, but her reaction is not as prolonged or loud as it typically is. Maybe it’s because no spotlight was put on her. When the crowd finally goes quiet enough, Mayor Price continues. “I would like to welcome you all to the Reaping for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games. Today we shall discover which boy and girl will venture forth to the Capitol and become District 9’s tributes.”

I shuffle in place. I feel uneasy. Nervous. It takes all of my willpower not to throw up right here and now. What if my name is drawn?

Mayor Price steps aside as our escort, Grania Granada, takes center stage. She’s dressed the same as always, meaning that she is wearing an outfit designed to look like a stack of wheat. It’s bizarre and makes no sense, but when has anything from the Capitol made sense? “Hello, District 9!” She waves to the crowd, which is apathetic now that their disgust with Hazel has run its course, and gives a vapid smile. “Are you all excited for the Reaping?”

This comment draws some boos and she frowns, apparently surprised at the response. I don’t know what kind of reaction she expected, considering that no District 9 tribute has placed higher than twentieth since Hazel’s Victory. The Games aren’t a happy topic here.

“Well, I suppose that we should just move onto the actual Reaping then?” Grania pauses, as if hoping for some kind of response from the crowd, but none comes and she just waves for the bowl to be pushed out in front of her. “Very well. Then let us discover who will be the male tribute for District 9 in the 333rd Hunger Games!”

She reaches a hand into the bowl and selects a slip. I watch her unfold it. Watch her golden eyes as they take in the words printed on the paper. I watch her lips move as the utter two fateful words. “Harmon Achyls!”

There’s a high-pitch whining noise coming from somewhere within the crowd. My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. Harmon. My brother was just Reaped. My precious, beloved brother just had his name drawn out of that bowl. Harmon.

I see him as he moves through the crowd, the other boys stepping aside and creating a path to the stage for him. He casts a look my way and gives me a thumbs up. It looks forced. I’m his eyes I can see his true emotions. Disappointment and fear.

I choke on the air and the whining noise suddenly cuts off. That’s when I realize it was coming from me. Tears are streaming down my face and everything is blurry as I watch Grania ask Harmon a question. I don’t hear his reply, but it earns him some applause from the crowd. My knees feel weak. What if I faint?

Grania has already moved on to the next bowl. I watch her hand dip into it and find myself unable to breathe. Her eyes scan the paper and she glances at Harmon. Then she reads the name. “Discordia Achlys!”

I scream.

A long, piercing wail that penetrates the noise of the crowd and slips away into the blue sky. Harmon was wrong. He said I wouldn’t be Reaped. But I was. We both were.

And now we’re going to die.

My legs tremble so badly that I’m surprised that I reach the stage. Harmon is the first to greet me, wrapping me in a hug. His voice is a strained whisper in my ear. “It’ll be okay, Cora. We’ll find a way out of this. Don’t despair. Please.”

I’m too numb to respond. Black dots creep in on the edge of my vision. When Grania grabs my hand and goes to introduce me to the crowd, the blackness takes over completely.

The last thing I feel before fainting is the sensation of falling.

District Ten: Briar Destry
I sit crosslegged on the grass, gazing out at the sun as it lazily rises over the fields of District 10. It’s beautiful. There’s beauty to be had in every moment of life, if only one were to look for it.

Most people don’t. They can only find the bad, dwell on the negative and overlook all the good in the world. It’s a pessimistic worldview, one that I personally would find tiresome and dull. If you only search out the bad then why bother living at all?

I run a hand through the whispery grass, gently tugging a handful out and letting the wind sweep it out from my palm. My Father is already awake, out working the field even on a day the Capitol has declared a holiday, while my Mother and little sister Tasha are still asleep in the house behind me. I smile slightly at the thought. It’s for the best that they get their rest, because we’ll have to make the trip into the inner portion of the District today.

I let a few more minutes pass before standing and setting off down the old dirt path that rests a few steps from our front porch. Weeds grow thick on the edge, sometimes extending across the dirt itself. In a few years there may not be a path at all, just a tangle of unwanted weeds.

We don’t bother clearing the path because it doesn’t lead anywhere useful. Just to…the fence.

I come upon it after a few moments of following the trail. A cold, mesh fence made of interlocking steel wires. Buzzing faintly with the sound of electricity, it’s not much to look at it. But it’s not the fence itself that drew Aloysius and I here. It’s what lies beyond.

Aloysius called it freedom.

Trees and bushes grow beyond the fence, wild and untamed as they stretch into the great unknown which lies beyond. Aloysius was obsessed with this sight. Said that true freedom could only be found out there, outside the grasp of the Capitol. We spent many a summer day standing here with Poppy, gazing out at the trees and imagining the fantastical places just out of view.

I allow myself another smile as I settle down on the grass, tucking my knees against my chest. Those are wonderful memories. They always will be. But those times are in the past. Things will never again be so simple and peaceful. That’s not a bad thing, in of itself. Childhood is never meant to last forever.

My childhood ended the day Poppy was Reaped.

Bittersweet feelings flutter to the surface as I think of her. What kind of person would she have become if she was never Reaped? Would she have kept the carefree kindness that radiated from her? Would Aloysius and I ever started our relationship? Had she lived would…would Aloysius have left?

The wind gusts, sending a spray of leaves fluttering over the fence. I reach out and grab one as it floats past. I stare at the green leaf. A little piece of freedom, Aloysius would call it. He could never see beyond that. Not since Poppy’s death. Freedom was all he desired and the only way to achieve it was to get beyond the fence.

Last year he got his wish.

A storm had swept over the District and practically shut it down for several days. That was when Aloysius appeared at my window, beckoning me to join him outside. It was raining furiously, drenching us beyond belief as we headed for the fence. That’s when I noticed the gash in it. And I knew. I knew what had drawn Aloysius here, what he was planning.

I went with him outside. I stood in the middle of the woods and experienced what it felt like to be beyond the Capitol’s reach. For the first time in my life I had gotten what I’d always wanted. Aloysius begged me to come with him, to flee the District and start a new life somewhere else.

But I couldn’t do it.

I could never leave my parents and Tasha behind. They were my world and my happiness. They were my freedom. I know that it pained Aloysius for me to not share his dream—he told me as much—but I just couldn’t go with him. So he left me behind and went off on his own.

I’ve never been outside the fence since that day. The experience was intoxicating. I don’t trust that I’d be able to return if I was pressed again. I’m afraid that the allure will drag me in and never let me go. But today felt like the right time to come back here and…I don’t know. Reminisce, I suppose. Poppy and Aloysius were both huge parts of my life. It’s only right that I take a moment to reflect on that fact. Especially on today of all days. Reaping day was what led to Poppy’s death and Aloysius…

I’ve never seen Aloysius since he fled into the woods. This fence is the southernmost border of District 10, which is already the southernmost portion of Panem. I don’t know where he went, but it’s far beyond the Capitol’s reach. I like to imagine that he found what he was searching for. I hope he’s happy. Though knowing Aloysius…I often wondered if he could ever truly be happy. There was always something for him to dwell on.

I sit in contemplative silence for a few more minutes before standing. I dust myself off and follow the trail back to my home. There I spot my family; my parents standing on the porch as Tasha runs around in the front yard. A smile breaks across my face at the sight of them. My happiness. The difference between Aloysius and myself was that his source of happiness was an ideology while mine was…something more concrete. Something that can bring you back to the light when you’ve sunk to your lowest point.

“Briar!” Tasha’s eyes light up when she spots me. She dashes across the yard, grinning as her little legs take her forward. I drop to my knees and catch her in a hug. Laughter takes over us both. “Look! Look! We’re going into the District today! I’ll see big buildings!”

“That’s great!”

Tasha, my little sister. She is the reason I could never have left with Aloysius. She’s the reason why I’ve never regretted it.

The day is hot and dusty. The sun shines brightly in the sky, beating down on the backs of our necks as we all stand in line. The whipping wind has dust swirling above the stage. Occasionally the wind will change direction and bring it back into our faces. It stings my eyes.

District 10 is one of the poorer Districts in the country and it shows. Half of the children assembled here are emaciated, their spirits broken as they stand in the sweltering sun waiting to discover their fate. We often perform poorly in the Games; in the past fifty years only District’s 11 and 12 have had fewer Victors then us.

There’s a divide in the crowd. Those of us who hail from the southern part of the District stand apart from those in the north. The northern portion of District 10 is drastically different from the south, and it even shows in our appearance. Most people from the south have a deeper skin tone, ranging from caramel to copper, and dark colored eyes. Our clothes are shabby or dirty, oftentimes both. The northern residents have paler skin and lighter eyes; their clothing is neater and cleaner. When we’re forced to stand side-by-side like this there is a stark difference.

Up on stage District officials and our escort, Aelius Agrippa, come into focus as the Reaping officially begins. A large television screen, set up in the corner of the stage, flickers on with staticky images as the Mayor begins his usual speech.

I let my eyes drift over the crowd where my parents and Tasha wait. I was shielded from the Games and the Reaping until I reached the age of twelve. My sister will not be afforded the same privilege. In recent years the District officials have cracked down on those of us who’ve been skipping the Reaping, forcing the families who live on the outskirts and in the farthest reaches of the District to attend. They say it’s because of us that we’ve had such poor performances in the Games; if the children don’t know about the Games they can’t properly prepare.

It’s an excuse and we all know it, but what can you do?

“ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?” Aelius screams into the microphone so loudly that half the crowd flinches back, covering their ears. A District official steps forward and whispers into his ear and he frowns. “Huh? Too loud? What’d you mean, bro? Whatever.”

I’ve never liked Aelius. He’s a large, dimwitted man who goes past the point of being muscular and verges into the realm of gross. He’s so big that his muscles have muscles. Yet we’ve been stuck with him as our escort for years now.

“Let’s find out who our female tribbie will be, yeah?”Aelius stomps over to one of the large glass bowls and sticks his massive hand inside. He churns it around for a bit before emerging with a handful of slips. Aelius drops all of them but one and I watch as the wind instantly whips them away. “And our female tribute for the 333rd Hunger Games is…BRIAR DESTRY!”

I can hear Aloysius in my head, telling me that I should have gone with him. I would have escaped this fate if I had. He’s probably right. I wouldn’t have been Reaped had I fled into the stormy night. But I push those thoughts aside. I don’t have any regrets. All of those days spent with Tasha more than made up for this moment. I could never have abandoned my family, even knowing what I do now. If I could go back to that night with Aloysius…

I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The crowd is silent as I climb atop the stage and join Aelius and the others. Somewhere among them are my parents and Tasha. Does she understand what is happening? Will my parents explain it to her? For years they’d hidden the Games from me. It wasn’t until Poppy was Reaped and I snuck out to watch the bloodbath did I learn the true extent of what horrors they entailed. Will the same be true for Tasha?

That thought pierces right into my heart.

“Congratulations, little lady!” Aelius pats me on the back so hard that I lose my footing and stumble forward. The Mayor reaches out and grabs me before I go falling right off the stage. I quietly thank him and he gives me a small nod as I return to my place beside Aelius.

Though dread has begun to creep in, I realize that this could still turn out in my favor. Victors are granted untold riches and prestige. If I survive these Games I could use that wealth to give Tasha a life she otherwise would never of had. But…to win the Games means killing. There has never been a Victor who earned their Crown without killing someone. Even the most kindhearted of Victors such as Missy Randos and Watt Chargy slew another tribute on their path to Victory.

The Games could change me. Warp me into some kind of twisted shadow of my former self. I’ve seen it happen to others often enough to know that this is a real possibility, not merely some fantasy. I don’t want to kill. I don’t want to harm another human being.

But in the Games will I be given the choice?

Aelius had moved on while I was in my thoughts. The large man has maneuvered his bulky frame over to the boys bowl and has stuck his hand inside, fishing around for a slip. He has just about pulled one out when a tremulous voice calls out from the crowd.

“I volunteer!”

That causes a stir in the crowd. A volunteer? District 10 hasn’t had one of those in a few years, so this is a rare occurrence. I watch with curious eyes as the volunteer makes his way on stage.

He’s tall and thin, with dark brown skin that marks him as someone from the southern portion of the District. Not too surprising. I can’t imagine anyone from the northern part volunteering.

“Whoa! A volunteer!” Aelius claps his massive hands together as the boy stops beside us. “You actually want to fight and die in the Games? Nice, bro.”

I study the boy and his mannerisms with a critical eye. Despite being rather underfed—which isn’t too uncommon for people in District 10–he’s rather handsome. His black hair is short and un-styled, an utilitarian look for sure. He also seems nervous and jittery; as if he’s not fully confident of his actions.

“Oh, right, what’s your name?” Aelius pats the boy on the back.

The guy does a better job staying on his feet then I did. “M-My name is Damian Gonzalez.”

“Right on, my man!” Aelius gives him another slap on the back and returns to the microphone. “Yo, District 10! Give it up to your new tributes, Briar Destry and Damian Gonzalez!”

There’s some polite applause but little else. No one cares much about two nobodies from the southern outskirts of the District. As the proceedings continue, I turn a critical eye on Damian. He seems kind and unassuming, two points in his favor. And, truth be told, if I myself am unable to win then I’d want my District partner to. That way my family would still benefit from the extra food and wealth the Victor’s District receives.

With this on my mind I approach the tall boy. “Hi, I’m Briar.”

He glances at me. “Oh…hello. Guess we’re both going into the Games, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah, seems like it.”

This is awkward, but what did I expect? The two of us are about to be put into a situation where we’re most likely going to die. Conversation isn’t exactly our foremost concern right now. But that’s why I have to try.

“You want to be allies? In the Games?”

Damian looks around, as if he’s worried someone is watching, but no one is paying us any attention. He scratches his head. “I guess? I mean, I definitely want allies. So…yeah, sure. We can be allies.”

I allow myself a small smile. Though I may not look like it, I already have a plan in mind for how to survive the Games. And that requires me having allies, likeminded individuals who aren’t cruel monsters or singleminded terminators. I want kind, honest people at my side. The kind of person who I can trust wholeheartedly. And, even though I’ve only known him for minutes, I believe Damian is one of those people.

Now I just need to find a few more.

District Thirteen: Solomon Eudia
I stand out in the summer rain, breathing deeply as the swollen raindrops gently tap against the hood of my jacket. The vast plains of District 13 stretch out before me, empty land which once held buildings that were erased long ago by the Capitol bombs. I can’t help but compare those buildings to my family. Once vibrant and full of life, but now dead and empty.

I wonder how those Capitol pilots felt as they dropped the bombs. Did they care that they’d just annihilated thousands of people? Was it hard on them? Or was it just another task they had to perform?

What is the difference between me and them?

The difference is that I murdered my family while they only killed people they didn’t know.

My mother, father, brothers, and sisters are all dead at my hand. Each and every one with the exception of Alcmene was murdered by me in what the Capitol has gone on to name the Tragedy of the Eudia. I’ve been branded a monster, a disgusting kin-killer who almost single-handedly ended the bloodline of District 1’s most prestigious family.

Those accusations are true.

The rain continues to fall, slow and steady. The fields before me are sodden with water. The rain has been drizzling since this morning, when I saw her face on the television. The Reapings are structured in a way so that none are on at that the same time; supposedly so that someone could watch each one if they so chose. District 1 had their Reaping first.

That’s where I saw Alcmene volunteer.

My dear little sister, who once had been my best friend in the world, had volunteered for the Games. She’d been the only member of my family to survive my massacre. I had intentionally spared her so that Aamon couldn’t get his hands on the family fortune…and because I simply couldn’t stomach the thought of harming her.

Citria and Hyacinth’s faces flash in my mind. My two sisters were so young when I performed the Tragedy. Not a night goes by where I don’t relive myself cutting them down as they entered the Estate with Claude. They didn’t deserve that fate. I shouldn’t have killed them. I know that. I know that!

I turn away from the fields, unable to stomach these thoughts anymore. I stride back into the dirt path behind me and walk along it as it meanders back towards the main portion of the District, where the Reaping Square awaits.

Alcmene is going into the Games. She still believes me to be a heartless monster that slaughtered her loving family. While she’s not completely wrong, she doesn’t have all the facts.

Mainly that I regret everything.

I know that doesn’t make up for what I did, doesn’t even begin to come close, but I’m not trying to atone. Atonement isn’t possible. I don’t want her sympathy or forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. The only thing I want is for her to know the truth. The reason behind my actions. The abuse and suffering I endured at the hands of my own family and, most of all, Aamon.

Dark thoughts flutter to the forefront of my mind as I think of him. He played me like a fiddle. Abused me. Manipulated me into doing his own handiwork. He made me—

No.

Nothing made me do anything. No matter what terrible things happened in my life, no matter what dreadful feelings rose up from my soul, I chose to do the things I did. I’m responsible for my own actions, and no one else.

And yet…

Memories of the abuse fill my thoughts. Of the beatings I endured from my own Father and brothers, of the psychological manipulation that Aamon put me through. Sometimes I wake up and I think I’m still back there. I can’t handle—

I recognize the signs of an oncoming panic attack and shut my mind off. Take deep breaths. In times like these I need to think of something peaceful, something that puts me at ease. The rain is still pattering down. Gently, softly. I imagine the ocean. Tides peaceably rolling in and out. Swells on the horizon. Seagulls flocking overhead. I feel myself begin to relax. The tension dissipating from my body.

I imagine the faces of everyone here in District 13 who has believed in me. Everyone who told me to stay when I wanted to leave. People who, when thought I was incapable of being around them, told me that I was better than I thought I was. I imagine Leilani’s face. So sweet and gentle. She was the one who awoke me when I washed up on shore in the years after I fled District 1. She was capable of emphasizing with my abuse, as she too had suffered at the hands of Aamon. She was someone who—

A sword cleaves through Leilani’s neck.

The illusion is shattered. My peace is gone. I slump to my knees and grasp my head, hands slick with the falling rain. Leilani was Reaped for the 331st Hunger Games and found her death there. And just like that, one of the few lights in my world had gone out. What was the point of carrying on if I was just going to lose everything? It wasn’t my fault; Leilani’s family reassured me of that. But things hardly change just because it wasn’t my fault…

A bell rings. I snap out of my thoughts and focus on its pealing, recognizing the sound for what it is. A signal that the Reaping is about to begin. I rise unsteadily to my feet. I shouldn’t have let myself become distracted with the past; it’s meaningless to me now. The only thing I should be concerned about is joining Alcmene in the Games. That is when I can dwell on the past. If I do so any earlier, I am only risking my own life.

I take off at a brisk trot. The last thing I need is to be late for the Reaping and carted off to jail. Entering the Games is essential if I want to reconnect with Alcmene. It’s probably my only chance of ever meeting with her; because when would I get the opportunity to return to District 1? And there’s also the chance that she dies inside the arena. I don’t like the thought, especially since her death would leave the fate of the Eudia Family fortune in question, but it is a very real possibility. Twenty-eight tributes enter but only one comes out alive…

Just why did Alcmene volunteer?

It’s a question I have no answer to as I join a crowd of people waiting in a line. Ahead of me lies the stage and the assembled children. Alcmene never truly struck me as the type of person who wanted to compete in the Games. In all my years of being her big brother and friend, never once did I anticipate that she would someday volunteer. But now she has.

And so I must do the same.

It won’t be easy. Just being in the Games with her isn’t enough to guarantee we’ll have the opportunity to talk. If I am to try and make a reconciliation I’ll need to do it at the right time, and ensure that it is a spectacle the Capitol wants to see. Volunteering alone won’t do the trick. I am a wanted fugitive and if I don’t wish to be executed the moment I reveal my identity I need to make damn sure that I’m more valuable alive than dead.

I need to make the Capitol believe I truly am the Disgusting Kin-Killer.

The line moves swiftly. The Peacekeepers seem eager to dispatch the crowd, so they take little effort in drawing our blood and organizing us. Soon enough I’m shuffling alongside the other eighteen year-olds as we approach the stage. I push my way to the front. I want there to be no impediments when I volunteer.

I’ll need to play up my villainy. I ponder on this as I watch the District officials move about on stage. I will need a cover to deceive everyone into thinking I’m truly evil, so that when the truth behind the Tragedy and the reveal of my remorse comes out, the shock will be maximized. After all, the Capitol loves a spectacle. If I pull this off properly than I may just become a Hunger Games legend. If I fail…

I’ll die without getting the chance to tell Alci the truth.

“District 13, I would like to once again welcome you to the annual Reapings!” The microphone is taken over by Escort. A nondescript older man dressed entirely in plain black clothing, he has been District 13’s escort for the last thirty-two years, the entirety of their time competing in the Games. “This year we will select two tributes to compete in the 333rd Annual Hunger Games. A most momentous occasion indeed.”

There’s some polite applause, though I know that most of the citizenry do not care for the Games. It is a stark difference from the other Districts I had once called home; 1 and 4 were obsessed with them.

“Let us waste no time in selecting our first tribute!” Escort snaps his fingers and a bowl is rolled out before him. He reaches a hand inside and delicately removes a small white slip. “And District 13’s female tribute for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games is…Lucia Shale!”

There’s a stirring in the crowd. A girl steps out, making her way up the stage with a face that is almost completely expressionless. Escort claps politely for her as she stops beside him. “Lucia Shale, I take it?”

She nods. Tall and muscular, her face and arms are dotted with scars. Her hair is a deep auburn color, long and wavy as it cascades down her lower back. I quietly note it as a liability in a fight. A handful of that hair would be give me an immediate advantage in any hand-to-hand combat.

Escort delays on stage, almost as if he’s expecting Lucia to say something, but the girl shows no sign of speaking. He purses his lips and snaps his fingers for the next bowl to be rolled out.

Anticipation grows in my chest. This is it. There will be no coming back from this. The moment I volunteer I’m railroaded into my fate and, in all likelihood, will wind up dead. Considering how despised I am in the Capitol for my actions during the Tragedy, I cannot foresee any possibility that I survive beyond the Games. If I volunteer I am signing my own death warrant.

I am fine with that.

“I volunteer!” I call out before Escort even reaches into the bowl. He pulls short, eyes studying the crowd. I raise my hand as I begin to move. The few people in front of me quickly scatter. “I volunteer for tribute.”

My legs quiver only slightly as I head up the steps. Escort and Lucia observe me quietly. Her face remains completely blank. “My, my, a volunteer!” Escort gives a half-bow as I take my place beside him. “What a fortuitous occasion. May I have your name, good sir?”

I hesitate. Some of the people in the crowd know me and understand what I’ve been through. People like Leilani and her family. But the rest of the District doesn’t. They may even be shocked by my true identity. But I can’t hide the truth any longer.

“I’m Solomon Eudia.”

There’s a flash of recognition in Escort’s eyes. His features tighten and the smile that he gives suddenly seems forced. “Oh? Are you now?”

I don’t answer. It’s impossible to miss the way the Peacekeepers on stage snap into focus, hands curling around their guns. Even all these years later my name carries weight.

Escort steps closer. He makes a show of patting me on the back, but I can see the true emotion in his eyes. Hate and disgust. “So you’ve finally shown your face, have you? The Disgusting Kin-Killer emerges from his hole to…what? Become Victor? Do you think that’ll erase your past?”

Something is off. The Peacekeepers appear to be waiting on this man’s command. But he’s just a simple escort, isn’t he? Why would they listen to him? And his tone…

“Cat got your tongue?” Escort raises a gloved hand and taps me on the cheek. “Surely you don’t think that the Capitol has forgotten your crimes?”

His microphone has been cut. The Mayor is speaking, distracting the crowd. The only people still paying us any attention is Lucia and the Peacekeepers. I try not to panic. The Reapings are live. My volunteering has already gone through to the rest of Panem. They can’t kill me now.

Can they?

“You murdered your entire family…” Escort shakes his head. “Such a despicable thing. How could you do it?”

“With a sword.”

The words leave my lips unbidden. Thoughts of my persona had been circulating in my head, demanding attention, and I had spoken with even realizing. Make myself too interesting to kill. Wasn’t that my plan? Make a spectacle so that the Capitol kept me alive long enough to reach Alcmene?

Escort recoils from me, looking truly disgusted. That’s how low I am. How pitiful. Even someone from the Capitol thinks I am absolutely heinous. “Seize him.”

Two Peacekeepers grab me from behind. I don’t resist. What would be the point? I could hardly escape. “I volunteered for the Games,” I say as my arms are twisted behind me. I feel someone slide a pair of handcuffs around my wrist. “You can’t arrest me.”

“Oh, I know,” Escort steps back, nearly bumping into Lucia who watches us with curious eyes. “You’ll still be brought into the arena. You will compete in the Games. I dare say that no one has deserved such a thing more than you have.”

“Then why all this?”

Escort sniffs haughtily. “I refuse to allow a criminal such a yourself to arrive in the Capitol with any degree of fanfare. No, when you arrive it’ll be bound like a prisoner. Such as you deserve.”

The Peacekeepers begin to pull me away. I remain motionless, unresisting. He’s right. I am despicable. A monster. Someone who is completely beyond atonement. I deserve nothing more than the treatment I am given. So I allow myself to be dragged away with nary a protest.

Because as long as I get to reconnect with Alcmene, nothing else matters.

The Capitol: Remus Ring
I stand before a mirror and carefully adjust my outfit. Tonight is the Reaping and the beginning of the weeklong festivities that coincide with the launch of the 333rd Hunger Games. The Ring Family will be in the public eye for much of these festivities, and my parents expect me to be perfect. No, that is not quite right. I have to be perfect.

Satisfied that my appearance will meet my parents standards, I turn away from the mirror and cross the room, feet tapping against the ornate marble floor that takes up the entirety of the Ring Mansion’s ground floor. Far from being a pointless luxury, the marble was long ago chosen for the sole purpose of intimidating, impressing, and otherwise socially wowing the other Great Families of the Capitol. The Ring Family, and my father Basilius in particular, are very big proponents of always being the absolute best.

I have suffered from that desire in more ways than one.

Before departing the room I pause beside the coat racks and take up my cape, casually throwing it across my shoulders. A dual tone of red and blue, it has the Ring Family crest emblazoned upon its back. A detail that won’t be lost upon Father. He has often stressed the importance of me representing the Ring Family, sometimes to the point of suppressing my own identity. To him, it is paramount that I become the best possible representation of a Ring. Everything else is secondary.

With this fresh on my mind, I take up my walking stick. That’s not the correct term for my staff, but it’s what I’ve chosen to call it so that my parents believe it is merely an accessory to my outfit than the weapon that it is.

I don’t particularly need a weapon on me. My own exceptional fighting skills aside, as a member of one of the Great Families I am often surrounded by more guards than is necessary. But I am loathe to part with my staff for the simple fact that it’s mine. During the time between my studies and fighting club, I’ve often dabbled in hobbies. At one point, I picked up the habit of carving, crafting for myself, among a multitude of other creations, a staff made of pure oak wood. I’ve trained strenuously with it, to the point where it is merely an extension of my own body.

Finally satisfied with my appearance, I take off down the corridor.

I only get a few steps before running across a group of Avoxes. They scurry out of my way, bowing deeply as they press themselves against the walls. A feeling akin to an illness manifests inside me at the mere sight of them. Every time I see an Avox I cannot help but think of Julius.

The Avoxes have noticed that I’ve stopped moving. I can see the unease in their eyes. They’re probably wondering if they have done something wrong, earned the ire of the heir to the Ring family. They’re nervous, and for good reason. Father has an explosive temper when it comes to Avoxes. Of course, that is also because of Julius.

I haven’t seen my brother in seven years. Not since the night of…the incident.

“You may continue with your work,” I let the thoughts of Julius fade from my mind and wave the Avoxes off. “You have done nothing to bother me.”

They rush out of my sight at record speed. I watch them depart, feeling oddly melancholy. I had not thought that today of all days would be one that made me think of Julius so throughly. Not that a single day has passed where I haven’t missed him, of course. My big brother was my hero. He was everything I aspired to be in life. Mother and Father always expected great things out of us, impossible things. It seemed as if they wanted us both to be a master at every academic field which existed. I often struggled to meet those standards—I still do—but Julius always seemed to surpass them with relative ease.

And despite it all, the pressure and sleepless nights studying, Julius still found time to play with me. My brother was never one to turn me or any other person down. He would help whoever, whenever, however he could. Julius was the greatest person I’d ever seen and I will never be even half the man he is.

I continue along the corridor, emerging into the Great Foyer, which is distinct from the South and West Foyers by being twice as large as the other two combined. A mass of people have gathered here, servants and guards, Avoxes and sycophants, all awaiting the arrival of my parents. Father is a proud man of noble lineage. His arrival must be greeted with great acclaim.

I take my place in the center of the group, inside the Ring Family crest that has been woven into the marble work. Everyone steps aside for me, some murmuring quietly to themselves. In recent times it has been rare for me to venture out with my parents; Father thought it necessary for me to stay behind and focus on my studies. But today is different. Today is the Reaping for the 333rd Hunger Games, and each and every one of the Great Families will be present to watch Tiberius Stryker preside over his final Games as President.

A lone trumpet sounds and my parents make an appearance at the top of the stairs. Instantly everyone in the foyer bows, with the exception of myself. I once made that mistake and bowed when everyone else did, only to receive a cuff to the head from Father. I was a Ring, he told me, and a Ring bows to no one.

So I remain standing straight backed as my parents descend the stairs. Both of them are dressed in their finest, and Mother is adorned with a multitude of rings, bracelets, and necklaces. She wears so much that she probably costs more than half the District’s. Father, meanwhile, wears no jewelry save for the rings on his fingers. Austere and rigid, his appearance perfectly encapsulates the kind of man he is.

“Mother, Father.” I dip my head in greeting as they finally reach the ground floor. Their eyes search me, scan my appearance, and I brace myself for the scathing remark they typically have prepared for me.

Surprisingly, none comes.

“Come along, Remus,” Father brushes past me and towards the front door of the manor, Mother close behind him. I dutifully fall in line.

The three of us make our way down the gilded steps of the manor, passing by the myriad statues that line the staircase. At the bottom, awaiting us in the middle of our almost mile long driveway, sits our limousine. We pause as servants rush to open the doors.

“Remus,” Father turns to me and I find myself under his gaze. A cold, hard man, Father has never been one to shy away from blunt or harsh words. “I’ve recently received a report from your tutors, and it appears that you have been slipping in your studies.”

I don’t respond immediately. One must be careful not to speak until Father is finished. His eyes narrow at me. “You may not realize so, but your tutor also works for the other Great Families, and he has informed me that you are well behind Cyprian Valii in multiple subjects.”

If there is one thing that Father detests, it is being outshone by the other Families. He takes even the smallest of setbacks as a personal offense, and he is not one to overlook any sort of failure. Truth be told, I am slipping in my studies. More and more of my time and energy has been spent at the fighting club or, when I am at home, strategizing over the next fight. For the first time in my life I’ve found something I’m passionate about, and it is most definitely not my studies.

“I will not allow my son to be upstaged by any whelp of Sulyvahn Valii, you understand?”

“I understand, Father. I will be better.” Never apologize to Father. Apologizing is a sign of weakness, and weakness is something a Ring must never show.

Mother enters the limousine, but Father remains outside with me. One hand adjusts his tie. “When we return from the Reaping festivities you are to resume your studies immediately.”

“I understand, Father.” The festivities often stretch on long into the morning, sometimes even to dawn. I can only hope that this is a one time occurrence, that he doesn’t permanently extend my studying into the night, for that is when I go the fight club and compete in the bouts. And I need to compete. Since discovering the club my love for fighting has begun to define me. Though I was often beaten senseless in my first few matches, I’ve long since taught myself the minute details of combat, and now I never lose.

Last night was no different. I spent the entirety of it at the club, winning match after match. My body aches with sores, but the good kind. The kind that lets you know that you’re alive. I didn’t care that I only had a few hours sleep, or that I was forced to spend the rest of my day studying until prep time for the Reaping. I didn’t care because I was able to fight.

And fighting is when I feel most alive.

“You are a Ring, Remus!” Father is still lecturing. The servants patiently wait, holding the limousine doors open. “You are the sole heir to the Ring name, and when you fail, we all fail. So you’d best be certain you never fail.”

He enters the limousine. I remain standing outside, cold. Sole heir. That’s not technically true. Julius still lives. He was merely shipped off to be a Peacekeeper in District 6 after…after he was caught with the Avox.

I find myself reflecting on the past as I follow my parents inside the limo. The engine starts up the moment the door shuts behind me, and then we’re off. We’re headed to the Capitol Concourse, and the Reaping. Unlike the District’s, we hold our Reaping at night. Fireworks and festivities accompany the moment. It’s all just one grand party. Like the one where I lost Julius.

I was only ten at the time. I had fallen behind on my essay and was up studying in my room. It was Julius’ eighteenth birthday, a grand party, one held at the Ring Manor and attended by a veritable who’s who of the Capitol. Several of President Stryker’s own children were even present.

And, as I I had fallen asleep while studying, I missed the incident itself. But I heard the scream. It was enough to wake me up from where I’d dozed off, head over the essay which was nearly complete, and without even a moments hesitation I left my bedroom in order to investigate. Dazed and confused, I descended the stairs and was greeted by the sight of Father being pinned down by four different guests, thrashing and cursing all the while. Blood coated his knuckles.

I remember being frozen with fear, rooted to the spot until I caught sight of Mother talking on the telephone by the corner of the room, one of her friends resting a hand on her shoulder for support. Her tone was tinged with desperation and her voice powered through the sound of the crowd that had assembled by the kitchen door, which I made my way towards out of pure impulse. The sight that awaited me was one that remains burned into my memory to this very day.

The Avox which had served me breakfast that same morning sat on the porcelain tiled kitchen floor, huddled against the counter. Blood trickled down the side of her face, pooling out of a wound in her temple and coating her hair and uniform. No more than five feet away laid my brother, his face battered and bruised. He did not move.

I tried to reach my brother, attempting to push my way through the crowd when I was yanked back by the collar of my shirt. Kicking and screaming all the while, I was dragged up the stairs and hauled into my bedroom quite unceremoniously, the door lock clicking behind me.

I only learned the truth of what had happened the following afternoon when Balbina, an old maid who’d served my family for as long as I could remember, finally told me the tale of what transpired. Apparently Julius had a romance with that Avox and was caught by one of the guests. When Father learned he beat the two senseless, only sparing their lives by the intervention of other guests. Yet the Avox wound up dead regardless, executed by Peacekeepers. As for Julius…

He was made into a Peacekeeper and shipped off to District 6. His titles and inheritance were stripped from him, leaving me as the sole heir to the Ring Family.

I have never seen Julius since.

The limousine slows to a crawl, then comes to a complete stop. Outside I can hear the cheering of a crowd, the celebration of the masses. A servant opens the door and my parents step out. I follow.

We’re at the Capitol Concourse, the very same path where the chariot rides take place. But right now it’s jam packed with people as they crowd into line, jostling one another to get closer to the gilded stage that is set up directly before the Presidential Manor. Fireworks explode in the air behind it, framing the marvelous building with a backdrop of beautiful light.

“Do remember that we’re invited to the party at the Manor,” Father barely looks at me as he and Mother begin to move towards a nearby staircase, a platoon of guards already forming around them. “It would not do for the Ring family heir to miss the party. So do not disappoint me again, Remus.”

President Stryker holds the same party every year. Held at the Presidential Manor, all of the Great Families and other nobility of the Capitol gather together to celebrate yet another day of Reapings. Attendance is practically mandatory for those who wish to remain in the President’s good graces.

As for the Reaping, Mother and Father will be seated up in a balcony overlooking the concourse, along with the other Great Families and Capitol officials. I, however, cannot join them. As I am still of Reaping age I am obliged to join the common masses in the streets, wherein I must await to discover my fate.

I make my way there now, bypassing the Peacekeepers who form a security ring around the venue. Despite being lumped in with the regular citizenry of the Capitol, there is actually a divide amongst us even here. In each line the children of the Great Families have carved out a little spot for their own, a pocket of empty space surrounding each such group. None of the common rabble dare intrude, lest they draw the ire of the Families.

Sometimes I find myself wishing to seat myself among the commoners, just to speak with them and discover how they see the world. But I daren’t take any such action. For if Father found out…

Best to simply stay in my bubble.

So I join the group of the Great Family children in the seventeen year-olds line. There’s slightly less than a dozen of us, and I know each one by name. I’ve been forced to attend parties alongside them often enough for that. As they’re still doing the formalities up on stage, the group is talking quietly to each other. Yet they pause when I arrive.

“Ah, Remus!” A blond youth with twinkling blue eyes and a toothy smile greets me. “Finally allowed out of your parents house, are you?”

“I’ve merely been busy with my studies,” I give him a polite nod. Cyprian Valii. The very same boy whose grades Father had been scolding me for not matching. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Cyprian hardly studies, yet he still receives top marks!” A girl with her midnight black hair tied back in two long braids titters with laughter. Seraphina Wells, the third daughter of Dysmas Wells. She is destined to be a mindless socialite, too far down the family tree to inherit much of anything.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hardly study!” Cyprian allows himself a disarming smile. “I do indeed put some effort into my studies.”

“That’s more than Froyter can say,” A bespectacled boy says with a smirk. Callum Trevelyan. Him and his twin brother Jasper are both here in line, the eldest sons of Rickard Trevelyan, the heir apparent to House Trevelyan.

“Well, what’s the point of studying?” Froyter Mendelssohn, a ruddy faced boy with a penchant for causing mischief, shrugs his wide shoulders. “When I come into my inheritance I’ll be richer than ninety-nine percent of Panem, so I very much doubt anyone will care about my grades.”

He doesn’t have a very good grasp on politics in the Capitol. Here, appearance is everything. If you in any way seem inferior to another, then you can and will be judged accordingly. President Stryker himself is very keen on intelligence, and rarely does one rise high in his inner circle without any.

“Ah, yes, inheritance,” Cyprian laughs uproariously. I haven’t the faintest idea what is so funny, yet several of the others join him. “Most of us will inherit quite the fortune…unless Remus goes the way of his brother, of course.”

A few of the others continue to laugh, but most of the group falls silent. I watch Cyprian quietly. My face does not twitch. I do not issue any threats. I merely regard him with a cold, hard gaze. I can stand the teasing about my being cooped up, am able to wave off insults to my family, but I will never sit idly by as someone tarnishes the name of my beloved brother.

Cyprian must sense my anger, for he quickly adopts a jovial smile. “It’s merely a joke, Remus. I am sure you will come fully into your inheritance. You…” He trails off, seeing the look in my eyes for the first time.

“Do not speak about my brother. Ever.”

He is spared having to respond by the sound of trumpets. Instantly everyone’s heads swivel to the stage, where several people have begun to enter from behind. I recognize them instantly. Everyone in the Capitol does.

It’s President Stryker and his prospective heirs.

