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Chapter Text

DISTRICT ONE

“Ow!”

Sapphire groaned, almost falling backwards as her brother’s fist struck the left side of her face. She steadied her feet, ignoring the pain that was stinging at her cheek, and took a swing back at her brother. Her fist almost collided with his stomach, until he quickly grabbed her arm and twisted it backwards, causing Sapphire to groan and drop her back awkwardly.
“Come on, that’s all you’ve got?” He jeered, pulling her arm further backwards which restricted her further as Sapphire let out a frustrated and pained hiss. She couldn’t move. After a few seconds, he let her go, as she stumbled backwards across the mat and shook her arm slightly, letting out a tired breath.

“For fuck’s sake, Silver, at-least leave me in one piece for the Reaping.” Sapphire cried, wiping the beads of sweat off her forehead.

“You won’t be left in one piece in the arena if you don’t work on your close physical combat,” Silver sighed, “You can’t even land a punch in time. Did you see how easy I got you down?”

“Oh please,” Sapphire replied as she took a gulp from her water bottle, “Nobody is getting within five feet of me before I throw my knives at them.” Silver huffed in response, unimpressed. “Yes, you’re phenomenal with your throwing knives. But it’s important you can fight someone close, long distance combat isn’t always guaranteed.”

“That’s not the only reason the panel chose me to be in the semi-finals, Silver. They took everything into account: my skills with a variety of weaponry, my agility, my strength, my instincts, my-“ Sapphire began, before being swiftly interrupted by her brother. “Yes, you ticked all the boxes. I saw how well you performed in front of the judges. Still, doesn’t mean you’re perfect.” Silver exclaimed, snatching Sapphire’s water bottle from her grasp and placing it onto the floor.

“Especially not at hand-to-hand combat.” He said, his arm suddenly wrapping around his sister’s neck, which she quickly grabbed hold of and twisted, turning and kicking Silver in the stomach.

“Not perfect against you Silver, but still pretty fucking great.” Sapphire huffed. He shrugged, content. “Well, Saffy, I guess we’ll see if the panel thought you were pretty fucking great enough at the Reaping.”

*****

Elixion sighed loudly as he awoke, the sunlight streaming in fragments through his bedroom window. The light illuminated his toned body, nothing but a thin sheet draped his modesty. A hand rested on his tan shoulder, shaking him. “Come on Elixion, the Reaping is in four hours. We’ve overslept.” A voice cried.

As Elixion turned, a face matched the stressed voice. His lover sat beside him, clipping her bra hurriedly over her body. Elixion smiled at the sight, watching Gem’s slim figure basked in the yellow sunlight; it illuminated her dark curly locks, her mocha skin. He sat up, grabbing her arm, and pulled his girlfriend into a kiss. “I already said, I wanna rest this morning. No training babe.” He exclaimed.
Gem sighed, shuffling on the edge of the bed. “But you need to be ready for-“ she began, “A couple extra hours of training before the Reaping isn’t gonna change the years of hard work I’ve already put in.” Elixion interrupted, “I mean, look at these babies! They’re proof!” He laughed, flexing his bicep. Gem chuckled, sliding back into bed and laying back on her lover’s sturdy chest.

“Ok, you’re right. I want to spend as much time with you before anyway.” She said, tracing her fingers over his skin. “They’d have picked you, for sure.”

Elixion caressed Gem’s back, slowly unclipping her bra, letting it slide back off her body. “Guess we’ll see, huh?” he replied, “Imagine me coming back home in a few week’s time, a crown on my head. Bringing pride to One. I’d be worshipped across the whole country. Wouldn’t that be hot?” He grinned, Gem smiled and sat up to face him, running her hand through his messy golden locks.

“Any hotter than you are now?” She smirked, he smirked back. “Yeah, hotter.”

Elixion closed their smiles together, their mouths moving in unison. He pulled Gem beneath him, flinging his thin bed sheet to the side, and pressing their bare bodies together. “How about we make some memories, motivation to get me back home?” He grinned, reaching down into his lover’s embrace.

*****

District One wasn’t a big district by any means. The population of eligible children for the Reaping fit just about in the town square, which was brushed with polished white buildings edged on the perimeter and merchant markets draped