The President strides to the forefront of the stage, politely waving to the crowd as they erupt with cheers. An elderly man with a full head of gray hair and a close cropped beard, President Tiberius Stryker radiates power. Dressed in a simple black suit with his trademark red velvet tie, he smiles as takes up a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the most esteemed Capitol, I welcome you to the Reaping for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!” Thunderous applause greets his words. Whatever else can be said about the Capitol, we truly love the Games and our President. “But before we begin, I would like to take this moment to address the elephant in the room. Yes, I am talking about my pending retirement as your President.”

“So it’s true,” Seraphina whispers. “He really is retiring!”

While rumors of such have been circulating for months now, this is the first time the President has outright confirmed it. My tutors have practically spoken of this every day; rarely has a President willingly stepped down before. Typically they preside over Panem until their death.

President Stryker gestures with a gloved hand to the people standing behind him. There’s seven in total, and I recognize five of them as his children; I’ve personally met several of them. Yet the other two are mysteries to me. “One of these seven individuals will become President in my stead. They will inherit the most important position of government in this glorious nation and do their utmost to ensure you all continue to live pleasurable lives. You may be asking yourself, which one will it be? Well, that question will be decided in the coming weeks. But, for now, I will introduce each of them to you.”

“Can’t believe this is actually happening,” Cyprian mutters. A few of the others murmur their agreement. “What kind of person willing relinquishes power?”

A foreign concept to most of my peers, true. But oddly enough I find myself enthralled with the idea. Why rule forever when you can groom yourself a worthy successor? Best to decide on a heir before you depart—that way there will be no squabbles for power upon your death.

President Stryker walks across the stage, approaching the first man in line. He lays a hand on his shoulder. “As some of you may know, this is my younger brother, Escortius.” A plain, almost nondescript man dressed in a simple black suit, Escortius hardly stands out. Older than the others around him, he can’t be much more than ten years younger than President Stryker. “My brother has always shied away from the spotlight and has spent the last thirty odd years being the escort for District 13.”

There’s some scattered applause. Apparently few people recognize him. Not that I blame them—I myself had no idea who he was.

President Stryker moves further down the line, stopping before a portly middle-aged man with a fast receding hairline. “I would like you to welcome my eldest son, Nedry.”

Nedry smiles and wipes a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead. Few people applaud. Father has spoken about Nedry before, calling him a weak, dimwitted man with no appetite for success. I would fathom a guess that President Stryker agrees with that assessment. Why else hold this contest instead of simply assigning his eldest child as heir?

“Next, my children Roscoe and Rozlyn.”

His second oldest children and a pair of twins, the two appear to be somewhere in their mid-thirties, with dark black hair and eyes like chunks of ice. The two are inseparable, and I’ve heard it said that Rozlyn has never had a thought that Roscoe didn’t already have.

“My third son, Dimentio.”

A small, lithe man with the grace of a cat, he smiles broadly as he’s introduced to the crowd. Unlike the rest of his family his hair isn’t black; instead it’s a golden blond. Dimentio is one of the President’s children whom I’ve personally met. As a child we often attended the same parties, and he was a close friend of my brother. Not a surprise, as the two are of a similar age.

“And my youngest child, the lovely Aurilee.”

Another one I know. Aurilee is a year or two older than I am, with the same golden hair as her brother and deep blue eyes. Dimples bloom in her cheeks, and she has a gentle, sweet voice. Truth be told, I had a crush on her when I was younger. And seeing her now on stage, I can honestly say that she is still beautiful.

“And last, but most certainly not least, we have the esteemed Erevan Newcastle!”

A young man with slicked back hair and an expertly styled beard, he showcases impressive charisma, winking and smiling at the crowd as he waves to them.

“He’s that business mogul, right?” Jasper frowns as he gazes up at the stage.

“Yeah,” Seraphina taps a finger against her bracelet. “He, like, owns pretty much all of the transport companies. My father said he practically controls the country’s supply lines.”

As the only one of the seven potential heirs not to be related to President Stryker, Erevan Newcastle most certainly stands out. I wonder why it is that Stryker chose him as a possible successor?

As the President has finished showing off his heirs, he returns to the center of the stage and snaps his fingers for the Reaping bowl to be rolled out. “But let us not be distracted from the task at hand. Today we have assembled to see which two fine children of the Capitol shall compete in the 333rd Hunger Games. We shall begin with the females!”

None of the girls beside me show much fear or trepidation as the President approaches the bowl. Rarely has a child of the Great Families been Reaped. Our names are in there few times compared to the masses, and the Capitol typically has a volunteer in any case.

“I volunteer!” A voice rises from the crowd just as the President reaches a hand into the bowl. He smiles and gestures at the girl who called out.

“Come on up, then. The Capitol is dying to meet our esteemed tribute!”

I watch with tepid interest as the girl takes the stage. An eighteen year-old with wavy green hair the color of emeralds, her entire outfit is the same matching green color. In fact, the only part of her ensemble that isn’t green are the pair of black sunglasses she wears. I frown. There’s a sense of familiarity around this woman. Have I met her before?

“And what is your name, dear?” President Stryker greets her with a handshake.

“I am Mercia Occisor, and I hope to bring glory to the Capitol.”

Ah, yes. Truth be told I have seen her before. While I can’t say I’ve ever interacted with her, over the years we’ve both attended many of the same galas and parties in the Capitol. We ran in different social circles, though, and honestly the only reason I ever made note of her was because she always wore those sunglasses, even at parties which took place indoors and at night. Peculiar.

Mercia and the President exchange a few more pleasantries before the next bowl is rolled out. He pauses briefly, probably waiting to see if there’ll be a volunteer, then reaches a hand inside and selects a slip. The name that is read elicits a gasp from Seraphina.

“Remus Ring!”

My first thought is of how disappointed Father will be. Years of effort grooming me into the perfect successor has been wiped away in a mere moment.

My second thought is about how fortunate I am to have spent so much time at the fighting club. Now I’ll at least stand a chance in the arena.

“Maybe there’ll be a volunteer?” Froyter glances around hopefully, though I know that no savior is coming to my rescue. The Games are my fate and there will be no escape.

I begin my ascent, the others murmuring their condolences as I pass them by. The crowd offers its own cheers, obviously excited to see the next tribute. I keep myself calm, adopting a poised and regal appearance as I stand before the Capitol and all of Panem. Whatever will be thought of me, I will not let it be said that I was weak or afraid.

“Ah, young Remus, what a pleasure it is to see you again!” President Stryker offers me a handshake that I gratefully return. Though his words confuse me, for I can’t remember ever actually having met the man before. Seen him, of course. Been inside the same room, yes. But spoken to? Most definitely not.

“I must confess that I do not remember our first meeting,” I say politely.

He gives me a grandfatherly smile. “Of course not. I forgot you were but a babe when we met. Though I dare say I know your Father quite well. Basilius has raised one fine son.”

One fine son. One. A simple choice of words or something more? It would be easy to write it off as a coincidence, but my time in the Capitol’s high society has taught me that everything down to the smallest of details is carefully cultivated. The President has just used Julius’ fate to slight my Father. And in front of all Panem, no less.

Father must be furious.

President Stryker waves me off and returns to the microphone, reminding the crowd that despite the ending of the Reapings, the festivities will hardly be over. There will be much more ahead, including a gala at the Presidential Manor. Which, I realize with a jolt, I will no longer be attending.

“I must say that this is a most unfortunate turn of fate, Remus,” I turn to see one of Stryker’s children approaching me. Dimentio. He’s paler than I, and shorter too. Can’t be much more than five foot seven. But there’s a sense of power around him, an innate regality that one is born with. Something you cannot imitate, cannot learn.

“It is what it is,” I keep my response simple. Complaining about my fate would be useless at this juncture.

“I wish I could’ve learnt more about you, Remus. You’re an interesting man, and surely one who would have led your family to greatness.”

“I still may do so.” I’m not dead yet, no matter how dire the situation seems.

Dimentio smiles. “Of course, of course. I was close friends with your brother, you know. He was treated quite unfairly. Dalliances with Avoxes and the like are more common than you’d think. Of course, his problem was that it was so…public. Still, I tried to help.”

“You did?” I blink in surprise. I wasn’t aware that anyone in the Capitol had attempted to assist my brother.

“Indeed. I tried convincing my Father to let Julius keep his inheritance, he didn’t deserve to be exiled, but Father wasn’t keen on my thoughts. Told me that your father had the right to run his family how he wished, and that he’d never tell another man how to punish his son.”

Someone tried to help Julius. Dimentio attempted to persuade the President himself to keep Julius in the Capitol. I’m flabbergasted. I hadn’t thought…

Dimentio looks over my shoulder and laughs lightly. “Oh, it appears my sister has taken quite the interest in you.”

I turn around and follow his gaze to the far end of the stage, where Aurilee stands, one hand playing with her golden hair as she watches Dimentio and I converse. When she notices our stares she turns her gaze away, face reddening.

“I haven’t spoken to her in years,” I admit, swiveling back to Dimentio. “But we were somewhat close as children.”

“Ah, yes. I remember so,” Dimentio laughs again. He does that often. “Julius and I were half-convinced that the two of you would end up together. But, as we’ve just learned, nothing in life turns out as you expect.”

He pats me on the shoulder, departing with yet another light laugh. I watch him go, feeling melancholy. President Stryker is wrapping up the Reaping, and at the staircase to the stage I can see a small group of Peacekeepers huddled together. Someone appears to be attempting to ascend. Peering over, I notice that it is my Father.

Red-faced and yelling, he seems to be trying to get the President’s attention. I am not surprised. If I die in the Games he will have lost the heir he spent so much time grooming into the perfect specimen. The fact that I have been Reaped is sorely a dire blow to him.

Of course, it is a much direr blow to myself.

District Seven: Killen Timmerhout
I watch the sunrise as it filters through the pine trees, slowly illuminating District 7. This could be the last time I witness such a thing, because today may very well be my last in District 7.

I’m not afraid, exactly. Just a little nervous and…nostalgic, I suppose. Today the name pulled out of the Reaping bowl will be mine and I’ll be sent to play what the people in the Capitol call a game.

It’s my own fault. I was the one who stayed with Narcissa longer than I should. Had I only left her early on in the relationship, or simply not dated her at all, then things would have been different. I wouldn’t have needed to make the deal with Mayor Mallory, Mom wouldn’t have been at risk of being punished, and everything would have still been fine.

Yes, it was all my fault, but I’m not wallowing in pity or despair. I chose to find a path forward, and I’ll be the one who fixes my own mistake.

I stay here on the porch until the sun has fully risen and completely enveloped the entire District in its cheery glow. Then I enter the house and head to the kitchen. I can hear my family upstairs, getting prepped for the Reaping. They know what is going to transpire today, of course, and while my Mom and sisters despaired for me, they never once sought to talk me out of my choice.

I fill a glass with water from the sink and stare wistfully out the window.

Father isn’t home. He’s already left for work. District 7’s lumber industry never stops, not even on Reaping Day. I’ll see him after the Reaping, but we’ve spoken enough about my choice. I’m proud of you. The words he whispered into my ear upon hearing of my deal with Terrence, Narcissa’s father and the Mayor of District 7. Those four words were all I ever wanted him to say.

That’s why I’ll never regret my choice, no matter what may become of me in the Games.

I down the water in one gulp and deposit the glass back in the sink. My relationship with Narcissa was toxic beyond belief. Looking back, I can’t believe that it took me so long to notice. But I was blinded by love. I truly thought that Narcissa and I were meant to be together, that everything she did was for a good reason. And then when I did notice, bringing the subject up to her, she simply claimed that she was doing nothing wrong and that it was all in my head. That I was being insecure and imagining things that weren’t real. I was understandably confused. Was it all just a matter of perspective? Did I truly just imagine everything?

The answer, of course, was no.

Yet for years I put up with her emotional manipulation and gaslighting. Years of letting her lead me around by the nose. But when I told her that I was considering breaking up with her, she threatened to kill herself if I did so. The guilt swallowed me and I bent to her will, like I always did.

I turn away from the sink and sit myself at the table, waiting for my family to arrive. Things with Narcissa were complicated by the fact that her father was appointed Mayor whilst we were dating and he, wishing to make nice with his daughter’s boyfriend, assigned my Father to the highest postion in District 7’s lumber industry. I was or practically in her family’s debt. How could I break up with her? Yet I did. I simply couldn’t handle the emotional blackmailing any longer. I broke up with Narcissa and ended our relationship.

A few days later she attempted to kill herself.

She tried overdosing, but was saved by the timely intervention of her father. I don’t know if that was planned. I have no idea whether or not it she actually intended to die or had set up a plan that would guarantee her survival. Yet I know that if there was ever a person who would willingly die simply to get back at me, it was Narcissa.

My Mother and sisters appear in the kitchen. Dressed in their reaping day finery, they smile sadly at me. They haven’t forgotten what today entails. “Good morning,” I greet them with a cheerful smile. The last thing I want is for them to see me off morose and dejected. “Weather looks fine today, yeah?”

Mother breaks into tears. She rushes across the room and wraps me in a backbreaking hug. I sit limply in her grasp, understanding that this is a necessary part of her grieving process. Despite all my intentions there is a possibility I don’t return home.

Sometimes I think about how life would be had Narcissa‘s suicide attempt succeeded.

When she came to in the hospital, Narcissa told her father about our relationship and it lead to her desperation. I can only fathom she lied, made me out to be the sort of monster that she is, but I don’t have the details of what was said. All I know is that a few weeks after surviving her attempt, Terrence Mallory had my Mother arrested for quadruple homicide.

Throughout my Father’s life he and his siblings had earned promotions through the sudden deaths of their superiors, a rash of bad luck befalling those who’d held the positions before them. Yet Mayor Mallory alleged that it wasn’t accidents or illness that killed them; he claimed it was my mother Saryl‘s doing. He presented some slight evidence and had her imprisoned.

The evidence wasn’t exactly proof, it was more circumstantial than anything, but it was enough to give him the authority to arrest Mother.

I don’t know if Mother is guilty and, to be completely honest, I couldn’t give a damn. But what really bothered me is that everything was all my fault. Had I only not gotten involved with Narcissa…

After hearing about the charges against Mother I went to Terrence myself. Told him that I was the problem, not Mother, so that I should be the one to receive punishment. What I didn’t tell him was that I knew, had I let Mother be arrested, Narcissa’s “revenge” wouldn’t stop there. She wouldn’t rest until my life was completely and throughly ruined. She’d keep finding new ways to get back at me until her twisted little mind finally got the satisfaction it sought. So I had to find a way to cut it off at the source.

The only way I could think of was offering myself up for the punishment.

Terrence Mallory thought it was a fair trade. He decided that if I would be entered into the Hunger Games my Mother would be released. The mere fact that he agreed to this compromise basically confirmed that this was all just one plot to get back at me. Because had he truly believed Mother was a murderer, why would he free her? No true Mayor would do such a thing.

But the agreement was made. Mother would walk free and I would be sent into the Games. Not as a volunteer, no. Mayor Mallory thought I would appear too heroic that way. Instead he told me that he’d “pull some strings” and ensure that my name was the one drawn from the bowl. I am well aware that the true reason he didn’t want me to volunteer was because there’d be a risk of me backing out at the last moment.

He needn’t have worried. I have every intention of honoring the deal. Because this was my problem…and I’ll be the one to fix it.

The Reaping is held in a clearing on the edge of one of District 7’s many forests. The trees which surround the stage are coniferous, tall and green as they blot out the sky and send reaching shadows across the crowd. I stand in the midst of nervous teenagers, their eyes glued to the stage in fear that they’ll be Reaped.

A fruitless worry, considering that my name will certainly be the one drawn.

The crowd snaps to attention as the District officials shuffle onto the stage, followed by our longtime escort, Ebla Helms. Her skin is the same texture and color of a bark, a fact she boasts about every year. The extent Capitolites will go to make themselves different truly baffles me.

“Welcome to the Reaping for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games!” Mayor Terrence Mallory takes up the microphone, smiling broadly as he stares into the crowd. I grimace at the sight of him. Narcissa holds her Father in the palm of her hand. “Today we shall find which two children will be sent into the Games!”

One of which will be me. Isn’t that just dandy? As the moment draws inexorably closer I can’t help but feel my unease grow. I know that this was all my idea, that it saves my Mom from imprisonment, but that does little to quell my rising uncertainty. People die in the Games. The vast majority of people who enter into the arena never come back out. Yet I also know It’s not impossible to survive.

As I’m thinking this, Mayor Mallory turns to present a line of past Victors standing behind him. Some of the standouts include Edmund Everton, the hairy man who won more than thirty years ago, Mist Scorchil, the founder of the infamous Anti-Careers, and Alfyn Sapp, last years Victor of the 332nd Hunger Games. He’s about the same age I am, with disheveled brown hair, and a small ponytail on the back of his head. He smiles to the crowd as he’s introduced.

Alfyn had several advantages going into the Games. He worked as a lumberjack in my Father’s company for years, and his parents owned the largest apothecary in the District. Thus, he was skilled with a weapon and possessed detailed knowledge of healing plants before even stepping foot in the arena.

I don’t intend to sell myself short, but I am willing to admit that I don’t quite have those advantages.

Terrence wraps up the introductions and has Ebla move for the first bowl. I feel myself tense in anticipation until I notice that she’s headed for the girls bowl. Seems like I’ll see who my District partner is first.

A slip is selected. “And District 7’s female tribute for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games is…Yewan Felling!”

Yewan turns out to be a ghostly apparition of a girl with pale platinum blonde hair that perfectly matches her pale skin. She moves through the crowd without stopping, her face betraying no outward sign of emotion. Her hairstyle is unique, something I take note of as she begins to ascend the stairs. It’s half buzzed, but with a voluminous side fringe. That combined with her height—she stands several inches taller than Mayor Mallory—will ensure that she’ll stick out to the Capitol and their sponsors.

“Are you Yewan Felling?” Terrence asks her, eyeing the basket she swings around in one hand.

“Nope!”

He’s taken back by that response. “No…? What do you mean? If you’re not Yewan than why did—”

“Of course I’m Yewan! Who else would I be?” The tall girl smirks and turns away from the Mayor, twirling her basket as he gawps at her, obviously flustered.

I can’t resist my own smile. It feels good to finally see someone in Narcissa’s family made into the fool. That feeling of amusement doesn’t last long. Seemingly eager to put that moment of embarrassment behind him, Terrence instructs Ebla to move onto the next bowl. The smile fades as I realize my name will soon be drawn.

“And District 7’s male tribute for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games is…Killen Timmerhout!”

There it is. Well, I was expecting it so there’s no surprise on my face as I head to the stage, adopting a gait of poised calm. I’m already thinking of sponsors. They don’t like weak or scared tributes, so I need to ensure they believe I am neither. Need to look like I’m in control at all times.

“You’re actually Killen Timmerhout, I know that,” Terrence can’t resist making a quip as I join him and Yewan on stage.

I spread my hands. “Why, of course you know me, I’m one of your Districts finest citizens!”

He frowns, apparently unsure what to make of my comment. He doesn’t understand that I’m playing to the sponsors. When they see this exchange their imaginations will run wild, envisioning me to be some sort of outstanding citizen and my popularity with them will go up accordingly.

Ebla introduces me to the crowd and then instructs me to shake hands with Yewan. I do so without question, but the moment our hands meet I feel a sharp electrical shock and pull my hand back with a yelp as Yewan cackles with laughter.

“Joy buzzer!” She reveals the round device in her hand and I smile ruefully.

“Good one,” I say as I shake out my hand. Yet in my head I can’t help but dwell on how foolish she made me look in front of all Panem.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

Somewhat displeased with this turn of events, I let my gaze wander to the crowd. That’s when I see it. More accurately, when I see her. Narcissa, fully recovered and—save for the dark circles beneath her eyes—looking just as beautiful as the day I met her. She stands in the crowd like a lonely tower, eyes lasered in on me as I stand beside the podium. When she notices my gaze her smile widens and she mouthes two words.

An icy current runs through my body, freezing me to the spot. I remain standing there as the Reaping is wrapped up behind me. I do not move as Mayor Mallory thanks everyone for their time. I find myself no longer thinking about the sponsors or how I’ll appear—her words have left me unable to think about anything else.

It’s only when two Peacekeepers grip me by the shoulder and begin to tow me towards the Justice Building do I finally find myself moving. As I’m led to what may be the final conversation with my family, Narcissa’s words ring out in my head.

I win.

District Two: Atticus Rockwell
I stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing as I watch the sun rise over the mountains of District 2. Another day has dawned and soon the citizenry will be waking up. People will be going on with their lives, moving ahead and enjoying their present as they look forward to the future.

I can only see my past.

Nausea. Pain. Fear.

I pull away from the railing, arms suddenly trembling. I just want it to stop. I wish for nothing but the solace of peace and tranquillity. And yet that is the one thing I cannot find.

Blood. Pearls. Screams.

I close my eyes but that does not help. It makes things worse. I see it all again. In vivid, vile detail. Repressing a scream I form my hands into fists and slam them into the wall beside me. The lantern over the doorway rattles but nothing else changes.

I open my eyes.

The sunlight streams over the mountains and basks the pine forest that surround my family’s manor in a faint yellow glow. It looks so deceptively peaceful. But there is no peace. No escape. Not from the dark confines of my own mind.

I return to the railing and stare down. I’m on the second floor, so the ground isn’t really that far away. I could survive the jump. It’d be quicker than walking through the house and there’s no real risk…unless I landed awkwardly. But would that really be so bad? Death would be an escape from the nightmares that plague me every single day…

The Reaping is today. I’ve spent the last year training endlessly for this moment. The Games offer another escape, one that would grant me a life worth living or a quick, simple death. Either one would work for me, though I can’t say I have any faith I’d die. I’ve cheated death before and doing so again would not surprise me in the least.

I climb over the rail and adjust my position, carefully lowering myself so that I’m hanging by my hands. Body hanging over the drop, I let go.

I land on the manicured grass below, collapsing my legs to absorb the impact and transitioning into a roll. I rise and dust some debris off my shoulder, feeling completely detached from the situation. The Reaping is held downtown at the square. My parents will probably leave in an hour or so, but I have no intention of waiting on them. Occasionally they still mention the…the incident with Kaiser.

Fear. Blood. Nausea.

No…no! I will not think of that! Not today! I force my body to take deep breaths and head off at a brisk trot. The Reaping. There’ll be crowds at the square. Distractions. I can trick myself into thinking of something else. Anything else.

My family has a footpath that stretches from our manor all the way into town, bypassing both the wealthier portion of District 2 and the Victor’s Village along the way. I take it now. The path twists and turns as it branches throughout the forest, eventually settling into a straight line as it emerges just north of a nearby neighborhood. This is where I first encounter another person.

He’s walking with hands in his jacket pocket, staring absently at the sky and, when I bypass him, he elicits a short gasp.

“Atticus!”

I turn around, surprised to hear my name, and realize that I actually know the guy. He’s from one of the wealthy families that are typically hobnobbing with my parents, and I’ve seen him often enough that I could almost call him a friend. His name is Mason Stoneman, possibly the most District 2 name ever.

“Oh…hey, Mason,” I offer him a casual greeting. Still can’t get thoughts of Kaiser and Mathilda out of my head.

“You heading to the Reaping?” He approaches me with a cheery smile on his broad face. Honestly I’ve always thought his forehead was much too large.

“Of course. Everyone is going.” Can’t remember if I’ve told him I’m volunteering. Not that it’s a secret; everyone at the Academy already knows.

Mason frowns. He looks to the sky and then back to me before shaking his head. “Listen, Atticus, don’t attend the Reaping.”

“Attendance is mandatory, Mason. If I don’t show I’ll end up dead.” Death has its appeal, but the thought of just giving up appalls me.

“They won’t kill you, Atticus. Trust me. The Peacekeepers are going to have better things to worry about than tracking down the no-shows.”

Despite it being a sunny summer morning, I feel a chill run down my back. What is he talking about? The Reaping is the single most important day of the year, and nothing takes precedent over it. Nothing but emergencies. Is there going to be a natural disaster today?

“I have to attend. I’m volunteering.”

Mason sighs and removes his hands from his jacket. Bizarrely he wears a single red glove on his right hand. “Listen, I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but do not attend the Reaping. Not if you want to stay safe. Big things are going down. Panem is about to be in a state of flux and…just stay away, okay?”

I don’t know if this is his idea of a joke or what. I’ve never really been close with Mason, even if I have known him for years, so I have no clue what his brand of humor is. Still, what he’s saying doesn’t seem fake. He appears genuinely concerned for me. I frown. “Why? What’s happening?”

A wolfish smile crosses his face. “Big things. I can’t tell you any details, so just stay away from the Reaping.”

“I can’t do that.” I’ve spent the entirety of the past year training for the Games. They are the only thing that may save me from the endless nightmares.

The smile slips from his face. For a moment Mason just sits there looking troubled. Then he sighs and stuffs his hand back into his pocket. “Very well. Just…try not to get caught in the crossfire, okay?”

He turns and takes off jogging before I can even think up a response. I watch him as he heads down the path, slowly disappearing from sight. What was that all about? I allow myself to ruminate on the subject as I continue my path onto the Reaping. It’s not until I reach the square twenty minutes later do I realize that, for a brief moment, I hadn’t spent any time dwelling on horrid memories.

The roar of the crowd drowns out any other noise as I take my place in line and then, after having my blood drawn and filed, slip into the crowd. Up on stage the escort Errol Flinch is hyping up the crowd alongside some District officials.

“Are you all excited for yet another wonderful Reaping?” Errol panders as the first bowl is wheeled before him. It’s the males, which means I’ll go first. Fine with me. “Today we will discover two more outstanding tributes who will join the pantheon of greats from District 2!”

He goes on to introduce our past Victors, all of whom are standing on stage behind him. None of them are very recent; we haven’t had a Victor since before the 325th. When he finishes up the introductions, Errol makes a move for the bowl.

“I volunteer.” My voice wafts over the clearing and I ascend the stage. The crowd is respectfully silent until Errol asks for my name. “I’m Atticus Rockwell.”

The crowd explodes with cheers. The briefest hint of a smile tugs at my lips but even now, with the entire District cheering my name, I still cannot get the thought of Kaiser and his surprise out of my head.

Maybe I never will.

“May I have your attention, please!” A new voice interrupts Errol mid-sentence. District 2’s collective heads turn to face the edge of the stage as a thin man in a shabby suit makes his way up the stairs.

“What is the meaning of this?” Our Mayor steps forward, glaring. He can’t be pleased by this interruption.

The newcomer smiles. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m getting to that part.” He has a microphone in his hand and two Peacekeepers stand behind him. At first I think they’re here to arrest him, but the way they closely watch the District 2 officials on stage has me adjust that assessment. Whoever this man is, he has Peacekeepers working for him.

Errol goes to respond but pauses as his microphone suddenly cuts off. Bizarre. How’d that happen? I turn my attention to the newcomer. He’s pale, with flaxen hair that lies flat on his head and small, beady eyes. Needless to say, I’ve never seen him before.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, tonight will be a momentous occasion!” He walks across the stage with a slow, deliberate stride. One hand is stuck in his pocket. The other holds a microphone. “Our very own President Tiberius Stryker is going to announce his pending retirement, and will introduce his prospective heirs.”

There’s some gasps and murmurs in the crowd. Rumors of such a thing have been circulating for awhile now, but nothing has actually been confirmed. I myself had doubted the validity of such claims.

“But haven’t any of you ever wondered why President Stryker gets to choose his own heir? And why us, the people, don’t choose our next leader?”

That draws some angry reactions. Such talk is borderline treasonous, and is liable to get someone executed or worse. I turn my eyes to the Peacekeepers off stage as they seem to be gathering at the foot of the stage. But they make no move on the speaker. Because the two Peacekeepers at his side have been joined by several more; there’s practically an entire platoon on stage now.

And they have their guns pointed at the other Peacekeepers.

Try not to get caught in the crossfire.

Mason’s words come back to me. He was warning me about this exact situation. He, somehow, knew what was going to happen and tried to warn me. Of course I didn’t listen. But now I wish I did. This whole place is a powder keg waiting to go off. Staying here is stupid. Worse, it’s dangerous. I should leave while I have the chance. But how? I am on stage, right in the thick of things. I can hardly expect to just waltz away.

“Do you want to know why President Stryker will choose his own successor?” The Speaker is still talking. He has the eyes of the entire District on him. “It’s because he’s a tyrant. And tyrants beget tyranny. He’ll never allow us, the people of Panem, a say in any important decision. It does not matter who he chooses; as long as they’re chosen by him they’ll be just as much of a tyrannical dictator as he is!”

“No! No, no, no! You can’t say those things!” To my great surprise, it is Errol Flinch who interrupts him. He walks right up to the Speaker and jabs a finger in his chest. “I will not just sit back and watch you disparage our great leader! Tiberius Stryker is a wonderful man! The best President we’ve ever had!”

There’s an expectant hush over the crowd. Neither group of Peacekeepers move, each side still has their guns drawn on the other. But more Peacekeepers are filing on stage, ascending the opposite staircase as they bustle past me to back up their allies. I take this moment of distraction to begin sidestepping away. Slowly. Carefully.

The Speaker waves his microphone at Errol. “Do you wish to know another thing about tyrants? They’re very good at inspiring dogmatic loyalty in sycophants such as the man before me.”

“If you think that you can convince the people of District 2—”

“No,” The Speaker interrupts Errol with a wag of the microphone. “We do not intend to convince District 2 of anything. The reason we chose here, Panem’s most pro-Capitol District, was so that Tiberius Stryker would see that we can strike at him from anywhere. Nowhere is safe from us.”

The Speaker finally removes his second hand from his pocket. Adorned with a bright red glove, his right hand holds a handgun.

Errol steps back, horror on his face. “No! You wouldn’t—”

The Speaker shoots.

A lone gunshot rings out as the bullet takes Errol in the forehead. His body crumples to the stage with a thump. District 2 holds their collective breath as the Speaker turns back to the crowd, his red right hand held high in the sky as he drops the gun. “I hope you’re listening, Stryker. Because we are the Red Hand of Ra…and we will not be silenced.”

His hand forms a fist and the Peacekeepers on stage open fire.

The air comes alive with the sound of shrieking bullets as the two groups of Peacekeepers fire upon each other. The crowd screams and begins to shove against each other, pushing and clawing to escape. I have no time to even react before several of the Peacekeepers beside the Speaker turn to face those of us left on the stage with them; myself, the Mayor, District 2 officials, and Victors.

I throw myself to the floor.

I hear screams. The sound of bullets ripping through bodies. The splashing of blood. I begin to crawl, desperately searching for an escape, when I feel a body thump atop me. I freeze. Memories flood my mind. Thoughts of Mathilda and Corvinus and Kaiser. Bodies lying all around me. I’m buried in them. Drowning. Blood and vomit and piss and blood and more.

My eyes snap shut and I feel myself begin to scream. The sound is lost to the air, swallowed by the gunfire and the shrieks of those dying around me. Another body thumps to the ground. I open my eyes and see a face staring back at me. Blood drops from his mouth and his vacant green eyes are sightless orbs. I know him. He was a Victor. I’d seen him on television my entire life.

Now he is dead.

I push myself up. Heave a body off of me. I don’t know where I get the strength. The stage is a mound of corpses, all the officials and Victors lying there dead and bleeding. Beyond the bodies I spot the Speaker and a squad of his Peacekeepers. My body trembles with fear and regret. This happened to me before. During Kaiser’s…

The other Peacekeepers, the ones fighting against those on stage, have begun to pull back. They flee into the District, ducking behind buildings and using them as cover. Somehow the Speaker and his group have the upper hand. They’re winning. Impossible.

I can’t think. Mind is still flashing with images from that awful, horrifying night. Bodies surround me. I recognize the Mayor and several of the Victors. None of them seem to be alive. Am I once again the only survivor? Mason warned me. Why didn’t I listen? The memories are back. Terrible, piercing memories. They drill themselves into my skull. Matilda. Kaiser. Corvinus. My fault? No. Who’s? Why—

A deep thrumming noise interrupts my rambling thoughts. I look to the sky and see the helicopter as it crests over the buildings of District 2. Several Peacekeepers lean out, guns focused on stage. One of them mans a large mini-gun, the turret already spinning as it warms up.

They’re going to drown the stage in bullets.

The Speaker has noticed the helicopter. He looks up at it and throws his arms to the side, a wide, frantic smile on his face. “Come then, Stryker. Kill me if you wish! But know that, though we may die, our movement does not. You cannot kill an idea. The Red Hand of Ra is eternal!”

The helicopter begins to descend. The minigun has come within range. A delirious part of my mind wishes for me to remain where I stand, to let the wave of bullets wash over me and erase my life from this world. But a primal instinct in my body fights against this urge. As the helicopter hovers into position, I move without thinking. I turn and sprint for the edge of the stage, hurtling over the prone bodies of the dead as I lunge for the end. I can hear the Speaker scream as the first bullets land. Then I’m in midair, falling, floating, flying. Falling.

The ground rushes up to meet me.

I sit silently as the train hurtles towards the Capitol. It is a short trip from District 2, less than half an hour, so we’ll be there in no time at all. My body aches. I am marred with bruises and cuts, remnants of my frantic flight from the Reaping. I don’t know much of what happened. But what I do know is nothing good.

The Red Hand of Ra was defeated in short order. Though they held out on the stage and delivered devastating blows to the leadership of District 2, they had no chance against the full might of its Peacekeeper forces. Reinforcements swept in from the nearby mountain bases and the Speaker’s platoon was annihilated. He himself was slain by the helicopter and its minigun, apparently disfigured so badly from the barrage that it was impossible to ID his corpse.

Almost like he planned it that way.

I had fled down the streets, seeking escape from the carnage, and managed to get a few blocks before being picked up by a Peacekeeping force. They wore gray sashes around their waist, a mark of District 2’s elite vanguard, so I knew they weren’t with the Speaker. They listened to my story and took me to a facility, where I waited for a few hours as the scene outside was settled.

When it was finally deemed safe to travel, I was transported to the train station. I was District 2’s male tribute for the 333rd Hunger Games, after all, so it was paramount that I make it to the Capitol for the Chariot Rides. Here, on the train, is where I learned what had transpired. A group of Peacekeepers ride alongside me, ostensibly for our protection. Occasionally they’ll receive updates over their radioes and I’ve overheard what was said.

There is a girl here with me. Lilith Lovelass. All I know about her is that she’s apparently District 2’s female tribute. Was she a volunteer, or merely someone they plucked from the crowd? I don’t know and I have no inclination to ask.

Something big has transpired today. The platoon that was working with the Speaker weren’t fakes; they were real, full-fledged Peacekeepers. Somehow, someway, the Speaker had convinced them to turn against the Capitol and President Stryker. Assuming, of course, that the Speaker was even their leader. My escorts seem to know very little and information is coming in trickles. Not that it matters much to me. I am destined for the Games.

There are no mentors here with Lilith and I; all of District 2’s Victors had been slain at the Reaping. So I’ll be going into the arena without any help, it seems. If I wasn’t so dead inside I might laugh. Nothing ever goes my way.

I lean my head against the window and stare out at the countryside as it whips past. This was the second time I’ve cheated death. I continue to live amidst nightmares, reliving the horrid things every night. No matter how hard I try to escape, it appears that I’ll never be free from them.

When I enter the Games…I fear that death will be cheated for the third and final time.

District Twelve: Kia Gage
The day is hot and dry as I make my way through the shantytown, carefully placing my steps to avoid skewering my foot on a rusted piece of metal. A summer storm blew in a few days ago and the debris has yet to be completely removed. Or even partially, for that matter. I don’t believe anyone has plans for cleaning at all.

“This place is a mess,” A young man picking his way through the mangled remnants of what might once have been a porch huffs from beside me.

“Whole District is a mess,” I say.

“You got that right, Kia,” Cyra emerges from a badly assembled shanty on my right. I give her a nod in greeting which she returns. “District 12 is a hellhole. Has been for years.”

I only grunt in response. As bad as the District is, things used to be worse. When I was a child people were literally dropping dead in the streets every day. Nowadays that basically only happens on the weekends.

Improvement? Maybe. Doesn’t mean much to me, though.

Cyra and I walk in silence as we sort ourselves out of the shantytown. This particular shantytown has lasted a few weeks now, but the amount of debris piling up has me doubting it’ll last much longer. Won’t affect me too much. Another one will just pop up a few days later and life will go on as normal.

The sun beats at our heads as we emerge from the underbelly of the District and clamber into the streets of District 12 proper. A throng of people travels down the road, followed by a handful of merchants hawking their wares. For them the Reaping is just another opportunity to make some money.

“We could take a decent haul from them,” The guy from earlier pauses beside me. His name is Dust. He’s a new addition to our group that most of the District refers to as “thieving street urchins”. Dust often has big ideas but never follows through on those plans.

“Making any moves on Reaping Day would be suicide,” I say, eyeing the line as it passes us. This particular group is clearly from the wealthier portion of the District. They’re dressed too nice to be from anywhere else.

“You’re too cautious. We’d get away with it for sure,” Dust goes silent as a pair of Peacekeepers stroll past us. They’re wearing the dark, visored helmets that have become the norm for District 12 Peacekeepers. Dust spits when they’re out of earshot. “Those lobster heads have better things to worry about today.”

“Kia knows what she’s talking about,” Cyra admonishes him. Me and her go way back, as far as to the same orphanage. In our early days amongst the group we often had to have each other’s backs; too few of the others were willing to listen to our ideas. But things are different now. I’ve risen high enough to gain the respect and trust of the others; many of them think of me as an older sister.

I also think of them as family. A big dysfunctional family, true, but a family nonetheless.

The children left in the orphanage are also my family.

“Earth to Kia!”

I blink away my thoughts as Cyra tries to get my attention. “What’s up?”

“Dust wants you to make the decision. We operating today or nah?”

Reaping Day always has double the amount of Peacekeepers as usual. The Capitol, with all their cruel indifference, wants their celebration to proceed without a hitch. They’ll all be centered around the stage, true, but if we’re caught things won’t end pretty.

The punishment for crimes is doubled on holidays.

“We’re not doing anything today,” I finally say.

Dust groans. “You never want to do anything! What kind of thieves are we?”

Annoyance flashes on my face. “We’re not thieves. We’re just people making ends meet in whatever way we can.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” Dust mutters.

Cyra gives him a cold stare. “Just listen to Kia, alright? She’s come close to death countless times, but she always finds a way to prevail!”

“And I plan to keep it that way,” I add.

We lapse back into silence as we continue our path down the streets. Dust doesn’t understand. Many of the new recruits don’t. We aren’t here to make ourselves rich; we’re just trying to survive. And I think that we’ve done that so far. I have the privilege of being able to enjoy life and enough wealth to give back to the orphanage that I crawled out from.

A large white van appears on the rightmost end of the sidewalk, surrounded by a small crowd that flows into the street and hinders our movement. I recognize the symbol embossed on its side; a small campfire sending up sparks.

“It’s one of Soot and Charce’s vans,” I mutter as we watch several people dressed in simple polo shirts and slacks handing out baskets to the surrounding people.

Soot and Charce are District 12’s only living Victors, both of them winning their Games a year apart. Since their Victory they’ve been trying to give back to the District and lift the poor out from the depths they’d sunk. They’ve clearly made progress in fixing the District, but they far from eliminated poverty. Not that such a thing is even possible. No matter how hard anyone tries there will always be people who slip through the cracks.

“They’re handing out Reaping Day meals,” Dust comments. He’s right. There’s food in the baskets, cornbread, buckwheat cakes, and pepperoni rolls, amongst others. The staples of a meal that most families eat on Reaping Day. The line of people stays orderly, and the pair of dark dressed guards who stand near the van look more bored than intimidating. They’re not Peacekeepers; Charce hired his own independent guards when he first started his charity movement.

“Surprising that no one has tried to rob the van,” Dust says as we move along. I don’t say anything. In the past, when Charce first set out, people had tried to rob the vans. But his security held and, now that he has built up a reputation of selfless charity, no one would dare hamper his efforts.

“Why don’t they ever give things to the orphanage?” Cyra pitches her voice low enough so that only I hear her. “Why do we have to supply them?”

I’ve looked into this before. “All orphanages in the District are run by District 12 officials,” I explain. “They’re meant to be supplied and outfitted by the government. Charce and Soot probably think that means each orphanage is already getting help.”

It makes me angry that they haven’t looked deeper into it. Despite all their bluster and bravado, the two of them are still letting people get exploited right under their noses. It’s even worse when you know that District 12’s Mayor is Charce’s father. The man doesn’t even realize his own father doesn’t care about the people in his District.

I’m still steaming in my thoughts as we arrive at the Reaping Square. The small rectangular stage is set up right smack dab in the center of the plaza, underneath the gallows where we hang our criminals. It’s an ominous sight that excellently foreshadows the fate of anyone whose name is drawn; getting Reaped is akin to being executed.

Dust mutters a farewell as he gets sorted into a different line than Cyra and I. I watch him go with slight trepidation. Malcontents like him always pose a risk of disrupting the harmony of our little group.

I’m thinking on this as Mayor Firre shuffles onto the stage, followed by both of our Victors. Charce is a somewhat handsome blond man, waving happily to the crowd as they greet him with cheers. Soot is his opposite, short, tan, and grouchy. While he gives the crowd a nod of recognition, he neither smiles nor waves. Soot isn’t really one for interacting with people.

“I would like to extend a warm greeting to the citizens of District 12!” Mayor Firre begins, his voice filled with more cheer than is typical of him. “Today will mark yet another—”

“Don’t forget about me!”

The entire District groans in disappointment as a short old woman comes rushing onto the stage. She stumbles as she reaches the Mayor, only saving herself from falling off the stage by clutching the microphone stand. Mayor Firre eyes her like she’s a rapid dog. “Oh, Diane. It is such a…pleasure to see you again.”

Diane has been our escort since the 327th Games, when she was revived especially for that task. She's a strange one even for people from the Capitol. She's always saying odd things in a particularly high and screechy voice, not to mention her...inability to properly pronounce names.

"It's me! Diane!" She grins at the crowd and loudly applauds for herself. No one else joins in, but if that fazes her she doesn't show it in the slightest, instead turning to gesture at Charce and Soot. "First off, let me introduce your Victors! Choice Flamer and Soot Doucheclown!"

You'd think she'd be able to properly pronounce their names after years of being escort, but no. Soot angrily starts forward but Charce holds him back, shaking his head.

"That's not their names," Mayor Firre says.

Diane gives him a sidelong glance. "Oh, shut up!"

The crowd groans with displeasure. Today is already bad enough knowing that two kids are going to die. We don't need this old bag making a mockery of us atop that.

Diane and the Mayor have a short conversation that ends with her nodding and approaching the microphone again. "Major Flamer says that I should cut the introductions and get right to the reekings!"

That actually draws from cheers. Diane's grin widens at the noise. It's probably the first time in her life she's ever been cheered. So I'm surprised when she actually heads straight to the male bowl without prattling off some other nonsense. I thought for sure she'd try to capitalize on her momentum. "And the male tribute who will be raped is...Matt is from there? Huh?"

There's a buzz of annoyance from the crowd. This isn't the first time she's completely botched a name. "This makes no sense! Matt is from where?" Diane begins spinning around, evidently in search of Matt, when Mayor Firre snatches the slip from her hand and reads it aloud.

"Matiss Ferrum!"

The boy, if you can call him that, responds immediately. He walks out of line, shaking his head as approaches the stage. The most eye catching thing about him is his height; he stands over six and a half feet tall, basically towering over all of the other boys. And he shows no sign of malnourishment or neglect; his body is fit and healthy. Whoever he is, he hasn't been lacking in food or wealth.

I find myself unable to pity him.

"Wow! You're a tall glass of water!" As Diane is just barely five feet, she practically has to crane her neck up to see Matiss' face. "You must have ate your vegetables!"

He doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he merely nods. Then Soot steps forward and strikes up a conversation with him, but the microphones don't catch what is said. Not that I really care.

Mayor Firre taps Diane on the shoulder. "The next bowl, if you please."

"Righto!" Her grin widens even further and she rushes to the next bowl, reaching a hand in to grab a fistful of slips. She looks at them for a moment before scattering them into the air. "Those weren't ripe enough," She tells us with a sagely nod.

Have I mentioned how much I hate this woman?

The next slip she draws is, as she tells us, "just right" so she unfolds it and begins to read. "Oh! This is an easy name! Kia Gage!"

I remain still. Thinking, hoping, that she just mispronounced the name. That what just happened didn't happen. That it wasn't my name which was drawn. But as the silence stretches on it becomes apparent that it is no mistake. I was Reaped.

I can't say I ever expected this to happen, I reflect as I finally force myself to move. I imagined what the future held for me many times, but never once did I think that the Games would be involved.

The crowd is silent as I take my place beside Diane and Matiss. The two of us make for a comical sight; him tall and well fed, me scrawny and covered in coal dust. It's the juxtaposition to ends all juxtapositions.

"You're so skinny!" Diane practically screeches at me. "You're never going to survive looking like that!"

I roll my eyes and ignore her. I turn my gaze to Charce, but the pity I see in his eyes disgusts me so much that I turn my head again.

"I like your attitude." Soot is at my side. I'm taller than him, I notice with amusement. "Everyone is going to overlook you in the Games. Use that to your advantage."

The Reapings end quickly after that. Mayor Firre is eager to be rid of Diane, so he wraps things up exceedingly fast. There's a whirlwind of activity that whisks me from the stage and into the Justice Building. I'm not there long before the doors are flung open and Cyra and Tansy—my friend from the orphanage who now works in the mines—come rushing in. They quickly embrace me and begin whispering well wishes and reassurances.

Their appearance gives me strength. My friends and the life they represent are what I've fought my entire life for. I haven't survived this long just to die in some game. I won't give up, nor will I abandon hope. I am capable of surviving these Games and anything else the Capitol can throw at me.

I've survived this long, so why would I stop now?

District Eleven: Chrome Kimathi
"Please. I just want some grain or bread. I'll take anything. Just please give me some!"

I sit in an engraved wooden chair, leaning on one of the padded armrests as I listen to the man kneeling before me. He's a scrawny, balding man covered in sunburns and scars, telltale signs of a Peacekeeper whip. He's disgusting, really.

But I have to keep pretenses up, so I won't throw him out just yet.

"And why have you come to me?" I try to keep my voice neutral, make it sound like I don't really care when I actually do.

Selling food and luxury goods to the pitiful populace of District 11 is something I've done for years...but always at a distance and through intermediaries. I myself have always been distant from the sales a...safeguard, in the event of a Peacekeeper raid. They can't execute me if they don't have any proof of a crime. And they have never found any. No one but my inner circle knows who I am.

Which is why it's so interesting that this man has found me.

"I've heard you have plenty of resources," The man glances up at me nervously. He's practically shaking. "And that you are willing to share your bounty...for a price."

"Oh, really? And who did you hear that from?" I lean back in my chair and keep up my casual indifference. How has word spread about me? More importantly, how has this man pinpointed me so exactly?

The man locks his lips. "Just...through the grapevine. I overheard some men talking. Look, I j-just want some food. My family is starving. Production has been slow ever since that blight took the trees and..." He continues to prattle, but I'm not listening any longer. He overheard some men talking, did he? Well, that would have to be someone who works for me. No one else would know my identity.

I glance at the guards beside me, but neither one seems the least bit fazed but this man and his dithering tale. You'd think that if either of them had been stupid enough to talk about me in public they'd be a little nervous right now. No... I don't believe it was these two.

"...and I'd truly appreciate it if you could just s-sell me some food. Even just a little would be—"

"Bro, shut up!" I raise a hand and instantly the two guards at my side stiffen. One of them rests a hand on the handle of the baton hanging from his belt. "I heard enough outta you."

"So you'll help me?" The man looks up hopefully, his eyes gleaming with a hungry excitement. A parasite. That's all he is. A parasite clinging to the life I offer.

"I'm gonna be real with you, man," I lean forward and clasp my hands together. I have his full attention now. "I'd love to help you out but...the things you're asking for? They don't come cheap, ya know?"

The man lies his head flat against the floor. "I know! But I can pay you back! When the trees start producing again I swear I'll pay you double what I owe!"

"I feel for you and your fam, man, I really do," I frown and splay my hands helplessly. "But I can't take an IOU in payment. I'd go broke in no time doing that, ya understand?"

His only response is a stifled sob. I'm about to issue an order when I catch a glimpse of something on his wrist that starts the gears in my head. "Bro, don't cry like that. Just because I can't take an IOU don't mean I can't help ya out."

The way his head shoots up to stare at me is almost amusing. "Y-you can help? Truly?" His eyes are swimming with those tears.

"Of course. I'd just need some collateral...such as that watch on your wrist."

The man hesitates and looks down at his watch. An old golden thing that I know for a fact would fetch a decent price on the market. It's a wonder he hasn't sold it yet. "M-my watch?"

"That's what I said, innit?"

"But...I got it from my father. It's a family heirloom!"

I nod in understanding. "Look, I can tell that watch means a lot to you, but I need some sort of collateral here. When you get your money I'll give it back to you, yeah? You won't lose it forever. Just temporarily."

I have him. I can tell from the way he looks at his wrist then back to me. The hesitance in his body language is offset by the greed in his eyes. He wants that food more than he needs some trinket. Finally he nods. "Yes, I understand. I-I'll trade the watch for some food. Wh-when the trees start producing again I'll have double your price and recover the watch. It's a fair deal."

A smile creeps across my face. "That it is. Mallory!" I snap my fingers and one of my guards steps forward. I gesture at the man before me. "Take him to the storeroom and let him select whatever he needs. Chiswick, collect his watch."

The two of them do my bidding without delay. Chiswick hands me the man's watch as he's led away, tears of joy streaming down his face as he thanks me for being so understanding. I smile and wave until he's out of the room. Then I turn to Chiswick.

"Take him to the interrogation room and force him to tell you how he learned my identity."

Chiswick nods slowly. "And afterwards?"

I climb out of the chair, stretching my arms as I stand. "Kill him and dump his body in the river."

Chiswick heads off to do his task without another word. I watch him go, satisfied that he, at least, isn't the one who gave my identity away. As for the man he will be interrogatng...he was truly unfortunate. He would have lived had he only contacted my agents through the proper channels. But he knew who I am and I can't afford the risk of my identity spreading throughout the District. The Peacekeepers might get curious, and that just won't do. I slip the watch onto my wrist as I depart, whistling a merry tune.

I have a Reaping to attend.

The droning buzz of our mayor's voice reverberates through my head as I stand in the crowd, annoyed that I have to be around so many people. The stage is a few dozen feet ahead of me and the crowd, which is practically roasting in the summer sun. The Mayor keeps stopping to wipe his sweat away as he gives his speech.

Fool. Why not just skip the formalities and go straight to selecting a name? That would save us all a lot of time and discomfort. I shift my weight and let out a yawn. A few of the boys beside me give me nervous glances. They're basically pissing themselves in fear at the mere thought of being Reaped.

I don't have to worry about that. I've taken tessarae my entire life and yet I don't have a shred of worry that my name will be drawn. Because even if it is drawn, I know there'll be a volunteer. Dozens of guys in my organization—ranging from young boys to men who are mere days of aging out of the Reaping—have sworn to volunteer in my place if I am ever chosen. My name being read would result in people tripping over themselves to volunteer for me.

I chuckle softly, drawing even more looks from the boys around me. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?

"Are you ready, District 11?" Hellie Helium, our weird escort with the third eye in her forehead, has the microphone now. She paces back and forth across the stage, all three eyes swiveling to take in the entire crowd. "I feel like this is finally the year for you to snap your losing streak!"

Not likely. This hellhole hasn't had a Victor in decades—I doubt we're about to draw one now. The crowd must feel the same, because they don't show any enthusiasm for her words. Hellie frowns and taps the bowl filled with everyone's name. "Well, I suppose we should just get to it then. Boy's first!"

I wonder who'll get picked. Maybe I can have my men contact their family and offer them some extra rations–at a price, of course.

"Chrome Kimathi!"

Huh. Guess the day finally came. I smile as I wait for a volunteer to call out, wondering which one of my men will do it first. I'll probably give their family extra rations too...free of charge, for once.

But as the seconds tick away I feel my smile begin to falter. Something is wrong. There should have been multiple volunteers by now.

I glance around, searching for my guys in the crowd. I spot several of them but they all avoid my gaze, staring at their feet as Hellie repeats my name to the crowd. The smiles fades. An icy pit of anger has begun to grow within me.

What the hell is happening?

"Chrome Kimathi?" Hellie shields her eyes from the sun as she gazes out into the crowd. "Are you there? Chrome Kimathi?"

None of my men have moved, let alone called out to volunteer. My anger threatens to spill out. Those bastards swore to volunteer. They gave their words! They all promised on their mothers life to volunteer for me!

No one is volunteering. My fury radiates from me like a wave as that cold realization settles in. None of those cowardly bastards have the manhood to step up and volunteer. Not a single one of them! I'll kill them all for that! But first...

I force my face to remain impassive as I finally move. Hellie gives a little clap as she sees me heading for the stage. Stupid woman. When I stop beside her she asks what took me so long.

"I just wanted to make it dramatic, you know?" I smile and wink for the cameras. "It's funner that way, you know?"

Hellie nods. "Oh, yes! I was literally on the edge of my seat waiting for your appearance !"

Since she was standing she most definitely was not "literally" on the edge of her seat. But I've seen enough of the world to know there is no point correcting stupid, so I just make more small talk and promise to make some waves in the Games.

The cameras may see a smiling, charismatic Chrome, but they don't pick up the raging undercurrent of anger that lies beneath my facade. Fools. Did they think I'd die in the Games? That they would be free from any repercussions? I'm going to win, and when I do I'm coming back here and murdering every single one of those two-faced rats! I know the name of everyone who promised me they'd volunteer. I spent an hour memorizing the list. There will be no escape when I return.

No escape for any of them.

Interlude
I walk down the hallway, feeling oddly nostalgic as my feet tread upon the luxurious carpet, tracing a path they’ve taken many times. How long has it been since I became Victor? Eight years? And how many times have I mentored since then?

It takes some thought, but I eventually find the answer. Seven. I have mentored seven times since my Victory.

Seven times too many.

I have no business being a mentor. Children shouldn’t have their lives placed in my hands just because I happened to survive the same brutal Games they’re being forced to play. I can’t even recall what strategy I used in my own Games; I more or less just made things up on the fly. I didn’t do anything special to warrant living. I didn’t deserve it anymore than any of the other girls did.

Yet I lived and they died.

I’ve reached the end of the hallway. Two doublewide doors loom before me. I can hear voices beyond it. No doubt the other mentors have already gathered inside. It’s become a custom for us all to watch the Chariot Rides together. Taking a deep breath, I push the doors open and stride into the room.

It is a vast place, wide and open under a steeply pitched roof held up by crystalline beams. The walls and floors are made from giant smoothed blocks of stones; windows ornate arches filled with intricate stained glass. At the far end a multitude of doors and windows open onto a terrace overlooking the river. Yellow lights hung from the ceiling and on walls, attached to metal braziers.

A crowd of people have assembled near the far wall, which has been transformed into a gigantic holographic screen. Avoxes and other servants dart to and fro, at the bidding of the assembled mentors. In the center of the hall lie over a dozen tables laden with the most expensive and sumptuous food the Capitol possesses. More than a few of the mentors linger at their sides.

“Exorbitant, isn’t it?”

I stifle a squeak of surprise as a man appears at my side. Tall and blond, with gray eyes like dusty orbs, I recognize him almost instantly. Charce Firre, Victor of the 326th Hunger Games.

I offer him a curtsy. “Greetings, Charce. You surprised me there!”

He laughs. “Yeah, I could tell. Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“Oh, no problem. It was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have zoned out right in the doorway!”

We stand at the top of the steps that sweep down into the majestic hall, offering a few more friendly comments to each other before beginning our descent. A black-suited servant whirls pass, collecting Charce’s jacket. “So what’ve you been up to?” He asks as we bypass the tables of food.

“Nothing much. I spend a lot of time around horses—honing my Talent.” He nods, plucking a pastry off a passing Avoxes tray. “Makes sense, I suppose. Soot and I have been doing a lot of community projects, trying to fix the District and all. It’s not easy, but we’re definitely making progress.”

I purse my lips. Times like these make me feel…inadequate. Other Victors, people like Charce and Mist, spend so much of their time and money giving back and attempting to help people. And what do I spend my time on? Horses and dresses.

“Your job will be easier if you get another Victor,” I say in a desperate attempt to get my mind off my own failings.

He nods, swallowing the pastry. “True. Dunno if we’ll get one this year, though. Matiss is big, yeah, but that’ll make him a target. As for the girl…I honestly don’t know what to think of her.”

I haven’t had much interaction with either of my own charges. I was meant to have a conversation with them on the train, but then Kulver…

I see him now. Standing at one of the food tables as he fills up his plate. I didn’t know about his past. Had never put any thought into it. Does everyone have secrets like that? A hidden layer of humanity they keep tucked away inside themselves? I don’t like that thought. It’ll make the sight of seeing every tribute die in the Games even harder.

Charce and lapse into silence as we approach a the group centered around the viewing screen. It currently shows a panoramic view of the Capitol Concourse as two commentators hype the upcoming Chariot Rides.

“Charce, my bro!” A short, shabbily dressed man rushes up and gives Charce a high-five with way more force than necessary. I smile at the sight. Soot Dustcloud, co-Victor of the 327th and the only living District 12 Victor besides Charce.

As the two of them strike up a conversation, I let my gaze wander and I study the other mentors gathered before the screen.

Edmund Everton, Victor of the 300th Games. He’s a large, hairy man who silently stares up at the screen, ignoring everyone else. Not a surprise. He was never one for socializing.

Then there’s Watt Chargy, a cute, bespectacled girl who won the 327th Games at the age of thirteen. She is currently playing with her hair as she shifts from foot to foot, occasionally glancing at Charce. I’ve long suspected that she has a crush on him, and it’s never been more apparent.

A trio of Victors stand close together, murmuring to themselves as they watch the proceedings. Rhys, Panama, and Elodi, from District 9, 10, and 13 respectively.

Rounding out the assembled group is two of my own co-Victors, Mist Scorchil and Hazel Dyer. The two of them couldn’t be more different and even their clothing reflects this; Mist wears a simple long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans, while Hazel wears an elaborately detailed dressed that quite literally has diamonds woven into the fabric. Yet despite their mutual hatred of each other, I have a close friendship with them both.

Sometimes that can be quite awkward.

“Hello!” I greet them with both with a smile. Best to try and keep everything civil. “It’s a reunion of the 325th Victors!”

Mist looks at me, Hazel, and then back to me. He makes a show of counting his fingers. “Not a full reunion. Acheron isn’t here.”

Hazel gives a disdainful sniff. “Acheron is dead.”

“You don’t know that!” Mist points an accusatory finger at her. “We have no proof he’s dead! None at all!”

This is an old argument, one that the three of us have gone over many times. Acheron Bane, a man who co-Victored the 325th Games with us, went missing shortly after the conclusion of the 327th. The Capitol questioned us all on his whereabouts, but none of us had any answers. The guy had simply vanished.

No one knows for sure what happened or where he went, but everyone has their own theory. Mist thinks that he escaped from Panem and is living somewhere off grid, but Hazel believes he’s dead; either recaptured and killed by the Capitol or he simply died in the wilderness. And what do I think? Well…I don’t really have any thoughts. Acheron was always a quiet, mysterious man. I can count the amount of conversations I’ve had with him on one hand. So who knows where he went?

Hazel rolls her eyes but doesn’t otherwise respond. That’s a good sign. It means she’s open to being civil with Mist tonight.

She usually isn’t so lenient with him.

“What do you think of your tributes this year?” I throw the question out there before Mist can say something that’ll jeopardize the temporary peace. He’s always been too much of a firebrand for his own good.

Hazel takes a sip of her wine. “I don’t think much of them, to be frank. The girl fainted on stage and the boy…well, he certainly has all the physical tools but his sister will drag him down.”

“Nah, don’t listen to Hazel! We got this in the bag!” A thin, pallid man wearing a straw hat pushes his way into the conversation. Rhys, the most recent Victor from District 9, after Hazel. He spent the majority of his own Games just hiding in a tree until the final day, where he finally emerged to kill the last two remaining tributes. Afterwards, as they were announcing his Victory, he famously declared “I need a nap.”

He’s been known as Rhys the Lazy ever since.

Ever since learning the truth about Kulver I’ve been reluctant to simply accept the Capitol’s assessment of the Victors at face value. After all, if they lied about him why wouldn’t they lie about everyone else? But I’ve known Rhys for years and, as much as I hate to admit it, the epithet “lazy” fits him like a glove.

Hazel makes a small noise at the sight of Rhys. Her dislike of the man almost parallels her disdain for Mist. Almost. “And what would you know about mentoring, Rhys? You spent the entirety of the train ride sleeping!”

“I wasn’t sleeping! I was just resting my thinking muscle!”

“I honestly can’t believe you survived the Games.”

“Well, I did! And this year I’m going to mentor another tribute to Victory!”

Hazel almost chokes on her wine. “Another? Excuse me, but you haven’t mentored any tribute to Victory!”

“I mentored you, didn’t I?”

“No! You only mentored the boys, Jake and Folly!”

Rhys pauses. He takes one hand and carefully rubs his chin. “Huh. I think you’re right. How about that? Well, whatever. I was doing a bang up job with Jake until you killed him!”

Hazel goes still. A cold fury ignites behind her blue eyes. Her grip on the wine glass tightens so much that I fear it is about to break. But Rhys doesn’t notice. He just keeps talking and talking, going on about how likely Jake’s Victory would have been, how he’d have helped Mist and Shade kill Acheron. This is going to end poorly. I need to step in.

Now.

“Hazel!” I step forward and hip-check Rhys. The thin man careens backwards into Panama and Elodi, who thankfully have enough social awareness to tow him away. “How’s your relationship with Griegg been going?” I remember the name from our last conversation. It was quite recent, only two months ago. Hazel was visiting District 5 for some concert or something.

Hazel blinks. She turns and faces me, a look of confusion replacing the icy anger. “What? Who is Griegg?”

“You know, that hovercraft engineer.”

“Oh, him.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I dumped him a few days ago. I’m seeing Wren Churches now. And Erevan Newcastle.”

“You’re seeing two different guys?” That sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.

But Hazel only laughs. “Live a little, Missy! It’s hot girl summer! I can see however many guys I want!”

I allow myself a grudging smile and laugh along with her, though I don’t quite feel up to it. I’ve done my job. I’ve defused the situation. That’s something I’ve always been good at. Social recognition. I can understand the dynamics of a room, spot signs of future conflict, and then zero in on those and prevent it from ever beginning.

Hazel and I are in the process of a conversation about horses when a new voice cuts in. “Did you say you were seeing Erevan Newcastle?”

It’s Edmund, of all people. He stands beside us, one hand tugging on his beard. Hazel and I exchange a glance. “Yes, I did. What of it?”

“He’s one of President Stryker’s heirs.”

“So he is. Does this conversation have a point?” She calls an Avox over and taps a foot impatiently.

“Seems like all of his heirs are trying to get in good with the Victors.”

I raise an eyebrow. What does that mean? “Could you be a little more clear and concise?” Hazel holds her glass out for the Avox to refill. “I’m not really in the mood to try and figure out your riddles.”

Edmund shrugs. “A few hours ago Roscoe Stryker approached me and asked if I would publicly support his bid for presidency.”

“And what did you say?” I’m genuinely curious to know. This is a rare opportunity to see the inside of Edmund’s mind.

He shrugs again. “Told him I’d think about it. I thought it was a strange question, though, so I asked a few of the other Victors about it. Apparently all of Stryker’s heirs have been asking them for their support.”

I’m not too surprised by this revelation. The Victors are hugely popular with the Capitol citizens and hold sway over their decisions. It’s the reason why so many of us have became official spokesman of various products; a Victor’s sign of approval is enough to put a company’s income through the roof. I’m sure it’d be the same with the heirs.

“Erevan would make a fine President,” Hazel says as she sips her wine. I don’t respond, and neither does Edmund. He simply turns and walks away. I’m about to question my friend on her relationship with Erevan when yet another newcomer interrupts.

“Sorry I’m late.” A pale young woman with ocean blue hair that flows down to her waist. She takes a few steps towards us and offers a weak smile. “I…had an appointment with the President.”

Cassandra Oracion.

The entire group’s attention has been turned to her. Soot offers her a handshake. “We don’t care if you’re late! All that matters is we’re together!”

“It’s the first time we’ve all been together since the 327th,” Watt agrees. The small woman steps up and gives Cassandra a hug. “I’m just glad you’re healthy.”

The sight of the two of them makes me smile. Not many people could have done what Watt has; not only forgiven the girl who killed their friend, but befriended her in turn. It takes a big person to do that. Perhaps bigger than I am.

“Where’s Austin?” Cassandra’s eyes are scanning the assembled group and have noticed the absence of the fourth Victor from the 327th.

“Him and his Career buddies are over there.” Mist jerks a finger towards the terrace, where Austin and his appearance Lux stand in conversation with the District 4 mentors. The smile slips from my face as I finally notice something that’s been bugging me for awhile.

“Where are the District 2 mentors?”

Almost at once all of our heads swivel around, searching the grand hall for any sign of them. But there’s nothing to be found. There are only twenty-six Victors present. District 2 is not among them.

The others begin to converse among themselves about how odd it is that an entire District is missing their Victors. I haven't ever seen such a thing before. Hazel is the first to voice the obvious. "Who will mentor the tributes?"

“I will!”

We all turn around to face the speaker, a newcomer to the group. As far as looks go, he is average in almost every way. He's neither short nor tall, neither thin nor fat, not particularly handsome or ugly or plain. His hair is medium brown, his eyes don't draw attention and he wears an understated suit that doesn't look especially cheap or expensive. I want to say I've never seen him before in my life, but the truth is I wouldn't even remember if I had.

Mist sums it up best. "Who the hell are you?"

The man shrugs. "I'm just a guy. A guy named Stuart."

"Stuart!"

I'm practically shoved out of the way as Charce leaps forward to give the man a hug. I exchange a look with Watt. Am I missing something here?

“You know this guy?” Hazel asks.

Charce turns to face us, one hand still wrapped around Stuart's shoulder. “Of course! He was my mentor in the Games! I'd never have won without his help!"

All at once things begin to click together. Charce had been the first Victor from District 12 in seventy-five years, so there had been no living Victors to mentor him. Instead they had...this random guy mentor him?

Everyone else must realize the same thing, for most conversations drift back to their previous topics. Our outburst must have drawn the attention of Austin, though, because him and Lux have crossed over from the terrace to join the group. “Oh, Cassandra!” Austin gives a start when he spots her. "When did you get here?"

"Just a little bit ago," She replies. Her eyes stay glued to the floor. "I...had a meeting with the President."

During her time in the Games Cassandra revealed she was a clairvoyant. Someone who, at times, could see glimpses of the future. She used this ability to survive the 327th and emerge as Victor, only to claim that she was a liar who faked her visions during her Victory speech. The citizens of the Capitol promptly turned on her and any semblance of popularity she had was gone.

Except she hadn't actually faked her abilities.

That was just a directive from President Stryker, a ruse designed to make everyone think she was a fake so he could use her for his own benefit without anyone else knowing. Cassandra herself confided this in to most of us mentors; she says that we're the only people with whom she can still be herself.

I should have felt honored hearing that. But I can only feel despair. How miserable must her life be if interacting with the likes of me is a highlight?

Austin's green eyes flicker to the boy at his side. "Hey, Lux. Didn't Ryam claim that he could drink more than you? How about you go prove him wrong?"

“I'm on it!” His apprentice slips away, heading over to the banquet table which holds the spirits. Half a dozen other mentors already linger there, including Ryam.

Cassandra watches him go with a relieved face. Lux is one of the newer Victors, and he hasn't been told the truth about her. I don't think Cassandra has plans to loop anyone else in.

On the screen behind us the Chariot Rides have begun, drawing the attention of most mentors. Only ten of us remain standing in this semi-circle.

"This is almost a complete reunion of the 327th!" Watt says happily. She's right. Edmund, Mist, Hazel, Charce, and myself were all mentors for those Games, while Soot, Austin, Cassandra, and herself ended up being the Victors. I like to think that a special bond holds us together, even if we're not all exactly friends.

"Topaz and Marcio are absent," Hazel says, sipping her wine.

“And Acheron,” Mist adds.

She narrows her eyes at him but doesn't otherwise respond. I decide to step in before Mist can do anything else to set her off. "So, Cassandra, what did the President want this time?"

“You don't have to tell us if you don't want,” Soot pats her on the shoulder.

She smiles weakly. "No, it's fine. I...he wanted me to try and see which of his heirs would be the best successor."

The group murmurs quietly to each other. A few mention their own meeting with the heirs. Apparently Edmund was right; they've all been making overtures to the Victors. "Did you see anything?" Hazel asks. I can't help but notice the interest in her eyes. Is she thinking of Erevan and her connection to him?

Cassandra shakes her head, face forlorn. "No. Nothing substantial. President Stryker didn't appreciate that. He..."

An awkward silence fills the air, broken only by the sound of the television behind us and the other mentors commentary. I can't imagine how awful it must be to have to deal with the President's questions and not have anything to tell him.

“It's alright, Cass,” Austin swirls his glass, staring sightlessly at its contents. “He's retiring soon. When he does I'm sure the questions will end.”

“He asked me to try and see the future of Panem,” Cassandra continues to stare at her shoes. She shivers, even though the room is warm to the point of being hot. "And...all I saw was his face."

"President Stryker's?"

"No. Acheron's."

Acheron? Why in the world would she have seen him of all people? He hasn't been spotted since the end of the 327th, and Hazel said he was–

"I told you he wasn't dead!" Mist points a finger right in Hazel's face. "I told you! How many times have I told you! Haha! I was right!"

Charce punches him in the shoulder. "Shut up! This isn't about you!"

Mist's retort trails off as he notices Cassandra. She's still staring into the distance. Her hands have curled into fists. "When I see him he's so full of hate...Hate and anger. I don't think there's anything left for him but that." She's in her own world, oblivious to the stares of those around her. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes. "Is that truly Panem's future? He'll destroy it all if left unchecked..."

"Boy, that's dark!" Stuart's voice breaks the somber mood. He has a big stupid grin on his face. I'd forgotten he was even here. "Hope I'm not around to see that!"

I put a hand on my hip and fix him with a glare. He shrugs at me and slips away from the group, leading me to the realization that several of the others have already done the same. Only Edmund, Austin and I still stand beside Cassandra. I give her an apologetic look. "Sorry. I understand how hard this must be..."

Cassandra smiles and tells me not to worry. It looks forced, but I can only nod. What else can I do to help? It doesn't matter how rich or famous I am; her problems are simply beyond the scope of my abilities.

I excuse myself and drift over to the corner of the room. On the screen a chariot is making its way down the concourse with Faren and Opal aboard. I grimace at the reminder that I still don't know the first thing about either of them. I should probably try and change that. I repress a sigh.

Looks like my troubles are far from over.

Lucia Shale (District 13)
The morning light shines over the mountains of the Capitol and makes its way through the blinds to illuminate me as I sit on the edge of my bed. I am already dressed in the training uniform I found laid out on my dresser when I woke.

Another day, another fight.

I'd thought that it was all behind me, that I could finally enjoy a stable, peaceful life. But the Reaping shattered that illusion. Any peace in my life will have to be earned by carving a path to Victory in the arena.

Today will be the first day of training. I'll be led down to the training center alongside my District partner and be presented with the first opportunity to get my hands on a weapon. I'll need to hone my skills to win. That part is obvious.

I rise from my bed, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Even our rooms here are ostentatious. The Capitol flaunts its wealth so much that I almost understand Augustus' intense hatred towards it.

But that still doesn't excuse his actions.

I slip on my socks and shoes, then make my way out into the hall and down to the kitchen. Here I find Solomon and our mentors, gathered around the long table that fills the entire room. Solomon is seated at the far end, face concealed by the hood of his black jacket as he stares down at the floor. I've gone out of my way to avoid interacting with him; I may have to kill him in the Games, and it'll be easier if he's just an anonymous face.

I didn't even want to learn his name, but that was impossible considering the circumstances. Solomon Eudia. My mentors never shut up about him and his infamous actions. At the Chariot Rodes he drew the loudest boos I've ever heard.

He might just be the most disliked tribute ever, and he hasn't even entered the arena yet.

"Good morning, Lucia!" One of my mentors, a blonde woman peeling an orange, greets me as I sit down at the table. I don't remember her name. In fact, I've actively avoided learning it. She may not be in the arena with me, but I still don't want to form any sort of emotional connection with her.

That results in nothing but pain.

I give her a stiff nod and turn to the meal an Avox places before me, two soft scrambled eggs dotted with cheddar cheese, three juicy sausage patties flecked with red pepper, and fried potatoes. I eat in silence. Neither of my mentors attempt to start a conversation and Solomon continues to stare at the floor. Though I try not to think about him, I find it impossible. He looks nothing like how I imagined a psychopath who murdered his family would. Though, can I really judge him for that? I turned my own brother in to the Capitol to be executed. I have no regrets about that—I merely did what had to be done—but I don't think that gives me much room to criticize Solomon.

These thoughts are drifting dangerously close to sympathy, and sympathy is a liability in the arena. I can't allow myself any weakness. Weakness is the path to death. So I cut off all my thoughts and focus on my meal. When the clock chimes my mentors lead Solomon and I to the elevators. The blonde woman smiles and tells me to focus on shoring up my weaknesses, saying that there's no point in wasting time practicing something I'm already good at.

Maybe she's a smart woman after all.

The elevator ride down is exceedingly awkward. Neither I nor Solomon speak. We each seem to be trying to avoid looking at the other. I find myself wondering what is going on inside his head before realizing that's a dangerous line of thought and shut it down. Instead I preoccupy myself with studying the elevator buttons.

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I practically rush out. The moment I do I notice a throng of several tributes dressed in the same uniform as myself. They're milling around a pillar, seemingly killing time. But when I arrive they all turn and gaze at me. No, not me. Past me. At Solomon.

"It's the disgusting kin-killer," A dark-haired boy whispers to the girl next to him.

Solomon sticks his hands in his pockets and walks in silently. His eyes are still glued to the floor.

Another elevator dings and then two more tributes are shuffling into the hall, pulling the attention away from him. I can't place their District, but the guy is definitely going to be a threat. He stands more than six and a half feet tall, drawing everyone's eyes as he lumbers across the gym to awkwardly stand beside the Head Trainer. His District partner, in contrast, is completely unremarkable.

As the remaining tributes continue to file in, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. The gymnasium is a large, oval-shaped room with a domed ceiling. The racks of weapons and their corresponding stations are all in the back, directly across from me. The survival stations are spread to the left side and the Gauntlets, Ropes Course and other stamina stations are on the right, while the cafeteria is positioned just to the left of the elevators.

The Gamemakers are seated at a table that rests on a mezzanine of sorts, a second floor that wraps its way around the entire room. But the Gamemakers aren't alone up there. A second table is placed atop the mezzanine and seven people sit there, watching us tributes with predatory eyes. I recognize them from the Chariot Rides, the emcee had gone out of his way to pull our attention to them. They're President Stryker's heirs, and one of them will be our next President.

But why are they here at training?

Soon enough all twenty-eight of us have arrived and the trainers make us form a line, sorted from shortest to tallest. The giant guy–he's from District 12, I think–is the tallest, closely followed by the male from District 1. The shortest tribute is a small twelve year-old who, bizarrely enough, seems to be grinning with anticipation. What's her deal?

“Greetings, tributes of the 333rd Hunger Games!" The Head Trainer, a stocky bearded man named Kassius, walks up and down the line. Occasionally he'll stop to stare one of us in the eye. "Today will be the first of several periods where you will be allocated time to spend training. Use that time wisely. Your survival hinges on more than just knowing how to use a weapon. You must be able to survive in the wild, be able to procure food and drink for yourself, and know how to find shelter. If you cannot do any of that, a weapon will be useless to you.”

I've seen enough Games to know that already. Several past Games have been decided by the simple fact that the Victor knew more about nature than the other tributes.

“We have many Training Stations here, all designed to help you survive. Do not be quick to ignore any of them. They all can teach you a valuable lesson that may just save your life. Understood? Then let us begin!" Kassius blows his whistle and the tributes all move out. I'm bumped more than once as they eagerly rush to their desired station. Most seem headed for the weapons, but more than a few head straight for the survival stations. The Careers, oddly enough, don't approach any station. They form a small semi-circle, conversing quietly amongst themselves.

I don't put any thought into wondering why. I have my own priorities. I gaze out at the stations, wondering which station I should begin with, when I remember the words of my mentor. Shore up my weaknesses. I literally have no climbing abilities so...

I head straight for the climbing station. If I work hard enough these next two days, then I'll have no weaknesses by the end of the training session.

Just strengths.

Marina Mattel (District 4)
As the other tributes all rush off to the training stations I stand in a semi-circle with the rest of the Careers as we officially introduce ourselves. This is the first time we've seen each other up close and, considering we'll be allies in the Games, it's paramount that we learn more about one another.

Even if it is only to find out each other's weaknesses.

After our initial introductions are made, Valor—the male from District 1—steps forward so that he is in the center of our circle. Tall and muscular, he stands straight with hands clasped behind his back as he speaks. "I would like to formally propose that I take the leadership position amongst our alliance."

I'm not surprised at the least by that. Everything about the guy just screams "alpha male" and I doubt he could ever envision a situation where he wasn't in charge.

“Let's not make a decision too quickly,” The guy from District 2, Atticus, is the next to speak. Dark haired and handsome, I find myself unconsciously shying away from him. He reminds me too much of Tristen. “I feel as if any one of us could make a fine leader, if given the opportunity.”

I glance at Mako, half expecting him to throw his hat into the ring, but he remains silent with that stupid grin on his face. I've known him for years; everyone in District 4 has. While he's popular amongst most of my peers, I've always thought of him as cocky and obnoxious.

“I was the top student in the District 1 Academy,” Valor intones, “I shattered every record and aced every test. I have been destined for the Games since the moment of my birth. Surely I deserve the honor of leading the Careers.”

“We were all top students at the Academy,” I can't help but point out. All of us have trained our whole lives for this, we're called Careers for a reason.

Valor gives me a sidelong glance and then nods. "Point taken. We are all top students."

I notice that none of the others are interested in the conversation at all. Lilith from 2 has her eyes narrowed as she watches the other tributes, while Alcmene from 1 is staring at the ground with her arms folded. Mako is just standing there grinning.

As Valor and Atticus continue their discussion, I notice how good Atticus is at this. He's efffortlessly charming and funny, with an innate sense of roguishness that makes you want him to succeed. Just like Tristen. I can't shake him from my head. Him and his despicable act. All of my interactions with men have been colored by his memory. Yet is that not the reason I am even here? To get enough prestige and power to finally hold him accountable for his actions?

"There is only one way to settle this!" Valor's proclamation brings all of our attention back to the task at hand. "And that is in the vein of true Academic fashion...with a duel!"

Atticus arches an eyebrow. "A duel? Interesting."

“You lummoxes know they won't let you use real blades to fight each other, right?" Lilith's wry comment draws a chuckle from me and Alcmene, and a flat stare from Valor.

"Of course they won't. However, they do have wooden swords for training purposes. I intend for Atticus and I to use those for our duel." He points to the back of the gymnasium, where a matted square has been set aside. Right now the boy from District 6 is sparring an instructor with one of those aforementioned wooden swords.

Atticus frowns. "We both use swords, you say?" His eyes travel from the sword station to Valor, and I can read his thoughts as well as if he'd voiced them. Valor is almost half a foot taller and has longer arms; even if he were an untrained novice his reach alone would lend him a tremendous advantage. And Valor is no untrained novice.

Valor nods. "It is the fairest way to settle this dispute."

"How about I use a spear?" The darker boy smiles. Smart. A spear has a longer reach than a sword, and using one would more than offset the length advantage Valor had. Atticus is handsome and clever. A dangerous combination.

Valor's eyes flicker, but only for a moment. "Very well. We can use spears instead."

"You'll use a spear too?" Atticus can't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Of course. It is only fair if we both use the same weapon, no?"

He should have expected that. If I could understand his purpose in trying to use a different weapon, then so could Valor. If they both use spears than the advantage falls squarely back on Valor.

Atticus throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine. I withdraw my petition for leadership. Valor, the position is yours!"

I expect some kind of boasting from Valor, a grin or shout, maybe just a sly smile. But he only nods briskly and sets off towards the weapon stations, waving for the rest of us to follow him. The other tributes scatter when they see us, dropping whatever their doing and abandoning the stations. The pair from 9 are the last to go, the girl practically dragging the boy behind her. "Career tryouts have begun!" Valor shouts, "It's time to prove your worth!"

He appears so quickly that he must have been waiting for this moment. It's the giant boy, the one who drew everyone's attention when he first entered the gym. His name is Matiss, he tells us, and he intends to join the Careers.

I pay little attention as Valor has him demonstrate his skills, because there's no chance in hell that we pass on the opportunity to have him in our alliance. His size alone would mask any deficiencie he may have. "Wouldn't want to fight him in the Games," Lilith mutters beside me. I grunt in agreement. Matiss is scary big and freakishly strong. My best chance of beating him would rely on me using my speed, but even then he's surprising agile for one so big.

Several more tributes arrive in the time it takes Matiss to show off his skills. Three of them are waiting on the peripheral, the guy from 3 and the girls from 5 and 7. The boy, Zekel, is up next. He takes the time to explain that he was trained in our ways and that his brother had joined the Careers a few years back.

"Zevran Zin," Alcmene says the name with a nod. "He was bisected in the bloodbath of the 331st by Frontier Royce from District 7."

Zekel flinches as if she'd struck him. "Y-yes. He was my brother and he...he died like you said."

His skills are a medley of weaponry knowledge that ranges from exceptional to passable. He seems to be on par with most of the guys back at the Academy, and he doesn't really stand out for better or worse. The 5 girl, Opal, goes after him. When she steps up she fixes us all with a cold, hard stare. "My name is Opal Crane and you will allow me into the Careers."

"Thinks pretty highly of herself, doesn't she?" Lilith mutters as the girl approaches the weapon station. But if Opal's personality is off-putting, her skills leave nothing to be desired. I'm actually a little stunned by her level of aptitude; how did a girl from District 5 of all places become so skilled?

"Let's start a party up in this bitch!" The fourth and final prospect cackles madly as she takes up an axe. She's tall for a girl and that, combined with her platinum blonde hair buzzed on one side, has her stand out like a sore thumb. Her name is Yewan.

Valor draws us all aside before she's even finished with her display. "We'll be accepting them all," He tells us quietly.

"All of them?" That's not what I was expecting. With these four added to our ranks the Careers would stand at ten tributes, much larger than the alliance typically is. "Yes." Valor slaps a hand against his palm. "See, it is beneficial for all of them to be aligned with us, whether they're actually skillful or not."

"How so?"

"If we don't accept them then they'll just join a different alliance and bolster their ranks. Numbers are the key to Victory. Even a skilled combatant will go down if vastly outnumbered by inferior foes."

"What if they're untrustworthy?" Mako asks. From the tone of his voice I can tell he's just throwing the question out there and doesn't actually have any doubts.

"Then it'll be all the better for them to be close to us. Because if they show any signs of betrayal we can just kill them straight off, and if they abandon us they'll have a hard time convincing any of the others to trust them."

Alcmene is nodding slowly. You can practically see the gears in her head churning. "Smart. A time tested strategy for sure. You've also studied Games history, I see."

Valor smiles. "I've studied everything."

I can't find any flaws in his logic and neither can any of the others. Seeing that we're all in agreement, Valor turns to tell the recruits the news. Yewan has finished her display and is standing over a dismembered dummy, grinning. The other three are staring at her with expressions ranging from boredom to disbelief. "Good news," Valor begins, oblivious to any of it, "You're all accepted. From this moment on you're Careers, and that means you need to act like one. No slacking, no whining, and no ingratitude. You will all hold yourselves to our standards or face the consequences. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever!"

I don't know if Valor was expecting them to cheer or something, but the recruits only nod. Well, except Yewan. She lets out a whoop of joy and throws her axe in the air. Everyone else immediately scatters and the nearest instructor begins to scold her as the axe comes back down and smashes into the floor. The entire group turns to stare at the tall girl.

Yewan grins. "These Games are going to be exciting!"

Teal Arden (District 6)
I stare intently at the plant. I study the whorls, memorize the stalks, and observe the bulbs. I watch it so intensely that the plant is no longer a plant. It has become something else. Something more.

"Okay, now turn around!" My ally Remus gives the instruction and I turn away from the plant, facing the rest of the gymnasium. The sounds of voices and grunting from the other tributes as they train pollute my head and invade my thoughts. Remus' voice carries over it all. "Can you describe the plant for me?"

"Of course! It was...green." My memory fails me. Despite all my staring I can't for the life of me recall a single detail about that plant. "And...uh...leafy."

“It was green and leafy?” Remus' voice is flat. I don't think he's too amused.

"Yeah. Green and leafy." I try to remember something else about the plant but all the activity around me prevents that. I think I almost remember its pattern but then I catch a glimpse of Lucia running the gauntlets and completely lose my train of thought. "It was definitely green and leafy."

Remus sighs and I turn around. There's two plants on the small table before me, and both of them are indeed green and leafy. Yeah, they also have a bunch of other defining features but at least I got something right.

Remus is also there. He's standing behind the table with his arms crossed, his dark eyes watching me carefully. I chose him as an ally almost the moment I saw him; he has a combination of cleverness and strength that most people lack. His training uniform can't hide the muscles that lay beneath, and his styled hair shows the care he puts into his own appearance. A small part me—just a small part—can't help but feel he looks and acts like the older brother I never had.

He taps a foot impatiently. "Can you remember which is Deathsbane and which is Deathsdoor?"

"Please don't tell me that's their actual names!" Why would anyone give two plants that look almost identical such similar names?

"That is correct. This one," He gestures at the plant on the left, "is Deathsbane. The juices inside its stem apparently have healing benefits. Deathsdoor, on the other hand, has juices that are deathly poisonous."

"Why would they name a healing plant something like Deathsbane?"

The look Remus gives me shows that he thinks the answer should be obvious. "Deathsbane is a clever name, since the plant is the bane of death."

I throw up my hands in mock despair. "This is useless! Why are we even wasting time on this stuff? We need to be training with the weapons! I won't stand a chance in a fight if I don't!"

When the training period first started I was amongst the weapons. I drifted from station to station trying to find a weapon that fit me. There was one weapon, a chained mace, that I was really getting into when I met Remus. He stopped to watch me practice for a bit before commenting that my chosen weapon was "impractical for actual combat" and prompting a conversation between us that quickly led to our alliance. But right then the Careers finally moved from their position beside the elevators and started up their "recruitment". Remus didn't want to stick around for that because the Capitol tributes typically join up with the Careers and he didn't want them to notice that he hadn't. So he dragged me here to the plant identification station and that's where we've stayed.

But the Careers recruitment has ended and now the weapon stations are free again.

"Learning this information is vitally important," Remus says patiently. "Neither one of us has innate knowledge about plants and it's paramount that we learn as much as possible before we raise into the arena—otherwise we may make a mistake that leads to our deaths."

"You're not worried about weapons because you're already trained," I say flippantly. Remus was probably trained in an Academy or something and doesn't think he needs the extra time with weapons, but I have no such experience.

"Someone in our alliance needs to know about plants or we may wind up dead." Remus is so adamant about this that I just sigh and shake my head. Obviously I won't change his mind.

"Fine. But how about we just find another ally? One who knows about plants?"

Remus shrugs. "If you think you can then go ahead. I'm not remiss to the idea of having one more ally."

I nod and turn my attention to the other stations. The Careers consist of all the tributes from District's 1, 2, and 4, as well as four recruits. Obviously none of them are possible allies. My gaze slides along to the Rope Course, where Notcher is getting ready for his turn. He could be a good ally, except...something about his eyes unnerve me. I can't help but feel like the second I turned my back to him he'd plant a knife in it.

Next I study the survival stations and the tributes assembled there. The siblings from 9 are building a shelter, but I dismiss them out of hand. They'd be more concerned about each other than us. Killen is building a campfire and laughing as the flames catch on his kindling. Maybe he'd be a good ally. The third tribute I notice is Solomon. He's crouched at the trapping station, his face concealed by the hood of a black jacket which he wears over his training uniform.

While I never heard of him or the supposed Tragedy of the Eudia back in District 6, I have overheard my mentors and the other tributes talking about him. Solomon is an infamous fugitive wanted for the murder of his family, a famous family whose lineage stretches back to the Dark Days. A true psychopath who cares for nothing but himself. And yet... I can sense a aura of despair around him.

“—and I dare say that I wouldn't quite make that mistake. You understand, Teal?” Remus' voice cuts into my thoughts and I look up and point at Solomon.

"Him. We should ask him for an alliance."

Remus follows my finger to Solomon and frowns. "Him? Ah, him. Is he not the one who they say...murdered his family?"

"Do you know much about him?" I continue watching Solomon. He has looked up from his trap and is staring across the gymnasium at the Careers and, most likely, his sister Alcmene. His grey eyes are filled with sorrow.

Sorrow? That doesn't fit with his reputation.

"Not much, I'm afraid. The Tragedy occurred during I time when I was...Ah, that is to say, I was quite reclusive during that time frame. I don't very much..." Remus trails off, tugging at his collar. He seems embarrassed for some reason, but I don't dwell on him. My whole focus is on Solomon.

I like to think that my time working for Starling gave me a pretty good judge of character. I've made enough mistakes to know who not to trust. And right now my senses are telling me that Solomon isn't the psychotic murderer everyone says he is.

"I think we should ask him," I say.

Remus gives a small shake of his head. "Very well. We can ask, but do not be surprised if he declines our invitation."

The two of us make our way to the trap station, bypassing Chrome as he studies at the edible bug station. Solomon sees our approach and glances around, as if looking for an escape, but he remains where he is as we stop right in front of him. He stares up at us with impassive grey eyes.

He's not the murderer everyone thinks he is. I can see that even more clearly now that I'm up close. I can't explain why I feel that way, can hardly even understand it myself, but I know it's true. I open my mouth. "We want you to be our—"

"Pass." Solomon turns away and adjusts his hood so that it conceals more of his face. "I have no need for allies."

Remus is staring at me with a look that says "I told you so" and that really aggravates me. Time to play my trump card. I fix Solomon with a solid stare. "You didn't kill your family."

His head whips around so fast that I actually step back in alarm. There's a passion in his eyes now. A cold, threatening passion. "What makes you think," His voice is slow, his words clipped. He keeps looking back and forth between me and Remus. "that I didn't murder my family?"

"I can just tell. There's a...feeling around you. And the way you're acting betrays you. Not to mention how mournful you look every time you see Alcmene."

"She won't even look at me," He mutters more to himself than me. Shaking his head, he brusquely stands. "You're wrong, anyway. I did kill my family. All of them except Alci. I took a sword and murdered them."

"But you regret it," The words leave my lips without thought. Solomon stares at me like I'm crazy, but I force myself to keep going. "You regret everything you did. You're...I don't know. Trying to make amends."

"Teal..." Remus tugs on my sleeve but I shake him off.

"I want you for an ally, Solomon. I don't care what you did. As long as you're willing to tell us the truth—whenever you feel it's necessary—I don't care what you've done, or what you're planning." I'm trembling. With fear or nerves, I don't know. But my voice remained solid. Implacable. Solomon may be fooling himself, but he can't fool me. He's not a bad person.

He's not.

Solomon doesn't respond right away. He knocks over his half-made trap with one foot and steps on it, breaking it into pieces as he twists his heels. "I'll join your alliance, but only because it's useful for me to have allies. Not because...not because of what you said."

I allow myself a small smile. Tatius always said I had a strong force of will. Maybe he was right. But now that we have Solomon on our side...our alliance just got that much stronger.

Briar Destry (District 10)
I toss a knife at the target, grimacing as the blade spins sideways and misses the circular board entirely. Another miss. I knew that my skill with weapons—or lack of skill—was going to be a problem for me, but I never imagined just how poorly I'd perform. That was my fifth knife thrown and the fifth knife to completely miss the target.

"Good effort!" Damian flashes me an encouraging smile as he steps up to take his own turn. Our other allies, Faren and Aiko, stand just behind him.

I feel my own smile as I watch them. Damian and I knew going into training that we had to try and bolster our alliance, and so far we've done pretty well.

We approached Aiko the moment Kassius blew his whistle. I'd seen her during the Reapings and at the Chariot Rides, and I knew that I wanted her for an ally. She is only twelve years old, still young, innocent, and full of life. There was no way I'd let her enter the arena alone.

Her face broke out into a broad smile the second we made our proposal, telling us how happy she'd be knowing that she'd have friends to play this game with. My own smile had slipped momentarily at that. I thought that Aiko must not fully understand the ramifications of the Games. Why else would she be so excited? Of course, that has only strengthened my desire to protect her.

But she'll have to die if you wish to return to Tasha. A small voice murmurs in the back of my head. All these people, my allies whom I'm trying to bond with, will have to die if I want to return home. Only one tribute survives the Games.

Only one.

As I try to push these dark thoughts away, I notice Damian has finished with the knives. He did better than I did. Each of his five knives hit the target, though all of them struck on the edge and none with much force. He grins as he turns to us. "That was pretty good, right?"

"That was excellent!" I give him a smile and nod as Aiko takes her turn. I watch her with silent trepidation. We've been training for awhile now, and I've noticed that my smallest ally has...a strange affinity for weaponry. I don't know why or how she's so skilled, and I feel it'd be too obtrusive to ask.

Aiko throws the first knife and it hits the exact center of the bullseye. She gives a little jump of excitement, her twin ponytails bobbing. "Wow! Didja see that? It was almost as easy as throwing needles!"

Beside me Faren adjusts his glasses. "Th-that was quite impressive, Aiko."

We recruited Faren not long after Aiko. We found him by the gauntlets, watching some of the other tributes running. He's a slender and rigid boy, built like a rod with shaggy espresso hair that obscures most of his face. His grey eyes widened when I first offered him an alliance, as if he couldn't believe we'd want someone like him.

I can't imagine anyone better for my alliance. From first sight I could tell he was a gentle soul, and since joining I've come to learn a little more about him and know that he's exactly the kind of person I want at my side in the arena.

But he'll have to die eventually.

"Thanks!" Aiko grins at Faren and throws her next two knives. Both of these also hit the bullseye. Yet again I have to wonder how a twelve year old has such skill. I'm sure that, in time, Aiko will tell me herself, but...

Her last two knives strike the bullseye and Damian gives a low whistle. "I wouldn't want to be on your bad side!"

"You don't have to worry! You're my friend, and I don't harm my friends!"

Somehow that's simultaneously reassuring and worrisome. Aiko definitely hasn't had an easy childhood, yet that knowledge only increases my desire to protect her. I want to protect all of them. I don't wish for any of us to die. Maybe there's a way to avoid death. There has to be one.

Right?

Faren passes up his own opportunity to go and we drift away from the station as two of the Career recruits, Zekel and Matiss, take our place. I don't know why they joined the Careers. Neither of them seem like awful people.

"Are we done gathering allies?" Damian asks me as Aiko and Faren rush off to the Trap-Making station. Faren seems particularly eager for that one.

"No," I say quietly. Damian is my most trusted ally, since I've known him since the Reaping, but both Aiko and Faren have grown on me in our short time together. "Not yet."

My eyes take in the other stations and the tributes at them. I want to gather together all the so-called weaklings, all of the underdogs. I want us to band together and show that we're more than just what they think of us. Our alliance isn't done growing; not yet.

The Careers are obviously out. I wouldn't want any of them even if they were willing. The girl at the Ropes Course, Mercia, is also out. She's from the Capitol, for one, and the feeling I get when I look at her isn't a pleasant one. Aiko's District partner Notcher is currently sparring with an instructor in hand-to-hand combat and, while I would normally entail the idea of aligning with someone like him, something about his eyes...unnerves me.

"What about her?" Damian has been studying the tributes just as much as I have. He points at the tree climbing station, where the girl named Kia is attempting to scale the tallest tree. She's scrawny, with long limbs and thick, matted black hair. Not much to look at, but something about the determination in her eyes intrigues me.

"She could be a good ally," I admit. She doesn't appear to be outwardly negative, at any rate. "Let's go talk to her."

By the time we reach her station the girl has slid back down the tree and is scowling in frustration. She whips her head around to glare at us. "What do you want?"

Damian holds his hands up. "We just wanted to talk. That's all."

"We were wondering if you'd fit in our alliance," I say truthfully. Her glare is replaced with a frown as she glances from me to Damian.

"Is it just you two?"

"No. We have two others." I point out Faren and Aiko at the trap station. Faren seems to be in the middle of some elaborate contraption as Aiko watches him with eyes wide as saucers.

Kia scans the both of them then goes right back to studying us. She's silent for so long that I begin to wonder if she'll ever speak. When she does, her voice is slow and quiet. "You don't...you're all from lower Districts. Not much skill, here."

"I want my allies to be good people. I don't care how skilled they are." There's safety in numbers, and a sense of belonging. I have no desire to throw in with a murderous psychopath.

Kia nods. "Makes sense, I suppose." Her eyes flicker to Damian. "You're pretty tall. Have to be good at something, yeah?"

He looks at his feet. "N-no, not really. I'm just...a disappointment."

There's an unspoken undercurrent to his words, almost as if he's quoting someone. But I don't have time to puzzle that out right now. "I think you'd fit in with our alliance, Kia."

Something that might be surprise flashes in her eyes. "Really. And what makes you think that?"

"You seem like a kind person. And I don't think you want to enter the arena alone." I know I don't. I'm honestly frightneed of the idea. As much as I tell myself that I'm gathering allies for strategy, that I'm trying to protect them, a part of me knows that's not the whole truth. A part of me is simply terrified to be alone.

Kia laughs. "I wouldn't presume that much about me, if I were you. But still, you're not completely wrong."

"So will you join us?" Damian looks up hopefully. He must be as eager for more allies as I am.

The lunch bells rings out.

The air screams with the sound of sneakers on linoleum floors as half the tributes practically run to the cafeteria. Kia watches them go, an amused expression on her face. "You know what? I'll have lunch with you guys and think it over. Who knows? Maybe you'll convince me." She tosses her thick braids over her shoulder and heads off the the cafeteria.

I watch her go with a smile, knowing that I just found myself another ally.

Talia Migonette (District 3)
I sit alone in the corner of the cafeteria, staring silently at my tray as I use a fork to push my vegetables around. All around me the other tributes eat their own meals. Some sit in silence like me, while others talk loudly and laugh uproariously. Most of the noise comes from the Careers, who sit at a long table in the center of the cafeteria. I try to avoid looking at them. I wish to give them no cause to target me once the Games begin.

The other tributes haven't formed many alliances of their own. There's a trio sitting near me, consisting of Remus, Teal, and Solomon. I don't quite understand what brought them together. Many of the other tributes have gone out of their way to avoid Solomon, calling him some sort of kin-killer. But why would Teal and Remus align with him? If he was capable of murdering his own family, what makes them think he'd have the slightest hesitation about murdering allies?

I let my gaze pass over them and onto the next table, where a group of loners sit. Chrome seems to be in the middle of some story, making grand sweeping motions with his hands. The others at the table, Shiloh, Mercia, and Killen, appear to be paying him little attention.

Several more tables lay tucked away in the opposite corner of mine. The boy from 8, Notcher, sits at one of these. His left hand drums the table as his blue eyes gaze out at the other tributes. I can't quite place my finger on it, but something about him unnerves me. Maybe it's his defiant scowl?

Suddenly worried he'll see me watching him, I pull my gaze away and turn to stare off into the distance. But instead my eyes settle on the Gamemakers, seated above us in their semi-circle balcony. None of them seem to be paying much attention to us; they're more focused on the food laid out before them. Yet the table beside their own is a different scene.

President Stryker's potential successors watch us tributes with a keen gaze, ignoring the food on their plates. One of them, a dark-haired man with cold blue eyes, taps the woman beside him on the shoulder and points at one of the tables. It's the one with Solomon and his allies.

At first I think that they're just interested in the infamous kin-killer, but when I focus on the heirs, really focus, it quickly becomes apparent that all of them have their eyes set on a different table. The oldest among them, the man who Watt told me was the President's brother, has eyes only for the Careers. The young blond man has one foot propped over the armrest of his chair, swirling a glass in his hand as he gazes out at the table of loners. The fat balding man is pacing back and forth, occasionally stopping to wipe the sweat from his head with a handkerchief. And Ereven Newcastle, the only one I recognize thanks to all his company's ads in District 3, seems to be staring directly at...me?

"Hello! We were—"

I yelp and nearly jump out of my seat. A group of tributes, one of the alliances I hadn't paid attention to, has surrounded my table. Their leader, a thin girl with olive skin and a long dark braid, gives me a small smile.

An irrational part of my mind thinks that they've noticed me studying the others and have decided to put a stop to it. I'm a threat and they want me gone. I snatch a fork off the table, intending to defend myself with it. I'll... I don't know. Stab at their eyes, maybe.

"You don't have to be so nervous!" One of the others, a tall, handsome boy named Damian laughs. He looks like his leader, with darker skin and almond shaped brown eyes. If I didn't know better I could have mistaken the two for siblings.

My mouth works but no words come out. What do they want? My initial panic has faded; I'm no longer concerned they're going to kill me. But what else could a group this big want with someone like me? I eye the three members standing behind Briar and Damian. All of them are scrawny and ill fed. A spot of color blooms in my cheeks as I realize that I'm healthier and more well-fed than most of the non-Career tributes.

"I-I'm sorry!"

Damian blinks. "Sorry for what?"

I feel so stupid and worthless in this moment. I stare at my shoes and find myself wishing they'd just walk away before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay." I feel someone sit down across from me and look up to see Briar watching me. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was our fault. We shouldn't have surprised you like that."

"I'm sorry." I shouldn't be surprised so easily. I should have expected someone to approach me in such a crowded area. But I've never been comfortable with people. Not unless Vivienne or someone is around.

"It's fine," Briar's smile is warm and genuine. I can almost see myself liking this girl. If we were outside the Games, I mean. "We just wanted to know if you had any interest in joining our alliance."

My mouth goes dry. They want an alliance? With me? But why? I'm weak and worthless. Stupid and unapproachable. This can't be true. It must be some sort of trick or something.

But Briar doesn't seem like the type of person to lie.

"Why do you want me?" I ask quietly. I'm staring at my shoes again. Waiting for the carpet to be pulled out from underneath me.

"I want good, kind people as allies, Talia. People like Kia, Faren, and Aiko." I look up as she names the three standing behind Damian. All of their faces seem inviting enough, though there is a hard edge in Kia's eyes. "We don't care how skilled you are, or how much of a threat you'll be. As long as you just be yourself you'll fit right in."

I want to accept the offer. I want it so badly. But how do I know it's true? How could I trust it? None of them seem like liars or cutthroats but...

"C-can I think about this?" The words stammer out of my mouth before I even fully think it through. "Could I...get back to you tomorrow?"

I expect them to deny the request, to tell me that I'm no longer wanted, but Briar only smiles. "That's fine, Talia," She stands and walks back to her allies. "Take all the time you need. If you want to join us, we'll accept you. And if you don't then I'll accept that decision as well."

I watch them as they depart. There's some sort of emotion building in my chest, but I can't quite put a name to it. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this. Someone I could trust. I wanted Zekel to be that person, but he joined the Careers. I don't blame him for that. I've seen his eyes and despite his hard words and stoic exterior, I know that, on the inside, he's frightened out of his mind.

Just like I am.

Maximo Gallardo (District 6)
As lunch ends and the tributes return to their training, I stretch my arms and grin to myself. The food at the cafeteria was excellent. Not as good Carson or his mom's cooking, true, but that's a hard bar to reach. Not much is...

Thoughts of Carson bring thoughts of Gavin and the ill-fated expedition we took into the 327th arena. The demonic entity we encountered there and the fate that befell Gavin. I don't care what the official records say, or what physically drove the knife into his chest, I firmly believe that demonic spirits influence led to Gavin's death.

And that same influence led to me being Reaped.

The Paranormal Action Squad may not be able to survive past the death of both its founders. That's one of the reasons why I can't die in these Games. And how could I get vengeance for Gavin if I was dead? I mean, I don't know how I'm supposed to do that alive, yet, but I'm working on it.

I fold my arms and lean against a pillar, watching the other tributes resume training. I spent the entire morning training with the swords and brushing up on my skills. I'm enough of a realist to know that I'll never beat a Career in a head-on fight, but I can make sure I'm good enough to beat all the other tributes.

To win, though, will require some help. Team members, so to speak. The Paranormal Action Squad has taught me that teamwork is paramount to success and that, if I were to make a mistake, I could count on a teammate to pick up my slack. With the stakes being as high as they are, I can't allow myself to make a mistake without someone there to assist me. So I need an alliance.

But who?

My eyes settle on the pair from District 9. The siblings. They're practicing with spears, though neither one seems to be that good with the weapon. An excellent opportunity for me, then!

I saunter over and casually lean against a rack holding several of the spears. The brother, Harmon, is going through some forms and doesn't notice me right away. His sister, Discordia, jumps at the mere sight of me. She's taller than I am, with long, wavy hair that cascades down her shoulders. She's beautiful, but from what I can tell that's pretty much the beginning and end of her list of skills.

"What's up?" I reach out for a handshake. "My name is Maximo and I was thinking that it'd be in our best interest if we—"

"Harmon!" Discordia frantically pats her brother on the shoulder and he spins around, eyes flaring as he searches for an enemy. When he only sees me casually waving at him he sighs and shakes his head.

"Cora, you can't panic every time someone approaches you."

Her face turns bright red. "I... I know that! But he..."

"I was wondering if we could form an alliance," I say conversationally. "It'd be beneficial for us all."

"How so?" Harmon sounds interested as he sets the spear back on the rack. Good. If he's taking my bait, then I can reel him right in. Just like ghost hunting!

"You two make a pretty formidable duo, true, but you're missing a certain...je ne sais quoi."

The expressions they give me show they have no idea what I said. Harmon blinks. "A certain what?"

"Sorry, sorry. It's an old language. It means a quality that cannot be described or named easily."

Their expressions don't change. Well, this isn't going as well as I'd hoped. Better change tactics. No more fancy words. "Look, I can't help but notice that the two of you, while strong, are missing a central component of your alliance. Namely, someone to take the brunt of the conflict."

Harmon frowns and taps his chin. His sister merely shrinks behind him, watching me with wide eyes. She's one of the oldest tributes here and yet she is by far the most frightened. Odd.

"Your sister clearly isn't cut out for combat," I continue, reaching the heart of my point. "And you're too devoted to her. In any actual fight you're going to focus too much on her safety and miss the obvious. You're going to make a mistake, and that will spell disaster for the both of you."

Harmon actually seems to be listening to what I'm saying. He nods along, eyes focused on mine. "I understand that, of course. But I have to protect Cora. I can't ignore her."

"Of course not. But that's where I come in! I'll be that third wheel, the guy who steps up and takes action when it all hits the fan! My personality will be the gel that makes your dysfunctional ones work!"

I have a much longer spiel prepared, but Harmon cuts me off by raising a hand. I smile and shut my mouth. Looks like I just gained myself two allies and I didn't even need the full speech!

Harmon throws a glance at his sister, who is still hidden behind his shoulder. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I—we can't accept. The two of us will stay alone, if you don't mind."

My smile falters but I force it to stay on my face. I thought for sure...Whatever. No biggie. I have other options. I shrug, as if I couldn't care less they declined my offer. "Whatever floats your boat, man. Just remember what I said. You'll need someone else if you want to survive." I turn and walk away before they respond.

I bypass several other tributes as I zigzag through the weapon stations. The trio I want is located in the section with the heavier weaponry; the maces, staves, and axes. The two guys wait on the edge of a training mat as the girl practices with a chained mace. Teal.

My district partner.

I allow myself a confident smile. Thanks to Teal's presence, I already have an easy in with this alliance. I've known her since the Reaping and can't imagine a situation where she turns my offer down. I mean, sure, I haven't made the best impression so far but you can hardly blame me for that.

I spent most of last night investigating District 6's apartments for ghosts, but not very successfully. It wasn't my fault; I didn't have any of my equipment from home, making it an exercise in futility to begin with, but I did manage to upset Teal. I asked her if she'd mind helping me out and in response she just told me "ghosts don't exist" and locked herself in her room.

Now, I've been ghost hunting long enough to recognize someone who is frightened of spirits when I see one. Teal is afraid of ghosts. And the fact she kept her rooms lights on all night practically confirms it.

Hopefully I didn't frighten her too badly.

Remus and Solomon turn to stare me as I approach. I wave at them and then watch Teal as she trains with the mace. When she's done she throws the weapon aside and walks over to us, accepting a towel from an instructor along the way. "Maximo, what do you want from me?" She wipes the sweat from her face and fixes me with a stern look.

I grin. "I have an offer for you guys! But don't worry, I won't mention ghosts."

Teal scowls. Beside her Remus mouths the word "ghosts" and rubs his chin. "What's your offer?" She ignores the subject of ghosts as I expected. "It better not be anything...stupid again."

I can tell what she's thinking and my grin widens. Does she really think I'd ask her alliance to help me search the gymnasium for ghosts? Well, it's not exactly a bad idea. "It's not stupid, trust me. I just want to know if it's possible to make this trio into a quartet, if you know what I mean."

Remus tugs at his collar. "I'm sorry, but you have this all wrong. Our relationship isn't like that. It's strictly platonic, you see."

There's a long silence as we all look at each. The grin covers my entire face, my amusement impossible to hide. Solomon keeps his own face blank, but Teal facepalms. "Remus, he was talking about our alliance!"

"Oh!" His face colors with embarrassment. "Oh. I...I knew that."

"You want to join us?" Teal is still smiling at Remus' embarrassment. "I have to say I didn't expect that. Thought you'd be the loner type."

"Your alliance is already a surprising trio, wouldn't you say?" Solomon is that famous kin-killer and Remus is a member of one of those Great Families of the Capitol while Teal is, as far as I know, just an ordinary District 6 girl. What drew them all together to begin with? Do they even know about Remus? I'm not sure if his identity is common knowledge or not; I only know because of my family's own prominence in District 6. "Surely me joining wouldn't be too unexpected?"

"I'm not sure..." Teal sounds hesitant and I can't help but feel her fear of the paranormal is the root of that hesitation. I'm debating how I should go about changing her mind when she shrugs. "I mean, I don't exactly have a problem with you joining but..."

"Unfortunately we'll have to pass on your offer," Remus cuts in with one of those damn polite smiles of his. "Our alliance is already quite big enough and I don't think we need another body among us. It could get too hectic, you see."

Disappointment has begun to stir in my chest. Another plan foiled. "This isn't because I embarrassed you is it?"

His smile tightens but his voice remains unfalteringly polite. "No, of course not. I wouldn't let something as petty as that dictate my line of thought."

"Oh. Good," I run a hand over my head, feeling very put out. "Thought I might have offended you. I can never tell with you Great Family types."

Remus winces. From the expressions of the two at his side I can tell that they hadn't realized who he was. Whoops?

"Look, hey, maybe if we don't make an alliance we can still have a truce?" I really don't want to walk away from this conversation empty handed. There's only so much failure I can take.

Remus turns away from me. I frown at his back before turning hopefully to the others. Solomon only stares back at me, but Teal offers another shrug. "I'm fine with a truce, Maximo," She doesn't sound upset, which is a good sign. I was worried I'd burnt my bridges. "But I don't know exactly what that would entail, other than us agreeing not to harm one another."

"That's enough for me. I mean, it's one less alliance gunning for my head, you know?" I laugh and make a joke about winning these Games singlehanded. I don't think either of them finds it very funny. Waving me off, the two of them walk away, Teal quietly murmuring about Remus' family as she goes.

I watch them go with an uneasy feeling. I don't know how much I can trust in this truce. Teal won't harm me, of course, but whose to say that Remus will abide by it? Or Solomon? That guy murdered his family for crying out loud! You can't trust him an inch! He might just kill both Teal and Remus in their sleep!

Huh. Yeah, maybe it's a good thing I didn't align with them.

I spend the next hour just wandering the gymnasium, occasionally stopping to examine some of the other tributes. At one point I head back to the cafeteria to get a soda, then wander over to the hammock station and lie in a hammock Chrome made. Maybe an alliance just isn't in the cards. Can't say that I expected both of my top choices to deny me. Is this the influence of the demonic spirit? A chill runs down my back that has nothing to do with the ice cold soda in my hands.

If the spirit is still haunting me...

When I finish the soda I rise from the hammock and approach the last tribute on my list of possible allies. I spotted her at the knife station earlier, and that's exactly where I find her. She's chucking knives at the dummies with a grin so wide that it's actually kinda unsettling.

"Hey, little girl, what's up?"

Aiko turns to face me, twin ponytails swaying as she bounces on her feet. "Hello, mister! Do you want to play with me?"

I eye the knife in her hand warily. "Uh...that depends on the game, I guess."

She looks me up and down. A frown settles on her face. "You don't look so good at games. Maybe we can play an easy one."

Okay, so this little girl is a little abnormal. That's alright. I'm a paranormal investigator. I deal with abnormal on a daily basis. "I'm down to play. What type of game is it?"

She splays her hands, revealing the two knives she had hidden in her sleeve. "We juggle these and pass them back and forth to each other! The first one to drop loses!"

I suddenly have the vivid image of a dropped knife impaling me in the foot. "Don't you know any...less dangerous games?"

Aiko goes still. She stares at one of the knives, reflection glinting off the blade. "I used to," Her voice is quiet, almost forlorn. "But I had to stop playing them. They didn't like those games."

I'm not sure what I was thinking, approaching this deranged little girl. Clearly something in life has messed her up. But I can't turn back now. I've almost exhausted all of my options. "Look, Aiko, how about we become allies?"

"Allies?"

"Yeah, you know, friends or whatever." I feel pretty pathetic having to beg a little girl for an alliance. How did this all go so wrong?

"I already have friends."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do." I don't think she realizes what I'm talking about here. Stupid little girl. "But I mean when we're in the arena. You know, we'll fight together. I'll use my amazing skills and devilish good looks to get us supplies, and you can...I don't know, juggle knives or something."

She stares up at me with dark, tilted eyes. "You're funny."

I chuckle. “Of course I am! I'm the funniest guy I know! See, when we're in the arena we can—”

"I didn't mean in the "ha-ha" way."

I snap my mouth shut. Is she messing with me? I think the little girl is messing with me. I don't like that. "Look, what I'm trying to say is—"

"I already have an alliance."

"What? Really? With who?" I hadn't noticed her with any of the other alliances, but I also wasn't paying that much attention earlier in the day.

She points out at the group of tributes that formed around the pair from District 10. Right now they're in line to run the gauntlets. "If you want to join us you can ask Briar. I'm sure she'll let you. Briar is very nice."

"Yeah, no thanks." My hands clench into fists. Yet another possible alliance lost! "See ya later, kid. Try not to get stabbed in the bloodbath or whatever."

I stalk towards the elevators, completely and utterly dejected. Briar's alliance consists of all the weaklings that no one else wanted. If I joined up with them I'd be the strongest among them and anyone seeking to cut the head off the snake would try to kill me. I don't need that kind of target on my back.

There's no point in sticking around any longer. Though the training period has a little more than an hour left, most of the other tributes have already turned in for the night. Only Aiko and her alliance, the Careers, and Teal's trio remain. Oh, and the boy from District 8. But I'm not about to ask him for an alliance—his eyes unnerve me.

I practically punch the elevator button. When the doors slide open I lean against the wall and cross my arms. Today has been an abject failure, and not even the thought of another night investigating the apartment for ghosts can bring me solace. Am I truly being haunted by the same entity that killed Gavin? Has it followed me all the way here? Will it come with me into the arena?

As the elevator rides up, I swear I can hear laughter.

Remus Ring (The Capitol)
I move my body slowly, surely, forcing all miscellaneous thoughts out of my head. The training period is drawing to a close. A long day spent honing my body and skills. I stand in the center of the gym, going through my forms. Back home I always ended a training session with the forms. It brings me peace. Clarity.

Solomon stands at my side. He, too, makes his way through the forms. I was surprised that he knew them. Not many people do. But there's a lot about Solomon that is surprising. I've watched him over the course of the day, and have learned that he is truly skilled combatant. I have been observing many of the other tributes and he is one of the few who I believe could beat me in a hand-to-hand fight. Him and the male Careers are the only ones who might.

The forms come to an end. I drop my arms to the side and take a deep breath, then exhale. My body aches with the pleasureable soreness that accompanies every good work out. Beside me Solomon finishes his own form. He does not pause, merely stepping off the mat and joining Teal.

She gives a slow clap. "I have no idea what that was, but I'm impressed."

With her darker hair and skin tone that almost perfectly matchs mine, I cannot help but feel she looks like the younger sister I never had. Her tendency towards rash impulsiveness makes that assessment even truer. "It was a form," I say, accepting the towel Solomon hands me. "It helps with balance and honing your movements. Not useful in actual combat, however."

Kassius blows his whistle, bringing the training period to an end. The instructors usher us away from the stations and the three of us quietly make our way towards the elevators, where the other tributes are gathering. Besides for us only the Careers and Notcher remain. Teal studies them with searching eyes.

Though she hasn't said anything about it, I cannot help but feel she has treated me differently since Maximo revealed the truth about my connection with the Great Families. It's not that I had intended to mislead them; I merely thought it was useless information. My family will be of little assistance in the arena. And, despite what he may think, I did not deny Maximo his alliance because of any offense he may have caused me. No. I only... I can only protect so many people. I will stretch myself thin trying to protect the two I already have. If I were to add more...

"It seems fate has finally caught up to you, kin-killer," The boy from District 1 and the leader of the Careers, Valor, calls out to Solomon as he and his District partner wait for their elevator. "For the arena will most assuredly become your tomb."

I glance at Solomon, worried he may react impulsively, but he doesn't so much as twitch. He stands still, face impassive as he watches the District 1 pair. I know that the girl, Alcmene, is his sister. The only member of his family who he did not murder. She stares at her shoes, body trembling with some unknowable emotion. It's almost as if she's straining herself to avoid seeing Solomon.

The elevator doors slide open. Alcmene and Valor step inside, but not without some parting words. "I'd watch your back, traitor. If you're not careful the kin-killer will stick a knife in it!"

It takes a moment before I realize he was talking to me. "A traitor, am I?" I murmur to myself. Well, I expected they'd react negatively to my refusal to align with them.

"They don't know the real you," Teal says to Solomon as he hits the button for his own elevator. He seems to be hidden even deeper in the folds of his hood, if that were possible. "So just ignore them."

"She can't even bear to see my face..." His voice is a whisper, almost inaudible. It doesn't seem as if he heard Teal. I can hardly begin to understand what he is feeling. Despite what Teal says, I am not so sure he isn't the monster everyone says he is. Or, at least, not certain he wasn't once that monster. The boy I see before me right now hardly seems likely to murder me in my sleep, yet I can't discredit the rumors. The Capitol has rarely been wrong to that extent.

Solomon steps into the elevator and is whisked out of sight. I glance up at the mezzanine as I await my own elevator. While the Gamemakers are still seated at their table, the one next to theirs is empty. The heirs all departed about an hour and a half before the training period ended. I wonder why they're even here? Surely they'd have more important matters to oversee.

I wave goodbye to Teal as my elevator arrives. It is a short ride to the Capitol apartments, the very top floor of the Training Center. The apartments are quiet when I arrive, with no sign of Mercia or my mentors. They must have turned in for bed early. I make my way towards my room, stomach twinging uneasily at the sight of the Avoxes that scurry out of my sight. They seem more nervous than usual. I cannot fathom why.

When I reach my room I push the door open and peel the sweaty shirt off my back, tossing it aside. I should probably take a shower, but right now I only feel like—

There is someone in my room.

I freeze midstride as I spot her. She's seated on the edge of my bed, sitting cross-legged as she stares up at me with ruby red lips stretched back into a wide smile. Her long blonde hair hangs loose around her shoulders, pale arms hidden by the voluminous sleeves of her black kimono.

Aurilee Stryker.

My mouth moves but no words come out. This is unprecedented. This should not be. The President's daughter in a tributes room? In my room?

"Hello, Remus. I've waited ever so long to speak with you!" Her long eyelashes flutter as she gets to her feet, movement as graceful as a swan. A few steps have her standing before me. One finger pokes my bare chest. "It has been too many years since our last conversation. Have you missed me? I've surely missed you."

It's hard to think. She's so close. The room smells strongly of lilacs, a sweet, heady scent that is almost cloying. I take a step back. "Why are you here? What do you want?" My eyes take in the rest of my room. There is no one else in sight and nothing seems to be out of place. Nothing but Aurilee.

She crosses her arms, pouting. "Must I have an ulterior motive? Is visiting an old friend not reason enough?"

Her soft blue eyes seem endless. I could drown in them, if I'm not careful. With great effort, I pull my gaze away. "You always have an ulterior motive, Aurilee. Ever since we were children."

She giggles. "You know me too well, Remus. Truth be told, I do have a meaning for this visit beyond wishing to see you in person again."

The two of us had been friends as children. We often played pranks together, always at Aurilee's behest. Yet all too often it was her who managed to wiggle us out of punishment when we were caught. What was it that my brother called her? A flower hiding a flytrap?

"Does this have anything to do with the succession?"

Aurilee's eyes twinkle with a mischievous light. "You are a clever boy, aren't you? Yes, my little visit has to do with the succession. Namely, the little game my father has us heirs playing."

"Game?" She is short, so I have to look down at her. "What game?"

Her rosebud mouth twists into a smile. "The game of succession, of course. You see, Father has declared that he wants the 333rd Hunger Games to be a factor in who he decides will replace him as President." That throws me for a loop. How could the Games impact the succession in any way? But it adds up. Why else would the heirs be present at training? Aurilee continues. "He has bid us all to...choose a champion, of sorts. You see, Father wants us all to pick the tribute we most strongly believe will own the Games. Three tributes, actually."

I can put this puzzle together well enough. "And if one of the tributes you selected wins..."

Her smile widens. "Correct. Whichever one of us who correctly chooses the Victor will be named his heir and become the next President."

It is almost insane to think that he'd leave such an important decision up to the whims of the Games. Why let the fate of the entire country ride on something as unpredictable as the Games? "But what of the Gamemakers? Won't they interfere? Or allow one of the heirs to?"

"Oh, no. Vitas Tarquinius has strict orders from Father to allow no one to interfere. In fact, we are not allowed to even sponsor the tributes." She finishes with an expectant smile. Her sky blue eyes are fixed firmly on my own.

I know where this is going. I've known it the moment she mentioned a champion. "You want me to be your champion," I say flatly. Why else would she meet with me in my rooms?

That pretty smile widens. "You're clever, Remus. That's why I'm choosing you. Your cleverness matched with your strength will launch you to Victory. And, with your victory, comes mine."

However clever I truly am, I know that it is just a drop in the bucket compared to Aurilee's own intelligence. She'd always been the smartest person I knew, sheer intelligence mixed with a dangerous cunning. She knows exactly how to work someone. As this conversation has gone on I've noticed her tone of voice change. While it's still soft and breathy—her natural sound, I remember—it's no longer sickeningly sweet. Is that a sign she's not trying to manipulate me? Or something else?

"I don't see why you're telling me this," I say, still painfully conscious of her closeness. "I am already trying my hardest to win. I don't particularly need any further motivation."

Aurilee steps forward and I instinctively step back. She giggles. "I'm not going to hurt you, Remus."

"I know that!" I speak too quickly. I'm flustered. Embarrassed. I wish I still had my shirt. "It's just...why are you telling me this? There must be more to this than just choosing a champion."

Aurilee reaches out and touches my chin. She trails a hand down to my chest, giggling at how I recoil. "Just choosing a champion may not be enough," She says so softly I almost have to strain to hear. "Despite what he said, Father may not just appoint the winner of this game President. He has done similar things before. He likes to keep us off our toes."

"It seems you've inherited that trait."

She giggles again. "Perhaps I have. Regardless, the reason I sought you out is because, if Father doesn't keep his word, it'll still be paramount that our most recent Victor support my bid for presidency. The rest of the heirs and myself have already approached all the Victors, trying to sway them to our side, and some of us have even tried talking to the Great Families. It is doubtful that any President would last long without their support."

My own connection to the Great Families will not have been overlooked, of course. I wish Aurilee's mere presence didn't fluster me so. I'll need all my capacity to try and unravel this plot, but it's so hard to focus with her standing right in front of me, her scent practically washing over me. I've never been so close to a girl my own age before. That lack of experience is definitely hindering me right now.

"Remus?" Aurilee is looking at me as if I've missed her last words. I probably did. "You would support me, wouldn't you?"

The look in her eyes makes me want to say yes immediately, but I still have enough sense to hold back. For now. "You mean if I become Victor?"

"Yes." She twirls a lock of her golden hair around one finger, leaning her head back as she looks up at me. I shift uncomfortably. The emotions I feel are...out of sorts.

"What would you do as President? How would you treat the District's?" I don't know why that question pops in my head. I've never thought about the Districts or its citizens before. But today Teal spent a good portion of lunch telling Solomon and I about her life and, though it was intended to make Solomon feel at ease amongst us, I couldn't help but listen in fascination. If Teal is to be believed than life in the Districts is much harder than I had thought. But perhaps I could change that...

Aurilee stares at me as if I've offered her a snake. "How would I treat the Districts? What in the world would make you ask that question?"

I rub the back of my neck, feeling more than foolish. How to explain? "I just... I wanted to know what the difference between you and the others heirs was. How each of you'd rule." From the way Aurilee's eyes flicker, I can tell that she doesn't fully believe me. I'm not surprised. She's always been a smart, observant woman. Yet she doesn't call me on my bluff and only nods.

"Very well. As it regards to the District's, I do think we have been a little too...demanding. District 12 is a good example of this. Had Charce and Soot not pulled it from the brink, it may have gone completely defunct. A District that has starved to death can hardly grant us resources, can it?"

She continues on about treaties and official demands, District quotas and energy shortages, and I find myself nodding in agreement though I haven't the faintest idea what she is going on about. All the time I spent studying has left me lacking in regards to the current political situation in the Districts. It has left me lacking in many ways, true, but especially in this one.

"I am the only Stryker who can right this ship," Aurilee says. Her face has taken on a new light. A sharp cast has been added to the soft features of her face. "Nedry is a complete fool who'd absolutely squab everything up the second he received power. As for my Uncle Escortius? That'd just be kicking the can down the road. He's not much younger than Father and has no children of his own. In a few years we'd be right back where we started!"

"What about your other siblings?" I ask.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Roscoe is a despot in the making. You know that hockey league the District 12 male plays in? They have teams all over Panem and bring both wealth and happiness to the citizenry. Bread and circuses to keep the masses happy. But Roscoe wants them abolished! He says that they're a useless waste of time and money, that we've coddled the District's for far too long, and we need to lead them with a firmer hand. Fool! He'll crush this country into paste!" She takes a deep breath and smooths her hair. "Rozlyn is just Roscoe's puppet, so she doesn't matter. As for this Erevan Newcastle... I don't know what to make of him yet, but I can't imagine Father handing the country over to a non-Stryker. That would be absurd."

I've noticed that she hasn't mentioned one of the heirs yet. "And Dimentio?"

She turns on me, then, eyes suddenly sharp as knives. "What did he tell you? What has he promised? Whatever it is, know that it's a lie!" Her voice is quick and harsh, body trembling with either fear or anger, I cannot tell which. Despite almost being a full foot shorter than me, she somehow seems to loom. "You cannot trust my brother. No matter what he has said."

I don't know what to say or how I should say it. I never expected this level of vitriol to emerge from Aurilee. I've always known she was silk hiding steel, but for her to show this level of antagonism towards her brother...

"Why can't I trust Dimentio?" I ask quietly.

Aurilee takes a deep breath, seemingly trying to calm herself. It doesn't appear to work. Her hands curl into fists that beat against her thighs. "Dimentio doesn't see people. Not the way we do. To him, humans are nothing more than bags of meat and bone to be manipulated as he sees fit."

That doesn't mesh with my impression of the man, nor of my memories of him hanging out with Julius all those years ago. Dimentio has always come across as charming and well-mannered. When I say this, however, Aurilee shakes her head. "That's exactly what he wants you to think. He has spent his entire life making this disguise. He's fooled every person he's ever met... but he couldn't fool me." I can see fear in her eyes. The Aurilee I knew was a proud girl, one who'd refuse to ever show any sign of fear or weakness. But right now the facade is cracking. Beneath the steel she has layered herself in, I can see the fear. No, not just fear. Terror. Dimentio terrifies her. She takes a deep breath. "Dimentio is the monster they don't know how to write stories about. He is nothing like other people. He can pretend, oh can he pretend, but in the end that's all it is. Pretend. He knows the words but not the music. You cannot trust him."

I still don't fully understand or even believe what she has said, but there is no point in disagreeing. "I believe you. I won't trust Dimentio."

She nods stiffly. The momentary weakness already hidden once more. "No matter what the other heirs offer you, Remus, they cannot and will not offer you the same as what I can."

"And that is?"

Her lips quirk into a sly smile. "The opportunity to rule alongside me. When you help me become President, you'll not being do so as a mere Victor, but also as my husband. The two of us will rule Panem. Together."

My mind blanks at the thought. Marriage. To Aurilee? The very possibility...And if she truly became President? I have no words for such a notion.

"Think this offer over, Remus." Aurilee pats me on the cheek and slips past, opening the door as she heads out. But she pauses with one hand on the knob. "Oh, but before I go, I have one last gift for you."

She departs the room and seconds later a man in a Peacekeeper uniform steps inside.

I break.

All thoughts flee my head. It's hard to breathe. My legs quiver like jelly and I have to grip the wall to remain standing. My world has been shattered. It's...he's...

Julius smiles at me. "It's been a long time hasn't it, Remus?"

My brother. My beloved big brother whom I've believed lost to me forever. Years. It's been years since I saw him. Not since his eighteenth birthday, so long ago. The last time I saw him he was battered and bruised. To see him standing before me...

I hurtle across the room and wrap him in a hug. "I've missed you so much."

His laughter is tight, almost nervous. "I've missed you as well. Still living up to Father's expectations?"

"No." The word is whispered. I'm shaking so badly that I know my grip on Julius is the only thing keeping me up. I pull back, hands on his shoulders, and look him in the face. In my memory he was always so tall and strong that it comes as a shock to note he's shorter than I am now. "I can't ever live up to his expectations. I'm not good enough. I'm not like you."

"You're right," Julius' face is older now, more mature and strained. But his eyes are the same. His kind, gentle eyes haven't changed at all. "You're right about that, Remus. You're not like me. You're better."

My breath comes in a wheezing gasp. A lie. I'm not better than him. No matter what I tried I never could be. Julius is the best person I know. The best there is. How could I be better than that?

Julius smiles. "You've gotten so big, Remus. My little brother has become a man in my absence."

Those words break the dam. Such an innocuous statement to be what finally did so. I lie my head upon my brother's shoulder and, for the first time since he was sent away, I begin to cry.

Solomon Eudia (District 13)
My eyes snap open and I shoot out of bed. My shirt is slicked to my back. Sweat rolls off me in waves. The room is dark and the walls seem to be pressing in on me. Walls. The tribute apartments. My bedroom.

I sigh and drop back onto the bed, hands pressed to my face. It was just a dream. Or a series of dreams, rather. Aemon was there in the arena with me. Hunting. Stalking. He was whole again and wanted nothing but my death. He put a blade in my back while I traversed a sodden rainforest.

Alcmene was also present. Always confronting me in the arena. I would throw my weapons down and try to explain, but she'd never listen and refuse to hear me out. So many times I was cut down where I stood, explanation dying on my lips.

Now that I'm awake I can rationalize the Aemon dreams as silly nightmares. There is no possible way he could get into the arena, even if he was whole and willing. But the dreams of Alcmene? I know that those are far from irrational worries. She spent the entirety of yesterday refusing to even look at me. Her posture was rigid and unapproachable. And her eyes...

Alcmene hates me beyond belief.

I get off the bed and make my way to the wardrobe, slowly getting dressed as I try to think of a path to reconciliation. She'll never just stop and listen to me. In her mind I'm the monster who slaughtered her family. Why would she care to hear my words? But maybe that's it. Maybe it doesn't have to be my words. At least, not at first.

I pull a new shirt over my head, one identical to yesterday's, and take a breath, flexing my hand. Remus and Teal. Part of the reason I accepted their offer of an alliance was because of how it'd appear to Alcmene. If I was truly the disgusting kin-killer, why would nice people like Teal align with me? Maybe it'd put some doubt into her head, maybe not, but it is worth the chance. And if we're still together when I finally meet Alcmene in the arena...

If my sister won't listen to me, then maybe she'll listen to Teal.

I'm aware it's a small chance. That, once I fully explain my story, Teal and Remus might leave me. That Alcmene may refuse to even listen to anyone who isn't a fellow Career. But it's a risk I'll have to take. I am going to try and explain myself to Alci no matter what the risk is. If she kills me in the attempt...

It would be a just fate for a monster such as myself.

When I am fully dressed I depart my bedroom. The hallway is dark and empty as I make my way down to the kitchen. There is no sound at all. Lucia must have already left for training. I don't know much about her, for she has thankfully left me alone these past few days. She doesn't seem to hate me, however, unlike many of the other tributes. I wonder why that is.

When I step into the kitchen I find it full of armed men.

They're not Peacekeepers. Simply dressed in dark suits, the men wouldn't look out of place in the wealthier portion of District 13. They're not gaudy or ornamental like most ordinary citizens of the Capitol, marking them as among the elite. And they've come for me.

The Capitol must have changed its mind and decided that I won't be allowed in the Games after all. They're going to kill me. Here and now.

My body goes still as my muscles prepare for flight. I won't allow myself to die until I get to speak with Alcmene. I can't fight them, obviously, so flight is the only option. But where would I even go? We're thirteen stories up and the elevator is behind the cadre of armed guards. How could—

“Solomon Eudia.”

A man steps out from the group. Tall, with hair as black as night and eyes like two chips of ice, I only recognize him because his face has been plastered everywhere in the past few days. His and his family's.

Roscoe Stryker.

"What do you want?" I keep my voice flat, emotionless. There's only one thing he'd want with a group of armed men at his back.

"Solomon Eudia," He says the name slowly, like it's an animal that could hurt him if he were to say it too quickly. "You are an interesting man in many ways. I wish to have a conversation with you."

"I don't have anything to say to you." None of the men have moved for their guns and he hasn't given any sort of order. Maybe they don't want me dead. Yet.

"I believe you do. In fact, I very much think a thank you is in order."

"Why is that?"

He splays his hands. "I am the man who saved your life. I think it's only appropriate to show me some gratitude, yes?"

I eye his guards. None of them have moved. Most stand with their arms clasped behind their backs or crossed over their chest. One even yawns. They don't view me as a threat.

Their mistake.

"Now, now, calm yourself, Solomon," Roscoe must have noticed the way my hands tightened at my side. "And drop that knife, if you please. I'd hate if one of my guards got an itchy finger and shot you before your gratitude was shown."

I drop the knife I'd snatched off the counter when I first spotted the men. "You still haven't explained how you saved my life."

Roscoe pulls up a chair and settles himself down at the table. He makes a sharp motion and one of the men pulls out another, proffering it at me. "I shall explain in due course. Let us sit and have a discussion."

"I prefer to stand."

This time the guards move. A few finger the guns at their sides, while the one who offered me the chair gives it a kick. Roscoe frowns. The motion draws attention to his severe peak of a nose. "Defiance is well and good, Solomon, but there is a time and place for it. Sit, if you please, or you'll find that I can be harsher than you'd care to know."

I sit. I knew I was pushing my luck to begin with, but I needed to play the part. These people still think I'm the disgusting kin-killer, and that may be the only thing keeping me alive.

Roscoe waits for me to settle in then he nods approvingly. "Very good. Now, first off, were you aware that my father was good friends with your grandfather?" I did not. I don't know much about my grandfather, and I've never heard about any close friendship he may have had with the President. "Indeed, my Father was very close friends with your grandfather. As close as brothers, some would say. My father thought very highly of the Eudia family. He was, in a word, infuriated when he learned of your...transgression against your family."

I stay silent. I don't know how my persona would react to this. But on the inside I can feel guilt. I shouldn't have done it. Father's abuse, Marcus' taunting, none of it deserved what I did. The sins I committed.

"My father was enraged when he learned that my uncle did not execute you the moment you revealed yourself on that stage," Roscoe is still speaking, oblivious to the trauma inside me, "He thought you deserved nothing but death, yet he couldn't execute you once the tribute slot was yours. He respects the sanctity of the Games too much for that." He says the word with enough venom for me to know where he stands on that subject.

I keep my voice flat. "You still haven't explained how you saved my life."

Roscoe looks up sharply. "I am getting to that subject, Solomon." There's a threat in those icy blue eyes of his. No, that's too small of a word. Not a threat. A promise. "Interrupt me again and I'll have your tongue removed. You won't need it in the arena."

I shut my mouth so hard I feel my teeth click. If I can't speak there will be no reunion with Alci. Roscoe nods approvingly. "Ah, yes, that's better. Now where was I? Right. The Games. You see, my father knew that he could not kill you before the Games, but there was nothing stopping him from killing you once they began."

An icy dread grips my heart. The President wants me dead? I have enough threats in the arena without worrying about an unstoppable danger.

"My father intended to set off the mines underneath your platform before the countdown even ended. You would have been dead before the bloodbath. I, of course, spared you that fate by choosing you as one of my champions."

He pauses dramatically, as if i should understand what that means. I have enough sense to bow my head appreciably. "Thank you."

His lips quirk into something that could almost be a smile. "I accept your thanks, young Solomon. And now, I believe we should discuss the terms of our arrangement, don't you think?"

He begins to explain everything, telling me about the competition President Stryker set up and the rules for it. Each of the heirs chooses three tributes as their "champions" and if one of their selected champions becomes Victor than they win the competition and thus the Presidency. None of the heirs may have the same champion; each one must select three separate, unique tributes.

It's baffling to me that the Presidency would be decided in such a way, but I am not too surprised. These are the same people who think the Hunger Games are quality entertainment and the pinnacle of human invention, so why not have Games be the deciding factor? Still, something is off.

"There are only seven heirs," I say quietly when Roscoe is done speaking. "And you each have three champions."

He gives me a bored look. "Yes? And what of it?"

"Three times seven is twenty-one, but there are twenty-eight tributes. What happens if one of the seven who aren't chosen win?"

He drums his fingers along the table. "That hardly matters to you, does it?" From the tone of his voice I can tell that he doesn't know. I guess his Father didn't feel the need to tell him. For some reason that amuses me.

I glance at the clock on the wall. The second day of training is only ten minutes away from starting. "May I leave?"

"You may not." He pauses, then peers down his beak of a nose at me and frowns. "Family is such an odd thing, isn't it?"

I don't know how to respond, so I don't. He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Why should we care for people simply because they have the same blood as us? Why does it matter if our parents are the same? Shouldn't our family be the people we choose and not ones thrust upon us by nature?" He gestures at the armed guards around us. "These men are my family. Oh, not by blood, no, but they are truly my family nonetheless. Each and every one of them would die for me, and I for them."

The sword flashes as it kills mother. Father is enraged when he finds me standing over her body, but he too falls to my blade. "I care not one whit for any of my siblings, save Roslyn. They may have the same blood, but they are not and never will be my family." Claude is returning home with Citria and Hyacinth. I approach them with blade drawn. "I know you feel the same. Family is merely an albatross tied around our necks, dragging us down. It is better for us to shed their weight before it does." Marcus comes home too late. I've already killed the rest. He puts up a fight but isn't good enough. He dies all the same. "So that is why I have chosen you as my champion. A kindred soul who understands what so many others do not."

I am dazed. Lost in memories. I see blood on my hands and yet I know it's not there. Roscoe sits across from me, babbling about promises of glory and fame if I only support him as President once I win. I can't see him. I only feel Aemon breathing down my neck. Aemon? No. He's miles away and unable to reach me now. But why...

"Once I become President, I will let it be known that the Eudia family were traitors" Roscoe's words finally reach my ears. I stare at him in astonishment. "I will tell the country that you had uncovered their malicious plot to overthrow the Capitol and plunge the country into anarchy. You killed them all to save your beloved Panem, yet the conspiracy reached further than you thought. Someone high in the government, perhaps one of my siblings, framed you and made up a story of you being a deranged kin-killer, but I discovered the truth and together we brought it to light. No longer will you be decried as a monster. Instead, you will be hailed as a hero!"

He's insane. Roscoe Stryker is bloody insane. He's truly demented enough to think that ploy would work. It's in this moment that I truly understand how the Capitol views me. How sick and twisted they think I am.

How Alcmene sees me.

Roscoe is watching me. Waiting for a response. If I win he'll become President. That thought would have unsettled me had I any intention of actually winning. "I accept your offer," I say, making sure my voice is cold and hard like his. "I will become your champion and, when I become Victor, I will pledge my support to your Presidency."

The look on his face shows I've responded exactly how he wished. He claps his hands. "Of course you accept. You could hardly refuse the lifeline I was offering you. Still, I dare say that my siblings will not be expecting this. With our combined prowess Panem will finally become the paradise it was meant to be."

He stands and rounds up his guards, sweeping out of the kitchen with a smug stride. I remain sitting until I hear the ding of the elevator and the fading of their footsteps. Things have gotten even more complicated, but not enough so to change my plans. My reconciliation with Alcmene is still the goal. Had I truly been the disgusting kin-killer than Roscoe's offer would have been exactly what I needed. And yet, even though I have no intention of falling through on anything I said, his support is still the only thing keeping me alive. President Stryker would have had me murdered if not for him.

"Complications," I rise, muttering to myself as I head for the elevator that will bring me to the second day of training. "I'm surrounded by complications."

Faren Gomery (District 5)
The voices of the other tributes merge into one undefinable hum as they train. I stand in the center of the gymnasium, hands held uselessly at my side, as I watch everyone else go about their training. I am on my own right now. At the beginning of the day my alliance agreed that it was best for us all to spend the day learning what we wished before meeting back up at lunch.

Inside my head I hear the ticking of a clock.

Several days have passed since the Reaping. Days in which Joule's death has inched closer and closer. I can feel the deadline closing in on me like walls, pressing tighter and tighter until I am finally smushed flat. I want to scream. Punch the walls. Do anything and everything to make these Games end quick enough to save Joule.

But the Games are still days away from even starting.

I drift from station to station, observing the instructors and the other tributes learning, but not taking part myself. I spent most of yesterday at the survival stations and learned some useful information. I haven't yet trained with any weapons.I've thought about it but couldn't ever bring myself to start. What good would it do? No matter how hard I train, two days isn't enough time for me to become competent with one.

Doubt gnaws at me as I stop beside the knife station, watching Lilith and Alcmene as they throw the weapons with fierce accuracy. I couldn't do that. I know I couldn't.

I pause at the next station. Aiko is sparring with an instructor, a man at least twice her size, and seems to be winning. While clearly outmatched in the strength department, she's fast and slippery as an eel. The instructor seems to have a hard time catching her.

"I'm surprised you allied with that girl!"

I resist the urge to jump in shock at the sound of the sudden voice. Turning, I find myself approached by Yewan. The tall blonde girl has a grin on her face as she stops beside me, her attention on Aiko. "I dunno how you can trust her! I mean, surely you know who she is?"

"I...no?" I'm thrown for a loop and don't know how to respond. Aiko? "Wh-what about her?"

Yewan's eyes widen. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" I cast a nervous look around, worried that there's some big secret I've missed. Does Briar know?

"That girl," Yewan jerks her head at Aiko, hair flapping all the while, "is from a family of assassins back in District 8. They're all trained in the art of killing from the moment they're born!

I hesitate. A family of assassins? That seems...far-fetched. But when I look back at Aiko and take note of her skill, my doubts seem to fade. There has to be some reason a twelve year-old is that talented. "Why is aligning with her a bad thing?" I ask quietly. "Sh-shouldn't having an assassin for an ally be good?"

Yewan's face is grim. "Oh, no. Not at all. The Kinu family is well known for their betrayals. Betraying and killing an ally is basically a right of passage for them."

Something about Aiko has never felt right to me. The thought of the Games has never upset or worried her. In fact, she's seemed excited for it. I even heard her talking about how she wanted to test herself against the strongest tributes! Unsettling behavior for an average young girl, to be sure.

I adjust my glasses. "How can I trust you? No offense, but you...you did join the Careers."

Yewan chuckles, oddly enough. She leans back so that her elbows are resting on a rack of spears. "Do I look like a typical Career to you?" I shake my head. With her platinum blonde hair half-buzzed and half-frizzy, she looks nothing like a typical anything. "Right. I just wanted to warn you, is all. It's up to you whether you wanna trust me or not."

"But...I...if what you say is true, what am I supposed to do about it?"

Yewan shrugs. "Nothing. Just watch your back, okay?"

Then, with a wink and a smile, she's gone. I watch her walk away, feeling entirely unsure of myself. Is that girl telling the truth? Is Aiko really some sort of assassin? And even if she is, does that mean I can't trust her? I'm a smart enough guy to know that Yewan definitely isn't one hundred percent trustworthy, but that doesn't mean what she said about Aiko isn't partly true. Something is off about that girl.

I drift away from the station, suddenly uncomfortable being around Aiko. My shoulders itch as I walk. It feels like someone is watching me. I feel stupid. Who'd be watching me? Yet I can't shake the feeling.

I pause my wandering at the sword station. It's currently unused and the instructor looks bored as he leans against a post. For some reason I keep thinking of Kulver and the words he said to be on the train. If I want to win and save Joule then I'll need to kill. Be able to kill. My traps will help, sure, but at the very end I know I won't be able to win with a trap. The finale is almost always a one on one fight between the last two tributes.

So, let me ask you one more time…Could you kill me?

I stare at the swords. Those wicked blades. Sharp and cool to the touch. They can kill with ease. But could I kill with them? Kill so that Joule may live? Kill even my allies? Briar and Kia? Aiko and—

"District 5."

I let out a yelp and spin around. The leader of the Careers, Valor, is standing behind me. He has his hands held behind his back, head tilted up, eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. Eyes fixed on me.

I recover quickly. "Oh. Hello. Hi. Hey. What's up?" The words come out in a stammered mess as I remember my initial strategy for the training period. Be nice to everyone. Make it so they don't want to harm me when the Games begin. Somehow I don't think that'll work with Valor.

He straightens himself further, if that were possible, and speaks in a loud, clear voice. "I would like to challenge you to a friendly duel, District 5."

My mouth goes dry. I understand why he's doing this because I've seen him do it all morning. He's been roaming from station to station challenging each tribute he finds there to a duel. Already he's beaten Harmon with spears, outperformed Killen at the Gauntlet, and tied Maximo into a pretzel at the hand-to-hand combat. And now he wants to duel me.

With swords.

Valor waits silently for my response. His face is a mask of proud arrogance. And why shouldn't he be proud? He's defeated everyone so far. I am not likely to change that fact.

I cast my eyes around for my allies, desperately searching them out. I need an escape from this situation. A way to get out of the duel. My gaze settles on Briar and Kia but they're on the other side of the gymnasium, standing beside the survival stations as they talk with Talia. Aiko has disappeared. Not good. How will I—

Damian!

I find him standing near the maces. He sees me and frowns, probably wondering what's wrong, but that expression quickly disappears when he spots Valor standing beside me. He turns as if to run but then looks back at me. My eyes drill into his. Begging. Help me! I mouth the words at him. He hesitates. Lifts one foot as if to move.

Then he turns away.

I deflate like a balloon. Damian abandoned me. He wasn't willing to help. I glance back at Valor. He's beginning to look impatient. He won't go easy on me in the dual. Those swords may be wooden, but they will still hurt when connecting with flesh. I saw how hard Valor hit Harmon with those spears. I saw the look on Maximo's face when he had him in a headlock.

I'm going to feel pain.

Valor steps forward. My time is up. "Our duel will commence forthwith. You may choose whatever sword you wish. For myself, I will be choosing—"

"Yo, man, chill out for a second will ya?" A boy appears at his side. Dark skinned and with a head full of dreadlocks, I recognize him as Chrome from District 11. But what is he doing here now?

Valor pauses, gives the boy a frown. "Excuse me, but I don't believe this situation has anything to do with you."

"Nah, man! That's where you're wrong!" Chrome puts one arm around my shoulder and draws me close. "I've been watching you do your little challenges all day, and I have to say I'm not impressed."

Chrome is living dangerously. Valor's face has gone dark. His eyes are narrowed slits. I'm half-worried he's going to punch us both. "Not impressed? Are you unaware that I've won each and every challenge?"

Chrome flashes a smile full of white teeth. "Yeah, but each time you chose the challenge."

There's a long pause as Valor digests his words. "Are you saying I should let District 5 choose the challenge?"

"It's only fair, no?"

For a moment I think that he'll decline, that I'm free from this awful moment, but Valor nods. "Very well. District 5 may choose whichever station he wishes."

My heart leaps into my throat. The challenge is still on, only now I get to pick how I'll be embarrassed. I wish Damian hadn't left. I don't know where he went, I can't see him anymore. Chrome leans in to whisper. "Pick what you're best at, man."

What I'm best at. Is that some kind of joke? I'm not good with any weapon! How...suddenly I see a path forward. One that won't lead to any physical pain. "Trap-making. I choose the trap-making station!"

Valor stiffens. His eyes dart to the trap station, tucked away in the far corner. From his expression alone I can tell he knows nothing of traps. "That is hardly fit for a challenge such as this. I—"

"You said he could choose whatever station he wished," Chrome's grin has widened to the point where it encompasses his whole face. "Or are you just afraid he's going to beat you?"

I can feel the anger radiating off Valor. But he's trapped. He has to either accept the challenge and risk facing defeat or back down. Neither option will leave him in a good position. He spins around and stomps off. "Watch your back in the arena, 11!"

"I'm always watching my back!" Chrome calls after him and winks at my shocked face. He laughs. "I ain't afraid of him or his goons. What they gonna do? Kill me? Everyone else is already trying that!"

"That was pretty brave," I say enviously. I could never have brought myself to do something like that. "Why did you help me anyway?"

"I just don't like bullies." Chrome pats me on the shoulder. "But the better question is why did I have to help you? You have allies, doncha?"

Once again I see Damian's face as he turned away. At least he looked embarrassed. I wish I could blame him for that, but I can't muster up the emotion. I'd probably have done the same thing if I was in his position. "My friends were busy," I mutter.

Chrome raises an eyebrow. "Friends, you say? Nah! Friends don't sit and watch friends go through something like that. If they don't got your back in training, what makes you think they'll have it in the arena?"

His words mirror my thoughts. But I don't have any place to complain, do I? Kulver's words still linger in my mind. His words and the actions he took to win his own Games. He killed an ally. Would I do the same to save Joule?

Would they all kill me to win?

Chrome's movement snaps my out of my thoughts. He's about to walk away. "Wait!" I grasp at his sleeve. He turns to give me a quizzical glance. "Join our alliance! I know that the others would accept you!"

Chrome's eyes flicker to where Briar and Kia stand conversing with Talia. Aiko flits to their side. He waves dismissively. "Nah, man. I ain't about that life. 'Sides, how could I trust 'em?"

I bite my lip. There's nothing I could do or say to change his mind in that subject. Damian's behavior did not exactly inspire confidence. "I...but...okay." What else could I do? I wish for Chrome as an ally—he's both clever and brave—but I know there's no way to convince him. "How...how about a truce, then?"

"We already got a truce, man. I have no intention of harming you."

"N-not just me. My alliance. We could have a truce with you!"

Chrome once again glances over at my allies. Somewhere along the way Damian has joined them, and they appear headed this way. "Sure. Why not? I don't expect them to hold to it, but sure. Truce. Sure." He gives me one last pay on the shoulder and walks off, laughing to himself.

I watch him go in silence. I won't let my allies harm him in the arena. I'll do whatever it takes to stop that. Chrome is a good person. But yet...

He still has to die for me to save Joule.

Opal Crane (District 5)
I sidestep, deflect the sword that comes hurtling for my neck, and circle around my opponent as he gets thrown off balance. Frantic with panic, he spins around and attempts another attack. I parry this blow with the dagger in my left hand and step forward to place the one held in my right against his throat.

"You're dead," I declare my victory in a soft whisper.

The instructor smiles and drops his wooden sword. "You're good. I've never seen that stance before. What is it?"

I step back and hand my daggers, both dulled for training, to the attendant standing beside the mat. "You may call it Crane Style."

He offers more praise, meaningless flattery from one who is less skilled than myself. I listen with a stoic face before thanking him for the practice and stepping aside to where the other Careerss wait.

My competition.

"Did you really create that fighting style?" Atticus watches me with dark eyes. He sounds doubtful. Such a fool. A skilled fool, true, but a fool nonetheless.

Beside him Marina shifts from foot to foot. "You fight impressively well for one from District 5. How exactly did you learn all your skills?"

I see no reason to enlighten her with the truth. Doubtless she'd think it a lie in any case. I fix her with a cold stare. "I taught myself."

The two of them accept my words and offer some slight praise before stepping into the ring for their own sparring session. I don't bother watching. I already know from studying their stances that Atticus is the better swordsman.

"I recognize your fighting style," A light voice draws my attention and I turn to see Alcmene watching me. The blonde girl taps one finger against her chin, grey eyes alight with curiosity as they bite into my face. "Many past Capitol tributes have used that same style. All protégées of the most esteemed trainers inside the Capitol."

I stiffen. She couldn't possibly suspect my true identity, could she? No. That's impossible. Hardly anyone in the world knows that Yuna Melville even existed. She merely recognized some of my skills, that is all.

"You've studied past Games intently, I suppose?" I say.

Alcmene nods. "But of course. I know all there is to know about the Games."

I had suspected as much. She's previously made statements that alluded to such knowledge. She'll be a true threat indeed. All of the Careers will be, of course, as they are the only tributes here who could possibly hope to come close to my level of skill. The other tributes are all gnats; safely dismissed as the fodder they are.

Alcmene continues to study me and I feel myself beginning to grow agitated. Some members of the Melville family have competed in past Games, and if she is truly the expert she claims to be then it may not be beyond her ability to discern my identity. It's not problematic for my identity to be known, surely not, yet I'd prefer if they remained unaware of my true name. Better they think I am Opal Crane, a simple lout of District 5. Opal Crane can be dismissed as a non-threat, someone or overlook. Yuna Melville, on the other hand, would certainly draw their full attention.

Children of the Great Families always do.

"The successors are on the ground floor!" Lilith appears at our side, thankfully pulling Alcmene's focus away from me, and points out at the mezzanine which holds the tables for the Gamemakers and the heirs. True to her word, the latter table is now empty.

I allow my eyes to drift across the gymnasium and take in the scene. Each of the seven would-be successors are wandering around the stations, each one surrounded by a knot of armed Peacekeepers. How peculiar.

"Isn't that rather dangerous?" Atticus and Marina have returned from their sparring match. Disheveled and sweaty, the dark-haired boy watches the heirs with keen eyes. "What if one of the tributes attacked?"

"They'd have to be stupid to attack them with those Peacekeepers around," Lilith says.

I tune out their senseless muttering and focus on one of the heirs—Escortius, the President's brother—as he and his guards approach Valor. The tall boy pauses and listens respectfully as the man begins to speak.

Whatever is going on?

As I watch it becomes apparent that the heirs are making their way towards the tributes. Some of them seem to speak with multiple, while others don't approach any at all. This strange behavior has caught the attention of us tributes and all of us, with the sole exception of Notcher, have stopped our training to observe.

Soon I notice that one of the heirs is headed my way.

A cadre of Peacekeepers surround me as Dimentio Stryker waltzes up, a cheery smile plastered on his pale face. His watery blue eyes take in the other Careers and he makes a motion with a thin hand. Instantly the Peacekeepers begin to herd them away, then form a loose circle around the two of us, standing far enough apart that I know we won't be overheard.

"What is this about?" I demand.

Dimentio laughs. He's a short, thin man with feathery blond hair and thin lips which he has stretched into a smile. "Straight to the point, I see. I like that. It's the sign of a very practical mind."

I spent all my years in the Capitol living in strict isolation inside my Father's manor so, despite my heritage, I have never seen this man before. "I am not one to bandy words, true, so say your peace and begone."

He laughs again. "Very direct! Such words would have earned you quite the reaction from some of my siblings, that's for sure."

I remain silent. Had I not noticed the successors approaching other tributes I might have thought this encounter threatening, but now I find myself only annoyed. "State your purpose and leave. I am in the middle of training."

"Very well. I will explain this as shortly and succinctly as I can." And he goes on to explain the Game his father has set up, along with the needs for each heir to choose their champions. I find the thought of such a thing absurd. The presidency left in the hands of tributes? To the whims of the arena? Such lunacy! Yet the man seems certain of this course, almost eager for it. It's not until he proposes that I be one of his champions do I speak.

"If it means you'll leave me alone, then yes, I accept your offer."

Once again he laughs. It seems to be some sort of external tic of his. "Very good. You're exactly the sort of person I want at my side...Yuna Melville."

His words shatter my stoic resolve like a hammer. He knows my name! My true name! But how? Father hid my identity from everyone before he sent me off to Distrct 5. Yet...Dimentio is the son of our President. Is it really unexpected that he knows my identity?

I quickly smother my surprise, bury it beneath a veneer of cold indifference. "You know me, do you? Good. I grew weary of my charade."

He offers me a small smile that doesn't seem to touch his eyes. "Oh, I know many things, dear Yuna. People always try to hide their secrets from me...to no avail, of course."

"Do you seek to stop me from gaining vengeance upon my father?"

"Heavens no!" He clutches his heart and mimes collapsing. "Oh! You wound me with your suspicion! Truly, you do!"

I feel my muscles loosen. Had he intended to stop my plan for vengeance then he'd have been signing his own death. No one will stop me from claiming my rightful place and deposing my father. "Then what do you wish of me?"

"Nothing demanding, certainly. I only desire that you win the Games and support my bid for presidency."

That seems a bit much to believe. If that is all he wished of me, then why discuss it at all? He could just as easily approach me once the Games were over. Yet I glance over at the other heirs and watch as they weave their way through the other tributes. No doubt they are making the same promises to each of them. If he put this off to the end of the Games, Dimentio would have  risked one of them approaching me first.

A thought strikes me. "Who are your other two champions?"

Once again he laughs. "And why does that matter to you?"

"I merely wish to know whom your two failures will be."

His laughter grows louder and slaps me on the shoulder. I flinch away from his touch. "Very confident! I like that bravado of yours. It should give you much assistance in the Games!" He snaps his fingers and draws the guards to him. He gives me a half-bow, somehow mocking, I think, and then departs in a whirlwind of bodies. My eyes watch him leave. He didn't answer my question.

Once he departs I notice a pair of fellow Careers standing beside the sword station. Alcmene is chewing her lip, looking troubled, whilst Atticus seems deep in thought. I don't need to ask whether a successor approached them or not; the answer is evident in their expressions.

The heirs don't spend much time on the gymnasium floor. They drift around for somewhere around half an hour, talking to the tributes and studying our behavior closeup, before returning to their table on the mezzanine. By the time they do all of us Careers have regrouped.

"That was very strange," Zekel says. A few of us murmur agreements, but the rest remain silent. This encounter has had a profound effect on them, it seems.

"It was so funny!" Yewan cackles gleefully. The rest of us eye her warily. I feel a deep well of disgust inside every time I look at that horrid girl. I can only imagine what she said to the successors.

"Funny isn't the word I'd choose," Alcmene says absently.

Yewan smirks and spins around to look at us all. "Well? Which one picked you? Let's share!"

No one speaks. A few exchange glances between each other. Dimentio did not tell me to keep it a secret, yet I am loathe to reveal the nature of our agreement. Evidently my fellow Careers feel the same.

"How about you go first?" Atticus finally says.

"Nope! It's not sharing if I'm the only one to tell!"

I grimace. Surely none of the heirs chose her, did they? Mako laughs. "I can tell you someone who wasn't chosen." He points at the gauntlets, where Notcher is currently a third of the way through. "None of them spoke to that guy. And he didn't seem too interested in them, either. He wouldn't even look at them!"

"Of course not!" I'm scandalized at the thought. "Why would anyone choose a maimed runt from District 8?"

There's no response. Everyone has returned to their thoughts, with the possible exception of Yewan. That unseemly girl is grinning as if she doesn't have a care in the world. She most likely doesn't.

Even though I am aware that this encounter with Dimentio and the other heirs hasn't changed anything in the grand scheme—all of us were already trying our hardest to win without their words—I can't help but feel something is...different. I cannot place a finger on it, but I know something is off.

And that troubles me.

Killen Timmerhout (District 7)
I stare at the snare I just finished. A rope hidden amongst a tree's lichen, it would trap and ensnare any tribute unwary enough to brush their hand against it. But I am unable to truly focus on the snare. I am deaf to the instructors praise. My mind is still stuck on that conversation with Nedry Stryker.

''I fall atop the landing mat and smile as the two of the watching tributes offer me polite applause. The rope course lies behind me, vanquished and defeated. I was only the second tribute today to make it through without falling.''

''"Nice one!" Harmon says with a smile. I thank him and give his sister a polite nod. She ducks her head, face reddening. I idly note that she's quite pretty. Maybe even more beautiful than Narcissa.''

''The other tribute watching, Shiloh, turns away without a word. She's a quiet one, alright. Not sure if I've heard her speak yet. I turn to the Achlys siblings "What do you two—"''

''Discordia gives a squeak and rushes off. I watch her go, wondering what I'd done to offend her, when I notice the group of armed Peacekeepers approaching us. Harmon gives me a sidelong glance as the group, led by a stout middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting suit, pauses right before me.''

''"Nedry Stryker," Harmon says. All around us I can see the other successors approaching tributes. What is this about? ''

''"You may go," Nedry nods at Harmon, then runs a handkerchief over his balding head. "I wish to speak with Killen alone." ''

''"Good luck, buddy!" Harmon slips away and suddenly I'm left alone with this famous man I barely know. Him and his guards.''

''"I hope you had a pleasant morning," I say. Best to start with the usual niceties. Who knows what this man wants from me? He's the eldest child of the President and, had this been a normal succession, he would have been our next President.''

''Nedry clears his throat and tugs at his collar. Already a sheen of sweat has gathered atop his head. "Well, yes, this morning has been quite agreeable. Though Roscoe been very rude! One shouldn't—" He cuts off, as if remembering to whom he was speaking. He narrows his dark blue eyes at me. Does every Stryker have blue eyes? "I am here to make you an offer, Killen Timmerhout."''

''"An offer?" I speak my thoughts aloud. "What could the President's son offer me?"''

"Everything."

''Nedry goes on to explain the game he and his family are playing, the champions and their choices, the benefits of winning. He tells me of the untold riches and unimaginable power that will be mine if I win in his name.''

''"I'd already be unimaginablely rich from being Victor," I say conversationally. Something about this whole situation troubles me. It reeks of intrigue and politics, two things I've learned through my dealings with Narcissa that I do not want to be involved in. "What difference would siding with you bring? Other than a target on me and my family, I mean."''

''Nedry seems to choke on his words. He stands there sputtering incoherently for a moment before regaining his composure. "No! I will protect your family! When I become President I'll give an order that they are not to be touched!"''

''He doesn't get it. Doing something like that would undoubtedly draw more attention to my family than they'd otherwise receive. But he still goes on, insists that they'll be drawn into other plots if he's not there to protect them. "Every Victor is eventually drawn into politics!" He says, wiping his head again. "But I can prevent that! I can... I can help you get vengeance on Narcissa!"''

''I breathe a sharp intake of breath. Narcissa? "How do you know that name," I ask quietly.''

''There's a small, sly smile on that pudgy voice. "I did the research on all you tributes," His voice is smug, bordering on arrogant. "I know that you had a messy breakup with your ex-girlfriend. If you side with me, I can give you her death."''

''"What!" I stare at him in sudden silence. Kill Narcissa? Murder her! Nedry continues to stare at me with that smug face, so convinced he found his trump card. "You're going to...kill Narcissa?"''

''He nods sagely. "Oh, yes. It would be quite easy. All it would take—"''

''"No!" This is insane! Evil, almost. Murder Narcissa! What part of her actions warrants death? "I don't want you to kill Narcissa!"''

''Nedry runs the handkerchief over his head. "Right, right. You don't want her dead. You wish to torture her, then? Very well. That can be arranged. Once you win I'll bring her before you and—"''

"No!"

''I don't care that I shout. That the Peacekeepers at his side suddenly grasp their weapons. Madness! Nedry is mad! Torture Narcissa? What kind of person thinks like that? I don't care what she did to me! Even if she truly intended me to die in the arena, I wouldn't even think about murdering her! It's wrong. Sick and wrong.''

''Nedry is staring at me with startled eyes. He very much looks like a frog in this moment. "I-I don't understand. She has wronged you, yes? If you don't seek her death or torture then what...?"''

''"Are you insane?" I fix him with my steadiest gaze. My stomach is twisting itself in knots. "I don't care what she did! The last thing I'd want is to murder someone!''

''Nedry gawps at me. His mouth moves but no words come out. The Peacekeepers at his side give him nervous glances. I continue. "I don't care that Narcissa emotionally abused me! That she manipulated the Mayor into arresting my mother and rigging the Reaping! I'm not going to just let you kill her!"''

''I take a deep breath. That outburst has surprised even me with its intensity. I hold no love for Narcissa, I still feel pain at the mere thought of her, but I'll be damned before I just sit back and let her die!''

''Nedry dabs a handkerchief at his sweaty head. "Mayor Mallory...rigged the Reaping?"''

''"You didn't know?" When he said that he'd done his research on me I thought that meant he knew everything. Not so, it seems.''

''He pauses mid-dab. "That is...not good. Father—President Stryker, that is, holds the Games’ sanctity in high regards. For a Mayor to flaunt...I'll have to report this!"''

''"Report?" An uneasy feeling flutters inside me. "What will happen to Terrence?"''

''It's impossible to miss the predatory look that shines in his eyes. He's seen my unease, and I cannot help but feel I just handed him the rope with which he'll hang me. A smile flickers across his bulbous face. "Mayor Mallory will be executed, of course. We can't have a Mayor interfere with the Games, can we? In fact, his entire family will probably be investigated."''

''His entire family...Narcissa. I think about how adamantly I'd refused to consign her to death. What did Nedry make of that? What is he plotting? "You're going to execute Narcissa?"''

''"Execute her? Goodness, no!" Nedry laughs and dabs his forehead. "The girl will not be executed. No, in all likelihood she will be handed over to my sisters' Seekers of Truth."''

"What does that mean?"

"Interrogation. Possibly some torture. Rozlyn's men are quite thorough, you know. They'll have clamps for her limbs, pinchers for her skin, and perhaps some heated needles to drive underneath her fingernails..."

''My stomach heaves and there's suddenly a very real possibility of my breakfast making a reappearance. Narcissa is an awful person, but no one deserves that. Nedry sees my reaction and his smile widens. "But perhaps not. She is a young and beautiful girl, is she not? Maybe she'd be better served being sent to one of the pleasure houses? She might enjoy that. She'd be plied with enough drugs that I doubt she'd even remember her prior life. She may—"''

"Stop! Please, stop! I'll do it! I'll support your presidency!"

''At my anguished cry Nedry laughs. The sick little man does a capering dance and laughs! "You thought I was a fool, didn't you? Don't deny it! I saw it in your eyes! You and all my siblings think me to be a fool! One easily swayed and manipulated! But no! Nedry Stryker is no man's fool! I am the eldest child of Tiberius Stryker! By rights the presidency is mine! Mine!"''

My hands clench around the snare. I walked right into that trap! Nedry was a harmless simpleton until I told him about the Reaping! But now he knows. And if I don't win, if I die in the arena and fail to become Victor, Terrence Mallory and his family will die.

It's ironic, if you think about it. Terrence sent me into the arena as punishment, no doubt intending for me to die there, but now his own life is tied up with mine and he doesn't even know it. Narcissa's too. She'll die if I do. Such a thought might make others happy, but it only brings me despair. I am not the kind of person to revel in death. I—

Someone slams into my back

I fall against the tree and bounce off, hitting the floor at an angle and rolling into a crouch. The guy who hit me, Maximo from 6, is climbing to his feet, muttering to himself as he shakes his head. The tension leaves my body as I realize that it was an accident. "You okay?" I help the guy to his feet.

"What?" He squints at me. "Yeah, fine. I just fell off the Gauntlets, that's all."

I eye the Gauntlet. It's definitely close enough for him to have fallen off and staggered this way. "You must be more careful. You could have sprained an ankle with a stumble like that."

"It wasn't my fault! I was pushed!"

"Pushed?" As far as I can see there's no one else anywhere near the Gauntlet. "By whom, exactly?"

He dusts himself off, grunting irritability. "A demonic entity. A spirit, if you will."

I arch an eyebrow. "A ghost pushed you off the Gauntlet?"

He gives me a flat stare. "You don't believe me, do you?"

I splay my hands. "It's simply a hard claim to accept. There's not exactly any proof that things such as ghosts or spirits even exist, you know."

"I have proof."

I pause, caught off guard by such a dubious claim. Proof of such a thing would have been groundbreaking news, would it not? The idea of ghosts being real is tantalizing...yet reality ensures it is nothing but a mere idea. That isn't to say ideas can't be interesting, of course.

Maximo continues on, seemingly caught up in his own words. "I'm a ghost hunter, you know. Founder of the Paranormal Action Squad, in fact. Ghosts, spirits, demons, disembodied entities, you name it and we hunt it."

"Do you hunt goblins?"

He fixes me with a level look. "Of course not!" He snaps. "Goblins aren't paranormal! They're more of supernatural if anything!"

I nod. "Of course."

"Anyway," Maximo glances around the gymnasium. None of the other tributes are anywhere near us. "As I was saying, I'm a ghost hunter and have gathered plenty of evidence of their existence. I have so much that it'd probably shock you to your core."

"May I see some this evidence?"

He scowls. "I left it all in District 6. I wasn't exactly planning on bringing it into the arena with me, now was I?"

That's a fair point. It would have been quite strange for him to have brought such a thing with him to the Capitol. "If ghosts exist and are capable of pushing people," I begin, "Then how come they are so rarely seen? Surely they would have taken over the world by now. It's not as if we can harm them back."

Maximo sighs and rubs his head with one finger. "Ghosts aren't just attacking people out of the blue. They leave most people alone. It's only if you're sensitive to the paranormal or unwittingly attach yourself to one do they turn violent." He looks up and meets my eyes with a steady gaze. "And I wasn't pushed by a mere ghost. It was a demonic entity. One that killed by best friend."

I murmur my condolences. No matter the situation, losing a friend is a tragic occurrence. "So...this entity. It followed you from District 6?"

He nods. "The Paranormal Action Squad first encountered it when we received permission to investigate the 327th arena. We made contact with a spirit there when..." He regales me with an interesting tale of possession and despair. Apparently the spirit—a former tribute, he claims—deeply affected his friend and this affliction eventually led to his suicide. Then, when Maximo returned to the arena a year later, the spirit possessed him and gave him a brutal beating.

I can't say that I truly believe his story, but I find myself fascinated by it regardless. Especially since he wholeheartedly believes that this entity not only was responsible for his being Reaped, but is also currently in the gymnasium alongside him. "Who do you think this former tribute is? And why would they wish to haunt you?"

He shrugs. "We never conclusively proved the identity. We did narrow it down, though. It's either a District 1 male, a District 10 tribute, or a District 8 male. Gavin died in the same way they all did—a telltale sign of their connection."

I don't remember as much of the 327th as I'd have liked. All I know for sure is that those were the Games Austin won. Which, I suppose, narrows down who that District 1 male could be. I am about to ask another question when I find myself interrupted.

The lunch bell rings.

"How about we continue this conversation over lunch?" I ask. "I would love to hear more about your experience with ghosts."

A wide grin breaks out across Maximo's face. "Oh, I'm down for that! See, this one time we were investigating an old refinery when Carson and Bentley..."

Matiss Ferrum (District 12)
The Careers have commandeered the largest table in the cafeteria, a long rectangular one which rests in the exact center of the dining area. We eat in solemn silence, a sharp contrast to the lively conversations we held yesterday. The heirs and their offers must be weighing heavy on my allies minds.

"Looks like another alliance has formed," Zekel says quietly. I follow his gaze to the far end of the cafeteria, where Maximo and Killen sit, engaged in some frantic discussion.

Though I respect my entire team, I find myself closest friends with Zekel. Perhaps it's because both of us were recruits—a shared kinship is often enough to bring people closer together.

On my other side Marina frowns. "They could be trouble if they make it far enough into the Games."

I don't know about that. Neither of them seem to be the type of tribute who'd do well in Games. Since my Reaping I've been tuned into the analytics of the Games; watching the experts on their talk shows, observing the betting trends, etcetera. All in an effort to find out who I should pay special attention to. Killen and Maximo haven't shown up in that data.

But other tributes have. Notcher is one. Many analysts have him pegged as a darkhorse contender to watch in these Games. Likewise the data suggests that Briar and her alliance will play a huge part in the outcome of the Games. The second largest alliance almost always comes into conflict with the Careers in the early portion of the Games.

My gaze settles on that alliance. Their table is across the cafeteria, about as far from ours as possible, and they laugh jovially as they talk amongst themselves. At some point during the day Talia had joined their alliance, and they now sit at six strong. Other than for the Careers they're the only alliance that has more than three members. At this point I don't even need the data to tell me that our alliances are going to clash: it's just an obvious fact.

As Zekel and Marina's brief conversation fades, my allies pick at their food in somber silence. I've already finished my meal, so I take this opportunity to continue my analysis of the other tributes. Today will be my last chance to observe them up close; it'd be a shame to waste it.

The trio is made up of three formidable tributes, Teal, Remus, and Solomon, but I have an inkling that their personalities won't mesh well together. The data suggests that sooner or later they will clash and turn on each other. As for the betters...they are high on Remus, yet it appears that Solomon's infamy is effecting their views. As of last night he had the lowest odds of every tribute.

The only remaining alliance I've yet to analyze is the Achlys siblings from District 9. All data points suggest that neither one will do well, simply because District 9 hasn't had a decent performance in the Games since the 325th. But is it foolish to dismiss them for such a reason? The performance of prior tributes does not necessarily mean that these two will also fare poorly. Yet there's also this talk of a curse...

I taste blood in my mouth and scowl. I've been chewing the inside of my cheek again.

"So...what score are you all angling for?" Mako breaks the silence that has long lingered. He receives a few glances but no responses. Eventually I find myself annoyed with the quiet.

"Anything over an eight is fine with me," I say.

My words open a floodgate.

"A nine would suffice," Lilith says.

"I need to score higher than Solomon!" Alcmene's eyes are feverish in their fanaticism.

Atticus is more reserved. "A ten, perhaps."

"I will be receiving a twelve," Valor says matter-of-factly.

I watch these boys and girls, these trained killers, and realize that they will be my stiffest competition. Not my only competition, mind you, but the most personal. I will be by their side twenty-four-seven in the arena, I will learn their every quirk and recognize their weaknesses. I will be able to spot how best to defeat them.

And they will do the same to me.

Uneasy, I turn my gaze away from the table, slipping past Yewan who sits on the edge, and find it resting on Notcher. He sits at a circular table near ours, head bowed as he eats his food. He seems completely oblivious to the rest of us.

Until a spoonful of mashed potatoes smatters against his head.

He straightens out, mashed potatoes dripping onto his shoulders. His icy blue eyes survey the cafeteria, no doubt searching for his assailant. But no one is so much as looking at him. A scowl forms on his face as he realizes he'll never find the culprit.

Then his eyes settle on me.

Too late do I realize that I'm staring at him. That I'm the only tribute in the entire cafeteria who seems to have even noticed. A cold rage fills his eyes. He thinks I did it. That much is evident in his posture. Notcher stands and for a moment I think he is about to march over here and demand an apology, but then he does something worse.

He picks up a corn dog from his tray and heaves it straight at me.

His aim is off. Instead of striking me his corn dog lands on Marina's tray. It plops into her soup, sending up a spray that splatters her face. She recoils with a yelp, drawing the attention of the other tributes. There's the sound of laughter as she wipes her face. I wince at the anger I see in her eyes.

"Marina..." Atticus reaches out but she smacks his hand away. Her fingers dig into a bowl of green peas. Before anyone can stop her she spins around and hurls a handful into the face of the openly laughing Lucia.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Food begins to fly. Tributes duck and dodge as our meals are turned into projectiles. Everyone is caught up in it and no one is spared. Harmon has climbed atop a table and is throwing chicken legs like knives. One strikes Damian in the back as he attempts to flee and the boy falls to the ground as if he'd been shot.

I overturn a nearby table and duck behind it just in time to avoid a flying orange. Zekel soon joins me. "This is awesome!" The guy has a grin on his face. It's the first time I've ever seen the boy truly happy.

"You ain't seen nothing yet!" I stand and locate the nearest food item. A roast pig. I pick it up, the entire thing, and turn to find my victim.

Remus, his face covered in applesauce, is wandering between tables when he spots me holding the roast pig over my shoulders. His eyes widen and he backs up, hands waving for mercy.

A grin crosses my face. "Watch out for the flying pig!"

The roast pig takes him square in the chest. The force of it is enough to knock him off his feet and he goes sliding across the linoleum floor, disappearing beneath a table.

I only have a few seconds to bask in my glory before a jug of cranberry juice is poured over my head. "You snooze, you lose!" Briar darts pass, laughing like a maniac.

Grinning as the cold liquid runs down my face, I snatch a grapefruit off the floor and chuck it the nearest tribute. Which, unfortunately for him, turns out to be Chrome. As he falls to the ground I begin the search for my next piece of ammunition.

"Stop this nonsense!" An enraged shout brings everything to a halt. We all turn to watch Valor as he climbs atop a table, his face stern and unamused. "We are tributes, not children! The Hunger Games are meant to be a place of honor and glory! Not a cesspool where morons throw food at one another!"

There's some quiet mutterings. A few of us Careers who'd joined in look chastised, Atticus in particular. Valor's gaze sweeps across the room, judging us all. "Put down the food and stop this silly squabble! Us tributes are glorious fighters! Not silly—"

He breaks off into a sputter as a glob of gravy strikes him in the face. Stepping back, his foot lands in a bowl of potato salad and in an instant he's lost his footing and falls off the table with a thunderous crash.

Just like that it starts all over again.

I can't say exactly what happens. It's pure chaos. I dip and dive through the tables, chucking any food item I can get my hands on. At one point somebody throws an entire pineapple at Harmon while he's chucking his chicken legs. The ribbed fruit hits him in the groin and he slips off his perch with a groan.

I get pelted with so much food that I'm basically a smorgasbord of everything the Capitol has to offer. Zekel is having the time of his life, throwing bread rolls like baseballs at anyone who comes near. I see an entire stuffed goose on a nearby table and am about to make a sequel to my flying pig when the Peacekeepers finally intervene.

They pour into the cafeteria, shouting and cajoling as as they hold their guns up threateningly. The fight ends almost immediately, though the grins and laughter does not. After checking us all for injuries and finding nothing serious—though Remus has a bruised chest and Harmon's walk is staggered—they instruct us all to return to the gymnasium. When we do so I notice that not every tribute had partook in the fight.

Discordia, Solomon, and Mercia stand in the gymnasium, clothes clean and untouched from the food fight. Evidently those three had the good sense to bail out before it got messy. As did two of our allies.

"That was extremely immature!" Alcmene's grey eyes pierce us Careers like daggers as we we rejoin her and Yewan. The tall blonde girl is grinning maniacally.

"Why didn't you compete?" Mako asks her.

"And ruin my hair?" She flicks her blonde fringe with one finger. "No thanks. Watching you guys was funny enough!"

Valor, his face a mask of cold fury, remains silent. I don't doubt that today was the biggest embarrassment of his life. The rest of us talk quietly amongst ourselves as the Peacekeepers clean the cafeteria and the instructors return to their posts. There's still several hours left of training, after all. I wonder what the heirs thought of that whole fiasco?

The Gamemakers sit at their table with expressions ranging from disgust to annoyance. They, at least, were not found of our actions. But the heirs have a slightly different reaction. Two of them, Erevan and Nedry, are openly grinning. Aurilee twirls a finger around a lock of her heir while Dimentio steeples his fingers and frowns. Roscoe and Rozlyn keep their faces blank. Only Escortius, whose furious expression is almost identical to his chosen disciple Valor’s, seems upset.

Eventually a bell is rung and we’re told that we can recommence our training. As the tributes move en mass, I watch Yewan as she skips off to the knot tying station. No one else gives her a second glance. Does that mean I was the only one who noticed? I tap a fingernail against my teeth. She’ll be one to watch in the arena because…

Yewan threw those potatoes at Notcher and escaped the food fight unscathed.

Clever girl.

Aiko Kinu (District 8)
The knife I throw flies across the gym and strikes the dummy in the right eye. The instructor smiles and offers me praise, but I only nod. That was easy. I’ve made hundreds of throws just like that over the course of these past two days. Hitting a stationary target is simple. Easy. Boring.

I want a challenge.

I walk along the weapon stations, hands held behind my back as I seek out a new avenue to explore. I want to try every weapon! I know there’s some I’m not good with; a mace is too heavy and spears are too unwieldy for my liking. But I’m a quick learner and I’ve already come accustomed to some of the more exotic weapons on display.

I really like the rope dart. It’s fun and reminds me of my jump rope back at the orphanage. A smile forms on my face at the thought. A jump rope is both a fun toy and a useful weapon. Once, when some of the older kids were messing with me, I used it as a whip to blind one of them, then as a rope to choke the other.

My smile slips into a frown as I remember being punished for that. They didn’t like that I’d blinded one of the older kids. I don’t think that was fair. He started the fight and, besides, it was only one eye and I didn’t even kill him. It wasn’t like that first time at all!

Thwock!

At the station next to me a large, silvery disk slams into a target. My eyes light up at the unique design of the weapon. It looks like a frisbee!

The girl who threw it turns to look at me. Her dark eyes flash. “What do you want, kid?”

I think her name was Lilith? She’s one of the Careers. Briar told me about them. She said they were the toughest and strongest of all us kids. I spent some time watching them, and I think Briar is right. A few appear even better than me!

“Hi! I love that weapon! What’s it called?” I walk up to the rack and run one hand down the silvery disk. The outer edges are sharpened.

Lilith narrows her eyes. “It’s a chakram. Don’t bother trying to wield it. These weapons take actual skill to use.”

I nod, not really paying attention. My focus is on the weapon. It’s clearly designed to be aerodynamic and cut through the air with ease. “Do you throw it vertically or horizontally?”

It’s the instructor who answers. “Either way works.”

I take one of the weapons off the rack, ignoring the chuckle from Lilith. The weapon is cool in my hands. I step up to the mark, eyes on the target. It definitely feels like a frisbee. I take aim and let loose. The weapon zips across the room and slams into the bullseye.

Lilith’s laughter stops.

I turn to her and smile. “You’re pretty good, miss! I can’t wait to play with you in the Games!”

I head off in search of more fun weapons.

I find a few more that range from simple—a slingshot!—to strange—a bola!—before stumbling into Faren. He was pacing back and forth mumbling to himself, so he doesn’t see me before we collide.

He falls back. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…” His words trail off as he recognizes me. For some reason his face pales.

”Hello, Faren!” He’s a friend. One of my allies who Briar gathered. He’s been a bit distant, not at all as talkative as Briar or Damian, but still mostly friendly. Yesterday he even gave me a cookie!

“I’m sorry!” He squeaks out an apology and darts away. I wave him off with a smile. What a strange guy! It almost looked like he was frightened!

My other friends are all gathered at the Gauntlet. It seems like they’re all going to give it one last run before the second training session ends. I’d join them, but I already completed the Gauntlet. It was too easy. Still, I like my friends. They’re good people and…

And I want to protect their innocence.

I know how some of them look at me. I see the discomfort in their eyes when I talk about the Games. They think I’m just naive, or that I don’t fully understand what the Games are about.

They’re wrong.

I know what the Games are. Understand that people die in them. But I’ve lived in a dark part of the world, maybe darker than they’ve ever seen. Briar doesn’t like violence. She detests the idea of harming other people, loathes the thought of killing somebody else. I’ve overheard her telling Kia that she wishes there was a way to win the Games without killing a single person. I like that idea…

But I know it’s not possible.

My friends Briar, Kia, Damian, Faren, and even Talia, who joined us today. I want to protect them. Shelter them from the terror and horror that lies just out of sight. None of them, except maybe Kia, have really experienced the true savagery of the world yet. I hope they never have to. I will kill so my friends won’t need to.

Damian was talking about something called a “soul” earlier today. According to him it’s something inside a person that’s all pure and beautiful. He said that, when you die, your soul will leave your body and go live in a wonderful paradise.

I don’t think I have a soul. I can’t imagine anything as beautiful as what Damian described living inside me. But that’s okay. I’ll do all the killing in the arena so that, when my friends all die, their souls will still be able to reach paradise.

Because that’s the kind of thing friends do for each other.

Damian Gonzalez (District 10)
There’s only a few more steps before the end of the Gauntlet. Three narrow platforms stretch up from the floor, each less than a foot wide. There’s a gap between the platforms, requiring me to either step or jump between them. My legs are long enough to step over, but the spinning wheel pendulum that passes over the gap might make that difficult.

“You got this, Damian!” Briar shouts encouragement from floor. Several of my other allies, Faren, Talia, and Kia, stand beside her. All of them have previously run the Gauntlet but only Kia made it all the way through.

I flash them a thumbs-up and return to the task at hand. The wheel is fast. There’s not much time between its turn. If I want to succeed I’ll need to time my steps accurately. I try to remember what Kia did but my recollection fails me.

I guess there’s nothing left but to try.

I take off at a sprint. Jump to the first platform, wobble in place as the wheel spins past, then leap for the next. My foot catches on the edge and I sway, trying to keep my balance, before one of the wheels pendulums come up from behind and slams into my back.

The impact with the matted floor knocks the breath out of me. I lie there for a moment, staring up at the darkened rafters of the gymnasium. That hurt. I sit up, rubbing the small of my back. I can still feel the bruise Harmon gave me with that stupid chicken leg. I was trying to escape, wanting no part of that silly food fight. But of course he hit me. Why wouldn’t he?

I look at my sleeve, which is stained red, and sigh. Pretty much every tributes training uniform is covered in food stains and other gunk.

“Tough luck!” Briar appears above me and offers a hand. I take it and she pulls me back to my feet. “But nice try. You almost had it!”

“Almost only counts in horseshoes,” Faren mumbles. I shoot him a glance, but he’s only staring despondently at his feet. I remember his own early failure on the Gauntlet and relax. He wasn’t taunting me.

I’ve been nervous around Faren ever since his…incident with Valor this morning. None of the others saw and Faren’s never brought it up, but I still can’t shake the fact that I abandoned him when he needed assistance. It’s not as if I could have helped him, but still…Faren must despise me. What kind of ally leaves a man behind?

“Looks like that was the last go of the night,” Kia’s comment brings me back to the present. All around us the instructors are closing down the stations. Kassius’ whistle should be coming soon.

“Come on, let’s gather at the elevators!” Briar leads the way and we all fall in line. I find myself next to Talia and Aiko, who has rejoined us sometime since my run with the Gauntlets. I don’t know what to think about either girl; both of them were recruited by Briar—almost desperately recruited—yet I can’t help but think that neither one will be of much use in the arena. They’re both among the youngest and weakest tributes here. Honestly, I am not sure how much use any of us will be in actual combat.

I’m the son of a butcher and know my way around every type of knife, but that may not be as helpful as I’d originally imagined. After watching the Careers train with their swords, spears, and axes it’s hard to envision a scenario where a knife will stop them.

The closing whistle blows just as we reach the elevator. There’s a long line, though, so we fall into conversation as we wait our turn. Well, some of us do. My attention is attuned to the trio ahead of.

“Ooh…I think I’m going to be sick!” The girl from District 6, Teal, is hunched over with her hands pressed against her stomach.

Remus from the Capitol, her ally, gives her a sidelong look. “That’s because you stuffed yourself with those sweets at lunch.”

“I couldn’t help it! Today might be the last chance I get to eat anything sweet!”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I was taught that you should only eat two thirds of your meal. Enough so that your host knows you enjoyed the food, but not too much to show your baser impulses control you.”

“Yeah? Well, not everyone is lucky enough to be able and leave food on their plate!”

To my great shock it’s Kia who speaks. She shoves her way past me to stand face-to-face with Remus. The taller boy gives her a quizzical glance. “Pardon? Are you speaking to me?”

Her eyes are furious flames. “Most of us have had to scratch and claw for their meals. We had to bust our asses to put food in our stomachs. And even then, more often than not we went to bed hungry.”

Briar and Aiko are nodding their agreement. Even Faren seems to relate. I myself haven’t ever gone to bed hungry. At least not before the…camp.

“My apologies. I wasn’t aware the District’s were in such dire straits,” Remus dips his head cordially.

“Of course not! Why would you? You’re a pampered Capitol boy. You know nothing of the real world!” Kia spins to face Teal and sticks an angry finger in her face. “And you! What’s your damage?”

Teal’s eyes widen. “Me? What do you have against—”

“You’re from District 6! Why would you willingly align a with a Capitol oppressor and a mass murderer?” Kia turns to include Solomon, who up until now has been sitting silently in the background. He squirms beneath her gaze and tries to sink further into the folds of his hood.

“How dare you?” Teal looks like a thundercloud, her queasy stomach apparently forgotten. “You’re judging two people you know nothing about! You don’t know their story! You don’t—”

“I don’t need to know! He’s from the Capitol and he’s a confirmed murderer! You disgust—”

“Kia!”

Briar places herself between the girl’s, one hand resting on Kia’s shoulder. “That’s enough. We’re not here to antagonize the other tributes. They’re not the enemy.”

Kia goes silent, still glowering. The elevator dings and slides open. Solomon quickly rushes inside, followed more slowly by his allies. Remus pauses in the doorway. “I apologize for the inconvenience. I must—”

Teal elbows him in the ribs and he goes silent as the elevator doors slide shut.

Briar sighs and rubs her head. “That wasn’t very tactful, Kia. We hardly need more of a target on our back.”

Kia at least has enough grace to look regretful. She stares at her feet and mumbles an apology. “I snapped, you’re right. But he shouldn’t have been so casual about wasting food. Starvation is a real problem in District 12.”

“I know. But we can’t lose control of our tempers. If something like that happens in the arena…”

Kia could get us all killed if she’s not careful. It doesn’t help that Briar is pretty much the only one she really listens to. The girl sighs. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I hate the Capitol. There wouldn’t be all this oppression without them.”

I think about the conversion therapy camp. The soul-crushing abuse I endured at the hands of those who thought they knew best. There was no Capitol oversight there. It wasn’t a government facility. District 10 ran it all by themselves.

“That’s not true.” Kia gives me a surprised look. Even Faren and Talia seem taken back. My hands curl into fists. “The Capitol isn’t the source of all oppression. Sometimes we oppress ourselves.”

The next elevator opens and I step inside. Briar joins me before the doors slide shut. I feel cold, disconnected from my surroundings. I volunteered so that I could take control of my life, but I can sense the walls closing in. I don’t have a chance of winning. I’m just some loser.

And all my allies can see it.

Briar lifts a hand. She seems to debate touching me before dropping it back to her side. “Damian…do you want to talk?”

“No.”

I’d only make a bigger fool of myself. Sometimes I don’t understand why Briar chose me to be her first ally. I’m not strong or smart. I’m nothing, really.

“Okay,” Briar goes quiet for a moment. “But if you ever want to talk…you can come to me. I’ll always be there to listen.”

The elevator slides open as we reach the District 10 apartment. She moves to step out when I hold up a hand. “Briar I…Thank you.”

She smiles. “I’m always willing to help, Damian. So are our allies. Even in the darkest of times there is a light…please remember that.”

The both of us return to the kitchens in silence. Our mentors are waiting, Panama and Chiswick, but I find myself unresponsive to their questions. I only shrug when Chiswick asks me what my plan for tomorrow’s private training session is. That seems to annoy him, and he promptly leaves. Briar and Panama hold a quiet discussion for several minutes, but then they too turn in the for the night.

I’m left alone.

I sit at the table and occupy my mind by tracing the grains in the wood. Anxiety is forcing this melancholic mood. I’m stressed almost to a breaking point. A single mistake in the arena will cost me my life. Sometimes I can’t help but think about that.

The elevator slides open.

I stare in amazement as a man walks out. He’s somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, with slick black hair and a stylish beard. He wears a maroon waistcoat over a white button down shirt and a pair of khaki pants. His outfit is different from what he wore this afternoon, but I still recognize him.

Erevan Newcastle.

What is he doing here? I know that the heirs talked with the tributes during training, but none of them had approached me. A few spoke with some of my allies, but I don’t know what it was about. None of them brought it up and I didn’t think to ask before the food fight soon drove the thought out of my mind.

Erevan pulls up a chair and sits directly across from me. He has a wide smile on his face. “Hello, Damian! I thought it best to have this conversation in a more private setting.”

I’m so taken back that for a moment I can’t think. “How did you know I’d still be awake?”

He raps his knuckles on the table. “Ah, but I didn’t! I took a calculated risk which, I might add, seems to have paid off!”

I try to remember what I know about Erevan. He’s some kind of business mogul, fabulously wealthy, and from the Capitol. His face was on a billboard back in District 10. He’s exactly the kind of person Kia would hate. Which, oddly enough, makes me curious to speak with him.

“Why did you want to talk with me?”

It doesn’t Erevan long to explain the competition the President has set up. I listen in silence, not really understanding what this has to do with me, until he offers me the chance to be his champion. “This would be your big moment, lad. The chance to finally live your life the way you desire! You could have a quiet, peaceful life with Preston.”

Preston. I feel a twinge in my gut at the sound of his name. I haven’t seen him since I was sent to the conversion therapy camp. “I don’t think it’ll be that simple,” I mutter.

Erevan raises an elegant eyebrow. “No? And whyever not?”

I gesture languidly. “I…we would never be allowed to be together. People like my Father would…” Thoughts of the abuse inflicted upon me at the camp spring to my mind. The disgust they felt for me. Would any of that really change even if I were Victor?

“The Capitol is very different from District 10,” Erevan’s voice is softer. His eyes hold a glimpse of sympathy. “The people of the Districts have…outdated mindsets. While they may try to prevent you from being yourself, I can assure you that the Capitol has no qualms about how you live. You can be what you want or love whom ever you wish.”

I hope that is true. The second I volunteered I couldn’t help but think what would happen if the Capitol felt the same way as my Father.

“The Disticts broke free from the Capitol once before, did you know that?” Erevan gives me patient smile. “And do you know what they did with their freedom? They squandered it. They bickered and fought, each District warring with another to try and be the force that ruled the others. Without the Capitol to guide them they simply…fell apart.”

I can believe that. All the Districts are so different from another that it’s only too easy to imagine them squabbling over power. “The Capitol rose back to prominence amidst their struggle,” Erevan continues. “It reasserted itself as the premier power and forced the District’s back into line. And you know what? Less people died. There was no war. Things aren’t perfect, true, but they’re far better than what they’d be without the Capitol as a stabilizing force.”

I don’t know why he tells me this. Can’t see how it matters. The only thing I want is his reassurance that my Victory will give me the life I desire. When I tell him this he smiles and nods. “Of course. I already told you that the Capitol won’t try to change you or force it’s views upon you. You may live as you please. So, what say you? Is my offer acceptable?”

“Yes. It’s fine.” It’ll only matter if I win the Games, which is already a long shot. The odds are far more likely that I wind up dead, but I’ll take whatever assurances I can get.

“Excellent!” Erevan rubs his hands together and stands. “I look forward to working with you, Damian! I believe our partnership will be a lucrative one!”

“One moment, sir!” I hold out a hand, a question suddenly popping to mind. “Why are you included in the competition? You’re not a Stryker.”

He offers me a patient smile. “Because Tiberius Stryker is not blind to the fact that, sometimes, the best person for the job comes from outside the establishment.”

He has a few more words of parting before turning to leave. As he does I notice something slip out of his pocket and I pick it up. “Mr. Newcastle, wait!”

He frowns as I hand him the red glove. “What is this?”

I shrug. “It fell out of your pocket. I thought it was yours.”

Erevan stares at it for a long moment. There’s recognition in his eyes, though it disappears quickly. “I think not. This glove is most assuredly not mine.” Yet he tucks it away into his pocket all the same. He gives me a stiff nod and walks to the elevator, pausing at the doorway. “I’d prefer if you remained silent about this, Damian. I wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, you understand.”

I nod, even though I don’t know whether he is speaking about the glove or our meeting. Something about that glove has thrown him off, yet I haven’t the faintest idea why. The elevator opens and Erevan Newcastle departs. I stand in the kitchen for a few moments before returning to my room.

Once again I am alone with my anxiety.

Notcher Stott (District 8)
I stare into the mirror, flexing my left hand as I irritably think back to last night. The training scores had been revealed on the television and the four that had flashed underneath my name still rankles.

Four! Of all the scores I could have received it was a four!

The entire training session was a mess. The moment I stepped foot inside the gymnasium I slipped on a puddle of paint that had been left in the entryway. I banged my knee on the landing and that affected the rest of my performance. I was slower, more sluggish. My hand curls into a fist at the memory of the Gamemakers smirking at me.

Fools! We’ll see whose laughing when I win these Games!

It had to have been the girl from District 7 who made the puddle. I reflect on this as I make my way into the kitchen, where Vesperia, Aiko, and my mentors await. Her own session was right before mine. Who else would have had the chance to set such a trap? And a trap it was. I fail to see any other possibility for why the puddle existed. Yewan must have desired to make a fool out of me.

I’ll kill her if I ever get the chance.

“Good morning, Notcher! It’s your big day!” I ignore Vesperia’s peppy smile and scowl at Aiko, who stands cheerfully beside the elevator. She somehow managed to score a nine. How the hell did that happen?

The little girl looks me up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want to be my friend? This is your last chance.”

“I’m sure.” She’s asked me that question every day since we arrived at the Capitol. I don’t understand why.

“But if you’re not my friend, then I’ll have to kill you in the arena.” There’s no menace in her words. It’s not a threat. She’s just says the statement like it’s a fact. “I have to kill everyone else to protect my friends. I won’t let anyone hurt them. Not even you, Notchy.”

My scowl deepens. “If you try to kill me I’m going to slit your throat and dump your body in a gutter.” Landon is counting on me. If I die in the arena where will that leave him? I told him about the Capitol Credits during our last goodbye at the Justice Building, but there’s no guarantee he can safely traverse Rupert Silks territory and retrieve them.

My threat only seems to widen Aiko’s smile. “Okay. I think I’ll enjoy playing with you.”

What the hell does she mean by that? I start forward, retort already on my lips, when Vesperia steps between us and shoves me aside. “No, no, no! You two are District partners! There will be no fighting between you! If one of you kills the other in the arena I’ll slap the taste out of your mouth!”

That’s just the beginning of the lecture she gives us. The full version is long and rambling, with pointless tangents about cleanliness and manners. I snort and lean back against the wall, arms crossed as I wait for her to finish. When it comes to an end about five minutes later Vesperia gasps at the clock and forces us into the elevator. “Hurry up! You’re going to be late!”

Aiko and I ride the elevator in a stony silence. I’m aware of the fact we’ll both be overlooked by the other tributes. She’s the youngest tribute in the entire arena and I’m the youngest guy. Plenty of fools will think us easy targets because of that.

My birthday is sometime soon. The thought just drifts into my mind. I don’t know when, exactly, because I’m not sure of the current date, but I know that it’s fast approaching. My birthday will undoubtedly happen in the arena.

It’d be really annoying if I die on my birthday.

Harmon Achlys (District 9)
Cora clutches my hand as we ride the elevator down into the bowels of the Training Center. The scores from yesterday are still fresh in my mind. Cora received a two, tied with Yewan for the lowest score of any tribute.

I wasn’t surprised. Cora told me what had happened the moment her private session ended. Apparently she wound up panicking and made a series of mistakes. That’s fine. I never thought she’d earn a high score. As for my own score…

I got an eight. Turns out that was on the upper range of scores, higher than every tribute except the Careers and their recruits. And Aiko. I frown as I think of that little girl earning a nine. Are the Gamemakers just messing with us?

Our elevator continues to descend. Eventually I decide to break the nervous silence.

“When the gong rings out, make your way straight to me,” I say. “We’re strongest when we’re together, and I can’t leave the cornucopia until I know you’re safe.”

Cora bites her lip. “I will try, but…we’re going to be placed on opposite sides of the cornucopia.”

That’s probably true. The Gamemakers have undoubtedly noticed how attached we are to one another, and the best way to exploit that for maximum drama would be to split us up. “Make your way clockwise around the cornucopia,” I say, mind churning. “I’ll head counter-clockwise and then we’ll meet up in the middle.”

The elevator opens before Cora can respond. A long hallway stretches out before us and we’re greeted by two Peacekeepers. They order us to follow them and then we’re moving down the dark corridor.

My thoughts trouble me. Is my plan flawed? What if Cora and I aren’t on opposite sides? Should I tell Cora to just run and leave the bloodbath right away? But then how would I know she’s safe? There’s too much uncertainty and no right answer.

The corridor eventually opens up into a wide chamber that houses a hovercraft. Lines of Peacekeepers are ushering the other tributes, who all emerge from their own tunnel, onboard. I squeeze Cora’s elbow and give her a reassuring grin as they inject us with the tracker. It doesn’t hurt too badly.

Yewan gives a whoop of excitement as we’re all seated in two rows of fourteen. Cora is thankfully placed right beside me, while Maximo and Killen are straight across. I frown at the sight of both boys in deep conversation. When Maximo made his offer of an alliance I really wanted to accept, but I knew that Cora could never bring herself to trust someone other than myself.

The hovercraft takes off. The windows are darkened so I can’t see where we go, but I can still sense the movement of the craft. I can’t help but stare down the line of us tributes. Twenty-seven teenagers and one pre-teen are about to enter the arena.

Only one of us will come out alive.

Cora has never mentioned this fact. Hasn’t brought it up to me at all. Even in the best case scenario one of us has to die. I want to protect her with every fiber of me being and yet…I don’t want to die.

As the hovercraft continues its flight, I can’t help but wonder what will happen if the Games come down to just me and Cora.

Mercia Occisor (The Capitol)
The hovercraft lands soundlessly. The wide doors are flung open and a handful of Peacekeepers order us to unbuckle and file out in an orderly manner. Most of the tributes comply but Maximo shoves his way past everyone.

“First!” He shouts with a jubilant grin. For some reason a Peacekeeper high-fives him.

None of the other tributes give me so much as a passing glance when I step off the hovercraft. I’ve blended in so far, made myself seem to be nothing more than the typical Capitol socialite who foolishly believes she can win the Games. To all of them I am nothing. A nobody.

But they don’t know the truth.

I am an assassin. One who has claimed countless lives over a multitude of high-profile hitjobs. If these tributes knew that, knew I was Ivy the assassin, then they wouldn’t just look through me. No. They’d be staring at me with terrified eyes.

My target is one of the last tributes to exit the hovercraft. Solomon Eudia. The disgusting kin-killer. I received this job offer a few days before the Reaping. A man named Aamon approached me, claimed that he had to settle a score with Solomon after everything he had done to him. I didn’t ask any questions. When a client hires me to kill someone I don’t care why. The only thing I care about is their money and…

And the killing itself.

Death is joy. There is no feeling better than the act of murder. The pure ecstasy I feel when I successfully plot an assassination and end my targets life cannot be compared to anything else.

So, no. I didn’t ask Aamon why he wanted Solomon did. I didn’t care. I just took the information packet he gave me and accepted the job. I’ve killed many high-profile and dangerous men over my time as an assassin. Solomon is simply a weak man who killed his family. I thought this would be a simple job.

That was before Solomon volunteered.

The moment I saw him declare his intent to enter the Games I knew what my own course of action would be. I had to volunteer as well. I’ve never failed a job before, never had a mission I couldn’t complete. I wasn’t about to start now. The Capitol would never allow someone like him to become Victor, so I couldn’t just wait and see if he won. Solomon was going to die in the arena either way.

But now it’ll be by my hand.

Peacekeepers round up all the tributes and divide them into pairs by District. Remus and I are led to one of the many openings in the hub-like room and enter the passageway beyond. The corridor soon branches and the two of us head our separate ways. A short walk later and I’m at a door labeled “Launch Room”. Knowing I’ll find my stylist waiting for me, I step inside. “So, Fernando, what outfit do you have for—”

There’s someone inside the room but it’s not my stylist. Dressed in a dark pantsuit, she sits on a chair with legs crossed and arms folded. Long black hair that curls at the ends hangs down to her shoulders. Her stern face watches me impassively, blue eyes focused on mine. I’d recognize her even if she hadn’t been at training.

“It is an honor to meet you, Rozlyn,” I offer a curtsy to the eldest daughter of President Stryker.

There’s not even a twitch of emotion in her face. “I have an offer for you.”

I know what this is about. Though none of the heirs approached me during training, I was close enough to overhear them speaking with some of the others. I fake a bright smile. “I’d be honored to hear an offer from someone as important as—”

Rozlyn cuts me off with a sharp gesture. “I’m not here to listen to Mercia’s prattle. I wish to speak with Ivy.”

There’s a long silence. My body has stiffened automatically at hearing the name of my assassin identity pass her lips. There is no point denying it. She would have never brought it up if she didn’t know for sure.

I fix her with a firm gaze, entire demeanor hardened. “How did you learn my identity?”

“I am the head of the Seekers of Truth. The knowledge came to me over the course of my job.”

The Seekers of Truth. The Capitol’s secret police. I’d never known my actions would have run across their investigations, though perhaps it shouldn’t be too surprising. I have killed some important individuals “Who else knows?”

Rozlyn smiles. “No one. You and I are the only two people in the world to know Ivy’s real identity. Unless, of course, you’ve told someone else?”

I ignore the probe and demand how it’s possible for no one but her to know. She waves a hand dismissively. “All the Seeker’s reports are sent to me. I am the only person who has read each and every file on Ivy. Who has studied it so diligently. It was quite the difficult puzzle to solve…but solve it I did.”

I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should just kill her and enter the Launch Tube. But she hasn’t threatened me or made any attempt at blackmail yet. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“You know all about the game my siblings and I are playing, yes?” When she sees my nod she continues. “I am proposing a contract. I wish to have Ivy eliminate all of the tributes chosen by my competitors.”

“That’s quite the list,” I say wryly. “I’d have to kill three quarters of the tributes.”

“You don’t have to personally eliminate them all, obviously. I merely wish for you to ensure that none of them survive.”

I don’t bother pointing out that, as I intend to win the Games, I already planned on having all the other tributes dead. Rozlyn reaches over and hand me a sheet of paper. I cautiously accept it, eyes running over the words printed on it. It’s a list of names.

“The ones in bold are your biggest targets,” Rozlyn says as I read. “They’re the tributes my siblings seem most attached to.”

I notice a name that is marked differently from the rest. “What about this underlined one?”

“He is my brother Roscoe’s favorite. I’d prefer if you didn’t kill him—”

“You realize that the Games require every tribute but the Victor to be dead, yes?”

Rozlyn sighs. “I realize that simple fact, yes. What I was trying to say, however, is that I’d prefer if you didn’t kill him right away. I am fond of Roscoe and would rather him win this competition if I am unable.”

I stare at the underlined name, feeling cold. Solomon Eudia. My target. Aamon has paid me good money to see him dead. More importantly, Ivy has given her word that she’d kill him personally. Ivy never breaks a contract.

Never.

“What is my payment?” I finally ask.

Rozlyn adjusts her position, smile widening. “My offer is an open contact. When you win, I’ll allow you to name whatever you want as your prize. I care not what you desire, name it and I shall give it to you.”

I haven’t the faintest idea what I’d ask for. I’ve literally never put any thought into what would happen when I win the Games. So I merely nod and accept her terms, or at least appear to. I don’t care what she wants; Solomon will die and he will die whenever I deem it necessary. My first contract has priority. Aamon wants Solomon killed, so killed he shall be.

“Good!” Rozlyn’s smile is as icy as her eyes. “Now that you’ve agreed, I can let you in on a little secret. Inside the arena there is a room. It will be labeled “301”. Remember that, for it is important. Room 301. Inside the room there will be a closet, and inside the closet there is a chest. That is my secret.”

“A chest?” I already have the room number memorized. I shan’t forget it anytime soon.

“Inside the chest I have hidden a multitude of items to help you in your endeavors. Poisons, blades, outfits, and so much more.” The realization of what she is saying slowly dawns on me. She’s planted items inside the arena to help me. She’s cheating on my behalf. She is playing a dangerous game, indeed. Rozlyn continues. “Do not make a beeline for the chest immediately. That will only cast suspicion upon yourself. Wait a few days. Do not open the chest until the time is right.”

“What if another tribute opens it first?”

“That is impossible. The chest is guarded by a biometric lock that is keyed to your fingerprint. And should they attempt to break it open?” She shrugs. “They will not enjoy the surprise waiting for them.”

I nod. When the time is right. I am sure I’ll know when that is. My concerns have been assuaged. All but one. “What will happen if someone learns of this arrangement?”

The smile fades, though the amusement in her eyes does not. “We’ll both be executed.”

She leaves after that. I am alone in the cold, dark room. I rub my hands together, aware of how dangerous this whole endeavor is. The slightest mistake could cost me my life. But I am unconcerned. I am Ivy, the assassin. I will win these Games in whichever way I see fit.

Solomon will die.

All of the tributes will.

Remus Ring (The Capitol)
Mercia and I are led separate ways as the corridor splits in two. I follow the Peacekeepers in a troubled silence. The Games will begin soon, and then the bloodbath shall be upon me.

My alliance has made a plan, of course, yet I am still concerned. Plans can fail. Mistakes can happen. In the arena mistakes lead to death.

I need to keep that in mind at all times.

The Launch Room appears ahead of me. The Peacekeepers give me a nod and I slip inside, instantly greeted by my stylist, Vania.

When she hands me the arena wear I frown. Not at the gaudy rainbow color—though that itself is unfortunate— but because I recognize the outfit. The shirt is emblazoned with six trees and the words “Stryker Resort”. My shorts, meanwhile, are most certainly a swimsuit. The same emblem is stitched onto the left thigh.

“This is the uniform the lifeguards at the Stryker Resort wear,” I say slowly. It’s an exact match, disregarding the colors.

Vania shrugs. “Can’t say I knew that. Never been to the resort before. It’s invite only, after all.”

I’ve been at the Resort. It was years ago, before Julius’ incident, my family was invited there by the President himself. Despite my current situation, I find myself smiling. That was a fun time. Father was still as demanding as ever, constantly pushing Julius and I to study harder, but we had plenty of fun at the Resort. Every Great Family was invited and, while I’m sure that Father and the other adults spent most of their time having a meeting in the conference center, we children got to play in the waterparks and arcades. I spent a lot of time with Aurilee, then.

Aurilee.

I am not certain of her intent, or what she’d do as President, but I will support her no matter what. She brought Julius back into my life and for that I will be eternally grateful.

I bid my brother goodbye this morning. His layover had ended and he was being sent back to District 6. Yet Aurilee has promised to relocate him to the Capitol when she becomes President. So when I win Julius will no longer be exiled. He’ll be able to come home.

“You also get to choose whether you want a sweatshirt or rain jacket,” Vania’s voice takes me out of my thoughts. She holds two pieces of clothing in her hand. One thicker and warmer looking, the other sleek and shiny. “The sweatshirt is insulated and will keep you warm no matter the conditions, but the rain jacket will keep you dry. The choice is yours.”

I hesitate for a moment before selecting the rain jacket. Keeping dry will most likely be harder than staying warm. I only wish that all my clothing wasn’t this garish rainbow color…

A voice over the intercom instructs me to enter the Launch Tube. I bid Vania farewell and step inside. I close my eyes, regulating my breathing. This is it. The moment of truth. When I rise up into that arena it will be the first true test of my abilities.

I feel the plate begin to lurch upwards. I keep my eyes closed, breathing steady, until I feel sunlight upon my face. My eyes flicker open.

I am in a parking lot. Vehicles surround me, neatly tucked into parking spots. The cornucopia is shining brilliantly in the morning sun. Weapons and items are strewn across the concrete, creating a path to the mouth of the cornucopia where more loot awaits. Beyond the parking lot is a series of buildings, built in a old-timey log cabin style with green slate roofing.

I recognize this place. I’ve been here before. This is the Stryker Resort, or at least a replica of it. I’d suspected this might be the case when I saw our arena wear, but it’s good to have confirmation.

I send my gaze down the platforms, scanning the tributes. Solomon is placed about five spots to my left, while Teal seems to be on the complete opposite side of the parking lot. A voice rings out over the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the 333rd Annual Hunger Games begin!”

Interlude
Nedry Stryker made his way down the halls of the Presidential Manor, nervously running a handkerchief over his sweaty head. Today was the beginning of the 333rd Annual Hunger Games, but it was more than that. So much more.

The fate of Panem itself hung in the balance.

His footsteps echoed throughout the marble corridor as he made his way to the council chamber where he and his family would meet up prior to the bloodbath. He gave the folder in his hand a nervous glance. His champions. His three contenders. Nedry’s hopes for becoming President lay upon their shoulders. Were they up to the task? Had he chosen properly? There was much doubt in his mind. His siblings always thought themselves so clever. Surely they didn’t expect any of his champions to become Victor.

But they would. Nedry knew they would.

Two doors appeared ahead of him. Reaching from the floor up to the ceiling they were made from a solid wood that seemed to soak up the light. Nedry ran a nervous hand over his head. His family was inside. No doubt they’d ridicule him when he made his appearance. They always did. Well, Roscoe always did, at least. Though Nedry was the older brother he had grown up accustomed to the younger man’s snide comments and harsh cuffs. Roscoe thought he deserved the title of President and often took his residual resentment out on him.

“He’ll soon learn his true place,” Nedry muttered to himself as he pushed the doors open.

He blinked in the sudden light. Crystalline chandeliers hung from the ceiling, basking the long meeting chamber in a brilliant azure glow. A rectangular table dominated the room, surrounded by holographic screens that flickered on every wall. Seven people were seated at the table, seemingly in the midst of a discussion.

The room feel silent as Nedry waddled to his customary spot at the end of the table.

“So our big brother finally deigns to grace us with his presence!” Roscoe’s sneer came as no surprise. The dark-haired man was leaning back in his chair, one hand holding a goblet as he narrowed his icy eyes at Nedry. “I trust you didn’t stop for a meal along the way?”

Nedry ignored the taunt as he settled himself in his chair. Father—President Tiberius Stryker—was seated at the head of the table, on the complete opposite end of himself. Roscoe sat to his left, while Erevan Newcastle took the spot on his right. Nedry suppressed a smile at that. The young upstart claiming Father’s right hand was no doubt a blow to Roscoe.

“Greetings, brother!” Nedry’s younger brother Dimentio was placed beside him. The blond man was smiling warmly. “Don’t feel too bad about being late. Rozlyn has just arrived herself!”

“And a good morning to you, Dimentio!” Nedry liked his youngest brother; something he couldn’t say for the rest of his siblings. Dimentio was a kind, charming lad who knew his place. He’d never tried to claim what wasn’t his. At least, not before Father created this competition.

“Oh, yes! It is very nice to see our beloved big brother!” Aurilee giggled. She sat straight across from Nedry and he frowned at the sight of her. He didn’t like Aurilee. Blue-eyed and blonde, she was a child-woman with soft hands and little giggles. Today she wore a gown of sky-blue silk, all lace and ruffles. She had an almost otherworldly sense of innocence around her, but Nedry knew that her appearance was deceiving. Aurilee was always neck deep in one plot or another.

The other two at the table, his Uncle Escortius and Roscoe’s twin Rozlyn, he didn’t pay attention to. Nedry didn’t have time to focus on them. Instead his eyes went to Father.

Tiberius Stryker was a wide man with heavy built shoulders. His once jet-black hair had faded to gray with age, and he wore his beard in a dignified, close-cropped fashion. Despite his age, however, his blue eyes were as sharp as ever. Even now they flickered from face to face, studying his heirs as they all sat before him.

Nedry ran a handkerchief over his head. He was aware that Father must not think too highly of him. Otherwise why would he host this ridiculous competition instead of just giving Nedry the Presidency? As the eldest child it was his by rights!

He took a calming breath and tried to focus on the conversation as it picked back up. Trying to make his claim by rights wouldn’t work. Every time he tried he was merely met with Roscoe’s ridicule and Aurilee’s giggles. They thought he was a fool. Well, he wasn’t! Hadn’t he shown Killen as much?

“The Red Hand of Ra grows bolder,” Roscoe set his goblet back upon the table. “They’ve struck twice more since the Reaping, hitting key industrial targets both times.”

”Their timing was impeccable,” Rozlyn added. She always backed Roscoe in these discussions. “Somehow they knew when and where our shipments left the factories. It is very suspicious.”

“You think they have inside knowledge?” Erevan crossed his arms, one finger tapping his elbow absently. Nedry watched the man carefully. Erevan wasn’t a Stryker. Why had Father chosen him for this competition? He was a wealthy entrepreneur, true, but the Capitol had hundreds of men just like him. Not quite as wealthy or clever, perhaps, but still plenty of them!

“Yes. I believe they have a highly placed mole inside the government,” Roscoe replied. “How else would they have known when to strike?”

“Don’t forget that they had actual Peacekeepers working with them,” Rozlyn said. “The assault on District 2 would never have worked without that assistance. Certainly they have some form of inside help.”

“The Red Hand will soon fizzle out,” Father’s voice was deep, intimidating. Even after all these years it still seemed to reverberate through Nedry’s bones. “My advisors and I have spent many an hour discussing this matter. I grow weary of it. Come! The Games are nearly upon us! Let’s speak of happier subjects!”

Roscoe’s expression darkened. Clearly he did not agree with Father’s assessment of what type of risk the Red Hand posed.

Nedry himself hadn’t put much thought into the subject. The Red Hand was a mere terrorist group composed of rebel scum. Yes, the fact they had Peacekeepers working alongside them was odd, but they were hardly what he’d consider a true threat. No, the people who truly concerned him were seated at this very table.

Each and every one of these people were ambitious and cunning. Clever and deadly. Nedry shuddered to think of what nefarious activities they might be up to behind closed doors. Or worse. What they might do to him if they were to win the competition and become President. No matter who won, he couldn’t fathom they would permit him to live. As eldest child of Tiberius Stryker his claim to the Presidency was too strong. Someone, someway, would attempt to use that fact against the winner.

So they’d probably execute him before that could happen.

Nedry glanced down at the paper laid out before him. Three names were written upon it. Matiss Ferrum. Killen Timmerhout. Lucia Shale. His three champions. One of them had best come through and win the Games. He hadn’t directly spoken with all of them, of course, but the heirs had already presented their list to Father. Everyone had chosen their champions. If any of the three were to win then the Presidency would be his.

He wiped his head down as his gaze lingered on his fellow heirs. Were their champions better than his? Uncle Escortius was a staunch traditionalist and had only chosen male tributes who were in the Career Pack. Aurilee unsurprisingly chose three pretty boys with her selections. Roscoe claimed that his trio were all ruthless individuals who would win at any cost. Rozlyn picked two Careers and the District 12 girl. Dimentio similarly had two Careers, but his third pick had been the little girl from District 8.

Nedry didn’t understand that choice. Young Dimentio was basically wasting a selection on a tribute who’d undoubtedly be a bloodbath death.

Erevan’s three champions were an eclectic mix of tributes from the mid to lower Districts. Nedry was sure there was some kind of strategy to his choices, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what it was.

All in all, twenty-one tributes were chosen as champions. That, of course, had seven tributes left over. The Unclaimed, as Nedry liked to think of them. Their names were written on the same paper that held his champions. The selections technically weren’t final until the Games had officially begun. That was very soon.

Nedry glanced at the screens. Right now the commentators were speculating on what the arena would be. Very soon the tributes would rise up into said arena and reveal it to the audience. There was still time.

Enough time to make a change.

The others were all in the middle of a conversation. No one paid Nedry any attention as he studied the names of the Unclaimed. Seven of them. The boys from District 6 and 8, along with the girls from District 3, 7, 10, 11, and the Capitol. Were one of them a diamond in the rough? A hidden weapon to be used against Roscoe? He loathed the thought of the younger man winning. Nedry would do whatever it took to prevent that from coming to pass.

He spent a few more seconds studying the names before raising a hand.

No one noticed. He wiggled in his chair and frowned. Father was listening to Erevan detail the launch of his new tech product. Nedry cleared his throat.

Still no one noticed. He sighed, wiping a handkerchief across his head. “Father? Father, I’d like to make a change to my champions!”

This time everyone turned to stare at him. “Make a change?” It was Roscoe who spoke. His face was incredulous as he stared down the table. “Now? At the very last minute? Are you that eager to lose, Nedry?”

Nedry fidgeted but didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on his Father. “I’d like to swap Lucia out for Notcher.”

There was some murmuring at that. Aurilee hid her giggles behind a napkin and Erevan raised an eyebrow. “You’re selecting the maimed boy from District 8?”

Nedry nodded. Something about that lad inspired confidence in him…or at least he thought it did. He was very much aware of the fact that he may simply be making a move for the sake of making a move.

President Stryker folded his hands. “Very well. I accept your change in Champions.”

“And not a moment too soon!” Dimentio laughed as, all around them, the screens flickered to show the tributes being raised into the arena. All twenty-eight tributes were in a circle around the cornucopia. The golden horn itself was nestled in the middle of a parking lot.

Nedry was forgotten about as everyone’s eyes turned to the screens. He himself was staring at it intently. An icy pit had formed in his stomach. For some reason he thought he might have just made a huge mistake.

On screen, a voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the 333rd Annual Hunger Games begin!”

Arena


The arena for the 333rd Annual Hunger Games will take place in a replica of the Stryker Family Resort. The cornucopia is placed in the main parking lot, which is in the exact center of the resort and thus the arena. The parking lot is surrounded by buildings that contain hotel rooms and other amenities: these buildings are interconnected by skywalks that span across the parking lot. On the western end of the arena there are two water parks, one indoor and outdoor each, and an arcade, fitness center, and ropes course and climbing maze.

On the eastern end there are three waterparks, two indoor and one outdoor. All three are connected via doorways or skywalks. This area also contains the main lobby, an indoor go-kart track, and a laser tag arena. There is a series of villas and a pond northeast of the lobby.

To the north, past a canyon that can only be traversed by a long skywalk, is another outdoor waterpark. This is the largest of all the parks and contains many amenities. There is also an outdoor go-kart track and, beyond that, a convention center. The security station is also located here.

The northwest portion of the arena contains a picnic area that is surrounded by woods. This section of the arena is filled with nature and can be a haven for crafty tributes.

Valor Forge (District 1)
The cornucopia shines like a beacon in the morning sun. There’s absolute silence in the parking lot as a holographic ‘60’ appears above it and begins to tick downwards. No one moves. Nobody speaks.

I stand on my platform, body already braced for movement and angled towards the cornucopia. I will need to get my hands on a weapon immediately. I focus my gaze on a sword that rests upon a crate at the mouth of the cornucopia, the blade glinting in the sunlight.

I’ve given my fellow Careers the plan. Encircle the cornucopia and try to pick off as many of the other tributes as possible. It should be simple. There’s ten of us and only eighteen of them. Yet how trustworthy are the recruits? My platform is between two of them, with one placed on either side of me. Yewan to my right and Matiss to the left.

Matiss I can trust. He’s strong, smart, and capable of following orders. But Yewan? That girl is an unpredictable wildcard. She only received a training score of two, and I know it wasn’t because of her abilities or lack thereof. She’s been erratic and spontaneous the entire training period, willing to do anything for a laugh.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she purposely received a low score.

I file that information inside my head for later use. The countdown has reached ‘50’. I need to focus on the Games. I’ve trained my entire life for this moment. Dreamt of the glory and honor held within. I cannot fail now. I won’t allow myself to.

I received a training score of twelve, becoming the first person this decade to earn such a score. I’ve aced every test the Academy presented, shattered every record. I am Valor Forge, the chosen champion of Escortius Stryker himself. I will win these Games.

There is no other possible outcome.

Faren Gomery (District 5)
It’s difficult to breathe. Panic gnaws at my side. My legs tremble so much that I’m surprised I can still stand. The Games are about to begin. The death will start momentarily.

I know that it’s a good thing. That each dead tribute brings me one step closer to saving Joule. But I can’t erase the fear that invades my mind. Threatens to shut down my synapses and turn me catatonic. What if I die? There will be no saving Joule then. My death won’t just be my own.

It’ll be hers as well.

I try to master my fear. Control it. Or at least contain it. I force myself to take a deep breath and turn to study the tributes placed next to me. Harmon is on my right. He’s fidgeting on his platform, craning his neck in an effort to see behind the cornucopia. No doubt he is trying to spot his sister.

I turn to my left. Talia stands on the platform there, blue eyes firmly fixed on me. That’s good. Other than Briar she’s probably the ally I trust the most. As I watch her, she makes a sharp motion at the girl to her right. Opal.

I grimace. She may be my district partner, but she’s also a Career. I have no doubt that she’d try to kill me the moment she got the chance.

I won’t give her that chance.

Conscious of Talia’s gaze, I gesture behind me, towards a red pickup truck. She gives me a silent nod. The two of us will fall back and let the others rush the cornucopia. Hopefully they’ll be too preoccupied fighting to pay any attention to the two of us.

Hopefully.

Zekel Zin (District 3)
The holographic number above the cornucopia coalesces into a ‘30’. The countdown is halfway to completion. Soon the Games will begin and…

Zevran died at the bloodbath. I haven’t forgotten that. I could never forget that. I’ve seen his death every night for the past year. It replays itself endlessly in my head. The axe. The blood. His hair as it swayed in the breeze…

I can’t run. Oh, I desperately want to. My mind is practically screaming for me to run. But I can’t. I’m a Career. I’m expected to fight and kill at the bloodbath. To stay and help my allies secure the golden horn for themselves. My hands clench into fists. I can’t run. So I’ll have to fight.

And possibly die.

The countdown continues to tick away. Less than ten seconds left now. Sweat beads along my head. My arms feel stiff and leaden. One wrong move and my life could come to an end.

5…

My gaze settles on a spear that lies propped against the cornucopia.

4…

I’m fast. I could reach it before anyone else.

3…

Unless I trip. If I trip than I’m dead.

2…

I can’t remember if I tied my shoes properly. Did I double lace them?

1…

Gong!

When the gong sounds I’m looking at my feet like an idiot. I stumble forward and barely catch my balance. Several tributes rush past me, headed for the cornucopia. I curse and break into a sprint.

I blow past Notcher as he stops to pick up a small bag marked with a medicinal cross and charge straight for the mouth of the cornucopia, not surprised to find Valor and Alcmene already there and arming themselves with weapons.

My hands clamp around the haft of the spear and when I turn I’m greeted by the sight of Valor heaving his own spear towards the outskirts. I watch as the weapon sails through the air, headed straight for Shiloh as she grabs a backpack. She spots the danger too late. The girl’s gasp of shock turns into a gurgle as Valor’s spear takes her in the throat.

“Secure the cornucopia!” Valor roars, drawing his sword and waving it in the air. “Don’t let them escape with anything valuable!”

I hesitate for only a moment before turning to do as he instructs. Opal has arrived and, armed with a battleaxe, she has positioned herself at the mouth of the cornucopia. I linger beside her, wondering if perhaps I should just help her stand guard, but she scowls and waves me away. Unsure of what to do, I round the side of the cornucopia.

And come face-to-face with the boy from District 7.

He holds a throwing axe in each hand. I freeze, all my training forgotten. Zevran was killed by the boy from District 7. Killed by an axe.

I trip over my own feet. The spear slips from my grasp as I hit the concrete. I hold up a hand. “Please! Don’t—”

The boy turns and runs off. I don’t waste any time. I crawl backwards, towards a blue tarp that lies nearby. I wiggle underneath it and curl into a ball, tears pouring down my face. I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart.

“I don’t wanna die! Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me…”

Teal Arden (District 6)
I take off running.

Most of the other tributes rush to the golden horn, but I skirt around on the outer edge, headed in the direction of Remus and Solomon. Before the gong ran I spotted the two of them on the opposite side of the cornucopia and know that it’s in my best interest to reach them as soon as possible.

I bypass Mercia as she flees the bloodbath, duffel bag slung over her shoulder and sword in hand, then loop around Maximo and Damian as they have a tug-of-war over a backpack. Remus and Solomon pop into view. Solomon is picking up bags on the outskirts while Remus has ventured a little further in, seemingly collecting weapons.

A sudden blaze of pain rakes across my left leg.

I collapse to the ground with a cry of surprise. Instinctively I throw out my hands to break the fall and grimace as they skid across the harsh concrete. I ignore the throbbing pain and turn to see my assailant.

Atticus steps closer. The sword in his hand is already wet with my blood.

I try to stand but find that I cannot. My left leg buckles underneath the strain and I finally become aware of the long, bloody gash that stretches from thigh to calf. I don’t have much time to react before Atticus’ sword is flashing for my head.

I roll out of the way and his blade chips against the concrete pavement. With fear threatening to overcome me, I push myself into a kneeling position and cry out for my allies.

Atticus’s fist takes me in the face. My world is pain. Vision nothing more than a blinding light, I force myself to roll, aware that his sword won’t be far behind. The grating sound of steel against concrete lets me know that he missed. Once again I try to stand. My vision fluctuates, but I can actually see again. Atticus’ blurry form is facing me, sword at the ready.

I have no weapon. No way to defend myself. I see the blade flashing for my neck and know that there’s no stopping it. Funny. I never thought I’d die at the bloodbath. I watch as the blade hurtles forward, wishing that my brothers wouldn’t have to see me die.

Then Remus is there.

His staff knocks the sword away and sets Atticus off balance. The Career steps back, growling quietly as Remus adopts a defensive stance, his body shielding mine.

A pair of hands help me up. “Put an arm around my shoulder,” Solomon‘s voice is in my ear as I am lifted to my feet. I wince and nearly collapse. I can’t put any weight on my left leg.

Remus and Atticus are a blur as they fight. I watch in awe as Solomon practically drags me away. I always knew that Remus was a good fighter but this…his level of skill is beyond what I had imagined.

HIs staff is flurry of movement. He rains blow after blow down upon Atticus, and the other boy is struggling to keep up. As I watch, Remus strikes several times, all his attacks aimed at weak points. A kneecap. An elbow. Atticus loses ground, sweating profusely as he fails to block the blows.

Solomon’s movement suddenly halts. The two of us had been gradually making our way to the nearest building, but now everything grinds to a stop. My ally stares blankly at the girl who has just arrived behind the fighting boys.

Alcmene.

The blonde girl has her trademark spiked club in hand as she stares out at Solomon and I. It’s impossible to miss the hatred that fills her eyes. The furious twist to her features. The gaze she fixes Solomon with is one of absolute loathing.

Atticus steps inside Remus’ guard and sends a thrust towards his neck. Remus pivots, sidesteps the attack, and snaps his staff out at a downward angle. The solid wood connects directly with Atticus’ skull.

The boy drops like a stone.

“Get moving!” Remus backs towards us, eyes fixed on Alcmene. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t reacted to her ally‘s defeat. She only has eyes for Solomon.

“Solomon!” I tug at his sleeve and he jerks into motion. Nodding silently, he turns and drags me along the parking lot. I cling to his shoulders, keeping pressure off my left leg as we go. If we are attacked I don’t think I could get away.

The two of us continue our trek away from the cornucopia as Remus guards our back. The air is filled with the clash of steel and screams of pain.

The bloodbath continues.

Lucia Shale (District 13)
My feet pound against the pavement as I run for the nearest weapon rack. It contains several swords, an assortment of the types presented at the training center. I zero in on the third one from the right. Straight and narrow, with a concave tip. It’ll do nicely.

I reach the rack at the same time as another tribute. The boy from District 11, I think. I don’t waste any time. The second his hands grab for a sword I lunge forward and punch him in the face. He stumbles backwards, trips over a crate, and becomes entangled in a nearby net.

I ignore his flailing and grab my desired sword. Out of the corner of my eye I witness Valor strike down Shiloh as several more Careers join him at the cornucopia’s mouth. Time to get out of here.

I snatch up a nearby backpack and go sprinting back the way I came. I’m about halfway to my platform when I hear the footsteps of pursuit. I stop and spin around, sword thrust outwards.

Yewan barely has time to bring up her halberd and parry the blade.

I growl, annoyance mixed with rage. This stupid Career! I would have been in and out if it wasn’t for her! But now I’ll have to kill her. I can’t afford to turn my back on her again. I set my feet and back away, wary of her halberd’s spiked tip. With that weapon she has a longer reach than I do.

The girl steps forward and thrusts. I twist to the side, allowing the weapon to slide past me, and step up to drive my blade into her neck. I have no qualms about killing her. She’s not a person. Not a human being.

Just an obstacle.

I see the flash of the dagger in her left hand right before she strikes. Adjusting my swing, I send the sword to her right arm before she can launch her trap. The dagger slaps it away.

We disengage. Circle around one another. A car is behind me. A small silver one. An inkling of a plan forms in my head but I’ll need some space to execute it. I feign a lunge and the girl swings her halberd up to block. I take this opportunity to clamber atop the front of the car, gaining the high ground.

If the girl is fazed by this development she doesn’t show it. Instead she swings her halberd at my feet like a broom. I jump, clear the weapon, and send a counterblow toward the top of her head. She jerks away, but not fast enough. Droplets of blood fly from the gash I open across her forehead.

I’m in the middle of my second swing when she throws the dagger. I step to the side and it misses me by more than a foot, but I can’t dodge her halberd as she swings it one-handed. The haft connects with my ribs and the force of the blow is enough to drive me off my feet. I hit the car, bounce off, and land roughly on the pavement.

I inhale a wheezing breath. The bright blue sky looms above me. A second later the halberd’s crescent blade blocks out the sky as the tip is driven into my chest.

Lilith Lovelass (District 2)
Though the Games have been on for only a few moments, the cornucopia clearing has already begun to empty. Opal stands guard at the mouth of the cornucopia, battleaxe at the ready as she swivels in place, trying to watch every direction at once. But there’s precious little for her to see.

In the distance Alcmene chases Chrome, hissing in annoyance as she swings her club at his heels. Matiss stands nearby, seemingly doing nothing but holding onto a massive scythe. And, on the outskirts, Briar and two of her allies stand near the platforms, a measly few bags in their possession. I don’t know why they haven’t left yet, but it seems like they’re waiting for something.

“Have you seen the others?” I ask Opal as I grab two knives off a nearby rack and stick them in my belt. I already have a chakram in my possession; it was the very first thing I grabbed.

She shrugs. “Valor chased two boys around the cornucopia. The others are probably all on the backside.”

I take in her words with a nod and frown as new movement catches my eye. The girl from District 12, Kia, darts across the parking lot and stops beside a weapon rack. Two large packs form a bulge on her back. Clearly she’s been busy.

Time to make her pay for that.

“Matiss! With me!”

The tall boy nods and lurches into movement as we descend upon the girl. Kia is in the middle of picking up a third backpack when she notices us. Too late. I’ve already thrown my chakram. Her eyes widen as the weapon slams into the backpack she holds and drives her to the ground. I’m about to dart in and finish her with a knife when I hear Matiss give a shout of alarm.

The little girl from District 8 has arrived. She circles around Matiss, two knives twirling in her hands as she smiles disarmingly at the giant boy. Her dissonant serenity unnerves me. I still remember her eerie words during training. I can’t wait to play with you in the Games! A shiver that is unassociated with the weather runs down my back. I want nothing to do with that girl.

“Kill her, Matiss!” I snap at my ally and turn back to Kia, whose getting back to her feet, my chakram embedded in her backpack. “She’s just a little girl!”

Matiss grunts and swings his scythe. Aiko ducks underneath the blade and slashes out with her own knife. Matiss barely has time to back off before his leg is cut. I hiss in annoyance. How is he—

Kia lunges at me.

I slap her knife away with my own and, quick as a snake, strike with the blade held in my left hand. Kia gasps as my knife cuts flesh, skittering across her ribs. She backs off, breathing heavily.

I can’t lose this fight. I’m better than this girl. Stronger. Faster. All those years spent training weren’t a waste. My Fathers didn’t send me into the Games just to die. I’m not weak. I’m not—

Kia pulls a second knife out and comes at me swinging. Steel meets steel as our knives clash, sparks flying as the blades chip and grind against each other. I’ve spent hours training for this exact situation. Long sessions spent learning how to beat my opponent. To predict their every move. This should be my fight. My moment of triumph.

Yet I am losing.

Kia is a woman possessed. Each of her movements is fueled by frenetic energy, her swings more coordinated and accurate than they have any right to be. Her dark braids swing wildly as she hacks and slashes, forcing me backwards. There is no humanity in her eyes. No pity. Just the feral savageness of an animal desperate to survive.

Her knives begin to land. A gash opens up across my forearm, followed by one below my eye. I steadily lose ground, pushed backwards by the girl’s frantic blows. A knife slices through my shoulder and I drop one of my blades with a gasp of pain.

I’m not good enough. This is not a new realization. I’ve known this fact my entire life. I was never good enough. No matter how hard I tried or how much effort I put in, I always knew I’d never be good enough. I never wanted to be the best. I just wanted to be competent.

But that was too much to ask for.

As another one of Kia’s blades hit home, I know that I’ve lost. “Matiss!” I scream his name, a mad desperation tinging my voice. “Matiss, help! I need you!”

There is no response.

With no help coming I do the only thing that I can think of. The only way to end this fight with my life. I need a death blow. A quick end to combat. I watch Kia’s knives and purposely step into the thrust. There’s a flash of pain as the blade embeds itself into my shoulder, but my own knife is hurtling towards her neck. Kia’s eyes widen as she realizes her mistake. She cannot stop my attack.

I have her!

A chakram slams into my side.

The knife drops from my hand with a screech. I fall to one knee and watch helplessly as my blade clatters against the concrete. Kia wastes no time in reasserting her advantage. She steps up and drives a knife into the side of my neck.

My hand instinctively grabs the hilt but my training prevents me from pulling the blade free. The moment I do I’ll choke on my own blood. Kia backs off, panting hard as watches me try to stem the blood pouring from my neck.

“Aww! You broke her already?” Aiko walks up, hands clasped behind her back as she peers down at me. “No fair, Kia! I wanted to play with her!”

I swing my knife at her but she merely steps back to avoid the feeble attack. My vision has begun to blur. Black spots flicker into existence. I feel the pavement against my back as I slump to the ground.

“Thanks for the assist,” Kia’s voice is flat, without emotion. “But we need to go. Now.”

“Really? But I wanted to play more! I had a whole game ready—”

“Briar is calling us. Let’s go. Now!”

Flat on my back, I watch as three figures rush off. Three? But who was…

“Lilith!”

Matiss pulls himself towards me. His eyes are unfocused and a large, angry bruise mars his face. “I’m so sorry! Damian attacked me from behind! There was nothing I could…”

His words become a garbled mess. The world itself seems to be underwater. Can’t breathe. Vaguely I become aware of several more figures appearing behind Matiss. Careers? Are they coming to help? Too late. Far too late.

Everything turns black.

Discordia Achlys (District 9)
I don’t know what to do.

I hover in place, caught between a desire to run away and an urge to follow Harmon’s plan. But I can’t remember the plan. Was I supposed to run clockwise or was he? He’s on the opposite end of the cornucopia, that I know, but little else has come apparent to me.

A mass of humanity had charged the cornucopia at the sound of the gong. I stayed in place, caught in a vise-like fear, while the screams of pain and fury sounded throughout the parking lot. The clash of steel and the muted thump of metal striking flesh. I witnessed Remus strike Atticus down with a staff before fleeing alongside his allies. Atticus is still lying there on the hard concrete. He hasn’t moved in a long time.

I think he’s dead.

I force down a desire to retch as I finally make my legs work. I head clockwise around the cornucopia, sticking to the platforms as I go. Though it feels much longer the Games have only been on for moments. The parking lot is mostly empty as I circle the golden horn. A large group of tributes rush off to the west and another, smaller group is gathered around what appears to be a body.

The air is heavy with the scent of blood.

“Cora!”

My brother’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. I spin and spot him as he comes running from the opposite direction I was headed. Embarrassment floods me as I realize that I had gone the wrong way.

As I change course and head for him I note that he has a curved blade in his hand. A sickle. So he’s kept enough sense to grab something. I was too panicked to do even that. Worry had flooded my mind and shut down all rational thought. But now that Harmon is here I can—

“Cora, behind you!”

I feel the rush of air over my head as I drop to the ground and hear his grunt of annoyance as I clamber back to my feet, heart pounding in my ears. Mako straightens out and narrows his eyes as he adjusts his trident’s position.

My mouth goes dry. A Career. A Career is attacking me!

Mako thrusts his trident forward.

And then Harmon is there to slap it away.

My brother pirouettes and adopts a defensive stance he learned during training. His gazes flickers towards me but he keeps his body angled at Mako. “Cora, run!”

“No!” I can’t abandon Harmon. I won’t! What kind of sister would leave her baby brother when he needs her most?

There’s an unsettling grinding noise as Harmon deflects another one of Mako’s strikes. My brother is forced backwards, nearly colliding with me. “Please, Cora! I can’t defend you and fight at the same—”

Another metallic clang as their weapons meet. I scamper away, tears stinging my eyes. If only I had a weapon! Mako is too strong for Harmon to take alone. The boy is constantly on the offensive, raining a flurry of strikes down upon my brother. Sweat beads along Harmon’s head. He can’t keep this up. Sooner or later he will—

There’s a meaty sound of impact and Harmon drops to his knees with a muted gasp.

Mako’s trident has pierced his chest. The Career casually, almost contemptuously, rips the weapon free and pushes against my brother’s shoulder.

Harmon tips over and hits the ground. His blue eyes are glassy and vacant as they stare up into the sky.

He doesn’t move.

I scream.

No! This can’t be happening! This isn’t true! Harmon is too brave to die! He was the strong one! Always my helping hand! Whenever I was feeling down he’d cheer me up. He always knew what to say. He can’t be…this isn’t…

I choke on my own sobs. The world is a blurry mess. Tears streak down my face. Harmon lies there in the ground. So innocent. So defenseless. He didn’t deserve this. It was my fault. All my fault!

I move to run to his side, to cradle him and tell him that it’ll be okay, but arms wrap around me from behind. Pull me back. “Discordia, no!” A familiar voice is in my ear. Maximo. “He wouldn’t want you throwing your life away! You have to run!”

I try to resist his grasp. I throw myself forward, kicking wildly and wrenching my head from side to side as I attempt to wrestle free, but he’s too strong. Gradually he begins to tow me away from the cornucopia. Away from Harmon.

Mako watches us go. He holds his trident in a casual defensive stance and makes no effort to give chase. I’m confused until Maximo drags me over to Killen, who stands at the ready with two throwing axes. The small part of me that is still rational realizes Mako can’t risk an attack in this situation. Any offensive motion would leave him vulnerable to a reprisal from Killen’s axe.

“Here’s that damsel in distress you asked for,” Maximo sounds displeased as he stops beside the taller boy. Killen doesn’t so much as glance at him. His eyes are fixed on Mako.

“You know we couldn’t leave her.”

Maximo’s only response is a grunt. I hang limply in his grasp. I’ve given up on making any effort to escape. Harmon is dead. Dead. Nothing I could do would change that. My brother is…

A small sob racks my body as Maximo hauls me over his shoulder. Him and Killen begin to run, fleeing from the cornucopia and all its evils. Vision bobbing up and down, I watch the golden horn disappear from sight with sorrow in my heart and the taste of tears on my lips.

The bloodbath is over…along with my brothers life.

Marina Mattel (District 4)
I scrub at my face as we regroup at the mouth of the cornucopia. The other tributes have all fled. The parking lot is empty except for the random items strewn across the ground. The large building that forms a ‘U’ around the parking lot seems to gaze at us with its hundreds of windows.

I roll my shoulders, unable to shake the feeling that someone could be watching us from there and we’d never know.

“How many dead?” Valor is the first to speak. The seven of us form a semi-circle as we check our weapons and treat any injuries. No one appears to be seriously hurt.

“I killed the Nine boy,” Mako answers. The blood that drips from his trident is proof enough of his claim.

“And I got the girl from Thirteen,” Yewan says. I can’t resist looking at the bandage that forms a bandana around her head. If the blow had only been a few inches lower it’d have taken out her eyes.

There’s a short pause as we all turn to look at the body of Shiloh, lying on outskirts. We all know that Valor took her out within moments of the gong sounding. That puts three dead tributes, not counting…

I scan the faces of the six Careers around me. Will one of us address the elephant in the room? Three of our own allies are missing. Zekel and both from District 2. It’s not a mystery what happened to Lilith; half of us responded to Matiss’ shouts for help only to arrive and find her dead with a knife in her neck. Apparently Briar and her alliance defeated Matiss and killed Lilith.

But what happened to Zekel and Atticus? I find myself troubled with their disappearance. The two of them are the only male Careers I feel comfortable around. Valor and Mako are too much like Tristen; loud, cocky alphas. And Matiss is…Well, he’s not exactly someone who puts me at ease.

“We need someone to check the bodies,” Valor continues to relay orders. “A tribute might be pretending to play dead, so be careful when you do it. While they’re doing that the rest of us should grab our weapons and whatever supplies you want so we can be ready to clear out when the Capitol comes to snag the bodies.”

No one rushes to volunteer for body duty, so I just say that I’ll do it. Alcmene offers to help and the two of us make our way towards the nearest corpse. Shiloh. The girl’s dark eyes stare into the sky and a spear juts from her throat at an odd angle.

Alcmene wrinkles her face. “She’s definitely dead.”

I agree so we move on. I try to make some small talk—getting the other female Careers on my side is the lynchpin of my strategy—but Alcmene only responds to my efforts with nods and grunts. Clearly the girl is in no mood to talk, so I give up my efforts as we approach the second corpse.

Lucia is much the same as Shiloh, lying on the concrete in a pool of blood, so we bypass her and head for the prone body that lies not too far away. Alcmene slows as we approach and the look on her face tells me she already knows what we’re going to find. My chest tightens as we draw close enough for me to recognize his face.

Atticus.

I exhale loudly. I knew that something bad had to have happened to him, but I was holding out hope that he was just lying injured somewhere. Atticus was someone I liked. He was funny and personable, charming without being overbearing. I thought that with enough time he might even be someone I could call a friend.

But now he’s dead.

I kneel at his side, surprised at the fact his body shows no obvious wounds. “What happened?” I turn to Alcmene, remembering her reaction. She must have seen something.

The blonde girl’s eyes are like chips of ice. “Solomon’s ally killed him. Struck him in the skull with a staff.”

I nod and feel at Atticus’ head. I grimace as my fingers come into contact with sticky blood underneath his hair. He definitely took a blow to the head. And…I find the indentation in his skull and suddenly all doubt is gone. The blow hit hard enough to crack his skull.

I rise, glancing at Alcmene as she stares at our ally’s body. She’s gone rigid, fingers curled around the handle of the club she carries. Her hatred of Solomon is well known. “You saw this happen?” I ask quietly.

She nods. “I did. Solomon was…Atticus had wounded his ally and he was helping her.”

I note the quaver in her voice. Something about that situation has rattled her, but I don’t really have the time nor the inclination to probe deeper. Not right now. I give Atticus’ body one last glance. “May you Rest In Peace.”

We only find one other body, that of the District 9 boy. The wounds in his chest line up with Mako’s description of how he killed him, and there’s possible way he could be faking, so Alcmene and I return to the cornucopia, planning to tell the others the final kill count.

But before we get there I notice something in the corner of my eye. Movement. A blue tarp that lies a few feet from the cornucopia wiggles as I turn to stare at it. Then, with a suddenness that has me stepping back in alarm, a head pokes out from underneath the tarp.

“Zekel!”

The boy’s gaze snaps towards me and he’s pushing himself to his feet, casting the tarp aside. “Marina!” He rushes over, eyes swiveling in his skull. “Is the bloodbath over? Did we win? How many of us died? Where—”

I hold up a hand to stop his onslaught of words. “Slow down! What happened to you? And why were you hiding underneath a tarp?” Try as I might, I can’t think of a rational explanation for the situation before me. Just how long had he been under there?

Zekel blushes. “I wasn’t hiding! I just…I got knocked out.” He proceeds to tell me a tale about how the boy from District 7 sprung an ambush and struck him in the skull with the handle of his axe. The way Zekel describes it, he was lucky to escape with his life, using the last of his strength to roll underneath the tarp before he lost consciousness. “I just woke up now,” He finishes with a shrug.

I nod, taking in his words silently. His head shows no sign of receiving a blow strong enough to knock him unconscious. In fact, he bears no wounds at all. It’s suspicious, but I have no idea why he’d lie to me. And why else would he be underneath the tarp? My first assumption would be that he was hiding, but the thought of someone as skilled as Zekel spending the entirety of the bloodbath hiding beneath a tarp is simply laughable.

Well, it would be laughable if I hadn’t done much the same thing. I spent majority of the bloodbath just moving about cautiously in an effort to avoid any and all fights. Because unlike the rest of my compatriots I have no desire to win fame and glory here in the arena. The only goal I seek is the Victor’s Crown. If earning that Crown requires me to avoid fighting…

Then that’s just what I’ll do.

So I don’t question Zekel any further and just tell him that we should regroup with the others. He is eager to agree with me and the two of us make our way back to the mouth of the cornucopia. When we arrive Alcmene has just finished tallying the dead.

Valor frowns at us. “So you’re alive and still here,” He addresses the words to Zekel. “Good. I thought you might have cut and run.”

Zekel’s laughter sounds forced. “Why would I do that? The Careers are the strongest alliance in the Games!”

While that’s undoubtedly true, I can’t help but take note of the knowledge that, with Atticus and Lilith gone, our numbers are almost even with Briar and her alliance. Kia’s probably the only one among them who could fight her way out of a paper bag, but it’s a unsettling thought regardless.

The group waits as Zekel and I collect our belongings and then we step away from the cornucopia so the hovercrafts can come claim the bodies. Mako points at the building behind us. “I want to check that place out. See just what this arena is.”

We make our way towards a doorway set into the side of the long, three-story building. A sign above it reads ‘Entrance 5’. When Valor pushes the door open we find ourselves in a small entryway. A staircase to our left heads up to the second floor while a narrow path takes us into a hallway. The maroon carpet is decorated with pictures of bears and the bright yellow walls are covered with wood paneling.

“Looks like a hotel,” Alcmene says.

She’s right. Doorways run down the length of the hall, periodically appearing on each wall. The door closest to us is labeled ‘101’.

“This is going to make hunting down the other tributes a pain,” Valor is displeased, and understandably so. If we have to go room to room during our search than it could take quite long indeed.

“With the size of this place there has to be hundreds of rooms,” Mako rubs his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll have to come up with some form of strategy or we’ll never make any progress.”

I glance at our four recruits. None of them have really spoken since the bloodbath ended. Not even Yewan. That’s especially surprising since that girl typically runs her mouth like a motorboat. The four of them just sit in the back of our group and wait silently as Mako and Valor try to extrapolate the size of the arena.

With the exception of Yewan, none of them made a kill at the bloodbath. Even if they have had some level of training, they probably weren’t completely prepared for the level of brutality and violence that awaited them. I myself would never have be able to kill so easily if it wasn’t for the images of Tristen running through my head.

The mere thought of him has me on edge. He thinks he is untouchable. Beyond the reach of repercussions. I’ll show him. When I win these Games and become Victor he’ll learn that justice is blind and no one is exempt. Especially not when I have someone like Roscoe Stryker on my side.

Valor leads us off down one of the halls, dead-set on exploring the arena while we have the chance. I follow along quietly. Tristen better live it up while he can. Because I’m coming for him.

Briar Destry (District 10)
Our flight from the cornucopia leads us through a long corridor that has doorways periodically branching off to the sides. We fled west from the cornucopia and entered a door marked ‘Employees Only’, which seems to have taken us into the hidden hallways of the resort.

I pause at a small intersection. The door to my left contains some sort of break room, while the one on my right has a bank of lockers stretched along the wall. Straight ahead the hallway continues to proceed forward. “Is everyone okay?” I ask, adjusting the strap of my backpack. It was the only thing I claimed from the bloodbath. I was more concerned with protecting my friends than grabbing loot.

In that regard I was successful. All five of my allies come to a halt alongside me, some clearly more tired than others. Faren bends over, hands on his knees, as he tries to regain his breath. Talia slumps against the wall. “Are we safe?” She asks weakly.

I nod. “For the moment, yes.”

Neither she nor Faren have a weapon of their own. He wears a backpack, but all she has is a coil of rope wrapped around her wrist and a roll of blankets tucked underneath her arm. That’s fine. I never expected them to snag the best items anyway.

“The Careers will stick around the cornucopia for most of the day,” Kia says. The dark-haired girl scowls at the narrow confines of the hallway before turning to give Talia a reassuring nod. “And I doubt any of the other tributes are dumb enough to attack an alliance this big.”

I am thankful for Kia’s strength in this moment. Her and Aiko were the only ones who ventured into the deep confines of the cornucopia, and she managed to procure both a weapon and several backpacks. The supplies inside might just be what gets us through the next few days.

That said…

Kia’s hands are coated in dried blood, blood that is obviously not her own. She probably killed someone at the bloodbath. I squirm uncomfortably at the thought, even though I know it was necessary. But I’ve always abhorred violence, and it’ll take more than necessity to break lifelong habits.

“Wow! Look at this!”

We all turn to see Aiko inside the break room and peering up at a vending machine. The room must have piqued her interest. She taps on the glass. “There’s like, dozens of things in here!”

Faren frowns. “It’s just a vending machine. It’s not that impressive.”

Damian scratches his head. “I’ve seen those on television before, but haven’t encountered one in person.” That’s true for me as well. The only time I saw one was in the hallways of the Training Center. District 10 doesn’t exactly have an abundance of purchasable food.

We take this opportunity to follow Aiko into the room and take a little break of our own. Kia stands guard at the doorway as we all empty the backpacks onto one of the several tables and begin to sort our items.

I’m mostly pleased with our haul. We have several canteens full of water, two packets of crackers, a tube of some white paste Faren claims is burn cream, Talia’s rope, and a multitude of beef jerky. Unfortunately, one of Kia’s bags is almost completely empty. The only items we find inside are a pair of flashlights. Still, the stuff we do have will undoubtedly be useful.

Our weapon situation is a little less inspiring. Kia has her two knives, while Damian has both a baton and a machete. Aiko meanwhile has three knives of her own, half a dozen darts, and a hatchet.

Faren pales slightly as Aiko showcases her weaponry. “Y-you certainly grabbed a lot of weapons…”

She bobs her head up and down. “Oh, yes! I need lotsa equipment for this game! The Careers are pretty strong! They won’t go down easily. Like that girl Kia killed!”

A silence greets her words. Kia…killed a Career? Our heads swivel as one to stare at her as she leans against the doorframe. “What?” She raises an eyebrow at us. “She attacked me. What was I supposed to do? Let her kill me?”

“Damian and I helped!” Aiko is practically jumping up and down in excitement. “He used his baton to thwock the big guy in the head, then I threw my chakram into the girl’s side! That hurt her enough for Kia to finish her!”

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I know that, realistically, I should be happy that my allies are capable of defending themselves. But I just can’t bring myself to feel anything but sorrow over what occurred. Killing someone isn’t an easy thing. It takes something away from you. Even Careers are human beings. Yet Aiko and Kia…I don’t feel like they quite understand that.

“We shouldn’t celebrate death,” I say quietly.

Aiko pauses, looking confused. But Kia just nods. The two of us have had conversations pertaining to this subject before; she knows how I feel about fighting and killing. She doesn’t agree, but she understands my position. That’s all I can ask for.

“We need them dead for us to win,” Faren speaks slowly, as if afraid I’ll reprimand him. “I…we can’t all survive. The other tributes, I mean. Th-they need to die.”

“That’s true.” I wish there was another way, but there isn’t. Only one person is leaving this arena. “But we don’t need to celebrate it. Every death leaves us a little poorer. Less…whole, I suppose.”

A few of the others murmur their agreement but most remain silent. I am not surprised. Even though we’re a collection of the most kind-hearted people in the Games, I didn’t expect them all to agree with me on this point. In their eyes each death brings them one step closer to victory. But to me each dead tribute is just another senseless waste of life.

Yet if I want to win and return to Tasha, then all of my friends will have to die.

That thought leaves me hollow inside.

I decide to change the subject. We’re still too close to the cornucopia for my liking, so I tell the others to pack up their items and get ready to move again. None of them protest. As I watch them go about their tasks, Kia sidles up alongside me. “All that death must have been hard on you.”

“It’s not just the death.” I hate the fact that we have to kill one another, but it’s not the only thing bothering me. “I’m more concerned about the…you know, the grim future. The loss of our allies.”

Kia grunts and adjusts her jacket. The flash of movement momentarily gives me sight of the wound underneath. I gasp. “You’re injured!”

“It’s nothing serious,” Kia tries to wave me off. “Lilith’s knife raked against my chest, that’s all. I’m fine.”

I don’t know if I believe that. The wound isn’t life threatening in any way, but it’s definitely paining her. Now that I really pay attention, I can see that her breaths come quicker and her movements are more careful. “You need rest,” I tell her with a frown.

“Yeah, well, we can’t stop here, can we? Need to get further from the cornucopia. I’ll be fine until then. It’s really not a big deal.”

Perhaps she’s right. I could just be overreacting. I have been on edge since the Reaping, especially after I witnessed the brutality on display at the bloodbath. None of the tributes are holding back. It’s almost as if they don’t care about harming other people at all.

That’s a frightening thought.

When we’re all packed I lead the way back into the hallway. There’s no sign of any other tributes, thankfully. Our trip down the hall is made in silence. We pass several more interesting siderooms, a laundry room that contains bins of towels, a room full of pipes and gears, and something that I think is a maintenance office of sorts. Faren is particularly excited to see that one.

He pauses at the doorway, peering inside. “There’s a lot of useful items here. I could probably make some traps with enough time.”

I glance behind us. The doorway we originally entered rests at the far end of the hall. The cornucopia parking lot is just on the other side off that door. It’s still possible that the Careers will wander in here.

“We can come back here later,” I say. “Right now we should just focus on putting distance between us and the cornucopia.”

The hallway comes to a narrow end. One half of the hall is full of carts containing trash bags. I carefully pick my way past these and push the double doors open and step into the next room. We’re in the guest hallways, it appears. An entrance to some kind of arcade is to our right while the door to our left exits outside.

“I don’t like all that noise,” Talia says quietly. I agree. The sounds coming from the arcade are borderline obnoxious; the games audio and sound effects apparently run twenty-four-seven.

I take us outside, glad to see that it’s a completely different area than the cornucopia parking lot. Which makes sense, considering we went straight through a building to get here. The sun shines overhead as we cross a narrow strip of concrete filled with resort utility vehicles and enter the building directly across from us.

We’re in a waterpark. The roaring of the water slides and spray from its features reach my ears as I step inside, wrinkling my nose at a strong, strange smell.

“It’s chlorine,” Faren says as my allies join me. “That smell is chlorine.”

“Is it dangerous?” Damian asks.

He laughs. “Of course not! It’s just used to keep the water clean. People come here to swim, after all.”

I find the concept mind-boggling. People come to swim in this water? I can understand jumping in a pond or lake to cool off on a hot day, but making an entire indoor resort and filling it with fresh water just so you can splash around in it? Baffling.

Faren appears to be the only one of us not enthralled by the strangeness of the situation as we proceed deeper into the park, bypassing dozens of empty tables as we approach a gigantic play structure that is spraying out water from absolutely everywhere.

“This could be a good place to set up a camp,” I say carefully. A large wooden tower of sorts lays behind the play structure, apparently the launching point of the slides I see crisscrossing the ceiling. “It’s a pretty big place, but there’s only so many entrances. We could probably be able to watch them all.”

After we take a quick lap around the park, I can conclude that there are only six total entrances. Three up front, one on the east side, and two at the back. Of course, there’s also a staircase that takes us up to a mezzanine and what appears to be a doorway leading into a restaurant of some sort. So maybe guarding every entrance isn’t as feasible as I first thought.

But this place is still a good candidate for a base camp. We’ll spend a little more time scouting it out before making a decision, but I feel confident that we can find a suitable arrangement. So that’s one worry settled.

Now I only have about fifty others to take care of.

Notcher Stott (District 8)
My lungs scream for air and my legs burn with exhaustion as I finally pull to a halt, hands on my knees as I bend over and take panting breaths.

I’m in a hallway of some sort. Large rectangular windows surround me on both sides, looking out at the resort and its abundant amenities. Or something like that. I haven’t taken the time to stop and sight see. That would be stupid. This is the first time since the gong rang out that I’ve even stopped running.

I collapse into a sitting position, each breath coming hard and heavy. I hold an inhaler in my hand but make no move to use it. The stupid Capitol doctors gave me it after they did my health checkup when I first arrived at the Capitol. I told them I was fine, that I wasn’t sick, but they didn’t listen. Said I was asthmatic and needed this dumb thing. They practically forced me to make it my token.

I resist the urge to smash it and instead tuck the inhaler into my pocket. It’s not that I think I’ll ever need to use the thing in the way they intended. Just…maybe it’ll come in handy later. I don’t know. Anything is possible.

I continue to lean against the wall as I catch my breath and think back to the bloodbath. The only item I managed to grab was a small white bag emblazoned with a cross. I’ve seen that symbol before and was on the lookout for it the whole time. A medical bag.

I glance up and look both ways. I’m in the middle of a long hallway that, as far as I can see, stretches on indefinitely. There are no doors here; just those wide windows. I try to mentally retrace my steps and realize that I’m on the second floor. The first thing I did when entering the building was ascend the staircase on my left. I’m pretty confident that no one else would think to replicate that move.

Once I was on the second floor I followed a hallway past a restaurant of some sort and came to a three-way intersection. I don’t have perfect recollection here, but I think the path I took had a sign overhead proclaiming something about a skywalk?

I rise to my feet—my breathing has become steady—and cross over to the nearest window. Peering outside, I can see that I’m on the second floor and above some type of canyon. A long wooden bridge crosses the steep cliffs, stretching over a small forest of pine trees which grow in the depths. The skywalk I’m on seems to connect one end of the resort to the other.

Content that no one will be able to approach me unseen—the hallway extends forward far enough for me to see anyone trying—I sit back down and finally open the lone bag I snagged from the cornucopia.

As it is marked with a medicinal cross, I am not surprised by its contents. Gloves, bandages, gauze pads, anti-septic wipes and other kinds of healing items are nestled snugly inside. The real prize, though, is the trio of small, slender needles I find.

I assume they’re intended for stitching up wounds, but I have another use for them. Life on the streets of District 8 was tough enough that you needed to carry a weapon at all times, and as it was the home of Panem’s textiles factories, finding a stray needle was a simple task. Back home I always had one on me and can’t even count the amount of times I used a needle to defend myself.

I stash all three needles in a different spot around my person, well aware that any kind of weapon is useless if I can’t reach them during an emergency. My encounter with Rupert Silks on Reaping Day is a good example. I hadn’t been able to reach my dagger, but the needles I kept tucked into my bootlaces came in handy.

I’m beginning to stick the rest of the stuff back into the bag when my hand brushes against something I hadn’t noticed. Pulling it out, I find myself holding a gas mask.

Strange. I stare at it for several moments, wondering what possible use I could have for this. Poison gas isn’t used in the Games very often; it kills the tributes too quickly and isn’t exciting enough for the Capitol audiences. Still, there must have been some reason it was supplied at the cornucopia. I doubt the Gamemakers are in the business of giving us tributes worthless items. Actually, never mind. That’s exactly the kind of thing they’d do.

Bastards.

When all my items—gas mask included—are safely secured I head off down the hallway. It’s a long, uneventful trek until I finally reach the end of the skywalk and am greeted with a two-way intersection. I pause, scanning the sign that hangs nearby. Apparently one direction heads towards an arcade, while the other passes by something called a Jurassic Java Shop. I have no idea what most of those words even mean, so I choose that direction.

The hallway I follow takes me pass dozens of hotel room doors. The numbers on the door plates are in the three thousands, boggling my mind. Does that mean there are thousands of these rooms in the arena? How the hell is anyone going find each other?

The Jurassic Java Shop appears on my right as I’m trying to wrap my head around that implication. A frown crosses my face as I take it in. Apparently a Jurassic Java Shop is just a dinosaur themed coffee store.

The shop is built right into the hallway, with two glass windows giving me perfect vision into the store itself. I check for any sign of danger before stepping inside. Almost immediately I’m hit with the overwhelming scent of coffee.

Ugh! I hate that stuff! Back in District 8 the rich slobs I pickpocketed in the morning always reeked of it. To me, coffee is the scent of useless frivolity.

I raid the store, checking the drawers and underneath the cupboards. I mostly just find coffee pots and other paraphernalia, but I do discover some scones and other pastries in one of the cabinets. I scarf a few muffins down before shoving the rest into my jacket pockets for later. You never know when you’ll find food in the arena.

Afterwards I give the store one last look over before deciding I found everything worth keeping. Before leaving I pause beside a cardboard standee of a dinosaur. I don’t like the way it’s smiling, so I snap its head off and chuck the thing into the corner of the room. “Stupid dinosaur,” I mutter with a shake of my head.

My journey continues. The hallway I’m in stretches onward for what feels like forever, yet I know it hasn’t nearly been that long. Multiple staircases and branching paths lead off to the side, but I ignore them all and stick to the path I’m on. This has to lead ''somewhere. ''

And it does. Eventually the hallway peters out to an end. Two doors look before me, both clearly marked ‘Employees Only’. I glance down at my outfit, clearly some sort of uniform, and grimace. I bet the Gamemakers thought dressing is as employee’s was hilarious.

I push the doors open and find myself greeted with the sight of yet another hallway. Shoving aside my rising sense of irritation, I continue forward. Once again, dozens of side rooms pop up around me. One such room is a giant laundromat, full of washing machines and driers. Another is a break room, while several more appear to be nothing but storage places. There’s a door labeled ‘Cash Office’ that briefly grabs my attention before I remember that money is useless in the arena.

My thoughts flicker to Lanon. I hope he’s alright. I told him not to try and retrieve the Capitol’ Credits until the Games are over, but he’s always been headstrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already tried to snag them. But if Rupert caught him…

I gnash my teeth and push those thoughts away. I can’t think about Lanon or home. All that will do is distract me when I can least afford it. No, I need to keep my full attention on the Games.

Eventually the hallway becomes clogged with stacked cases of soda and beer. I navigate my way through this mess, grumbling all the while, and find myself surrounded by yet another laundry room. I’m about to snap and curse out the Gamemakers when I notice the hallway has come to an end. A lone door stands at its terminus, labeled ‘Security Station’.

Interesting.

The room is full of computers and wires. A single bright bulb hangs overhead, illuminating the cramped confines as I cross to the large desk set at the far end. Three screens hang on the wall, showing a variety of images. One of them is very clearly the cornucopia parking lot.

I sit at the chair and pull up to the computer. I’ve never used one of these things before, so it takes several minutes before I realize that I control the cursor on screen by moving a little handheld device across the table. Then several more minutes before I figure out how to click on things. The moment I do, however, I instantly hover over the words marked ‘Security Cameras’ and click.

A list of terms pop up, none of them recognizable to me. Three of them are highlighted, though, and one of those terms is named ‘Main Parking’. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the names with the places featured on the screens above me.

Clicking a name highlights it and brings up a security camera of that area, featured on one of the screens before me. There’s no sound but the image shown is definitely a live look at whatever area is covered in the camera. Immediately I realize that the list of terms are the names for different cameras.

And there are hundreds of cameras on the list.

Soon enough I am shifting through live footage of the arena. Unfortunately a large amount of the cameras seem to show nothing but the top and bottom of various water slides, which is useless to me. Yet there are also dozens of cameras which show hallways, waterparks, and arcades. In fact, the more I click through the names the more I come to realize this security station has access to all of the resorts cameras!

My first instinct is to find the other tributes. I come across the Careers first, because their sheer numbers make them stand out. The group is picking their way through a waterpark that the cameras call Klondike Kavern, making a circle around a lazy river as they navigate their way pass chairs and tables. A cursory glance through the various cameras lets me know that Klondike is located near the cornucopia and thus on the complete opposite end of the arena as me.

“Good to know the Careers aren’t going to stumble on me,” I murmur, shifting to the next camera.

I find another group of tributes in a different waterpark named Wild West. They’re up on a mezzanine of sorts, drifting around somewhat aimlessly. The camera is placed at an odd angle, so I can’t make out any of their features, but their large size and the fact that they’re not fighting each other practically confirms that it’s Briar and her alliance.

I continue to shift through cameras but don’t find a trace of any more tributes. That’s not too discomforting, though. The cameras are a great resource but they have definite blind spots. There are no cameras in any of the guest rooms or bathrooms, and there seems to be few places outside. The ones that do exist seem to be mainly gathered around the various parking lots.

And that’s not to say the other tributes aren’t constantly moving. I can only have three screens active at one time, so it’s not possible to watch everything. Not to mention that some of the cameras seem to be placed at awkward angles or filled with static. The tributes could very well be on a screen I’m watching and I’d never even know.

That’s an irritating thought.

Still, I continue to flit through the cameras at a casual pace. But only two. I keep one of the screens focused on the hallway leading down to the Security Station. If anyone were to try and approach I’d see them coming long before they got here.

I spend a good half hour listlessly clicking through the cameras before something catches my eye. It’s on a camera set in some darkened maintenance corridor. The only source of light comes from a single flickering lightbulb and I’m about to click away when something scuttles across the room.

I sit up straight and stifle a gasp. Small and dark, the thing scampers out of sight almost immediately but a few seconds is enough time for me to make out its humanoid as it disappears into the dark.

I sit still, disturbed. The thing looked vaguely human but…it was moving on all fours and its skin was far, far paler than it should be.

“A mutt!” I say the word like it’s a curse. I hadn’t thought they’d be active so early. Unfortunate. Still, with these cameras I should be able to keep a pretty close eye out for them.

A shame that the other tributes can’t say the same.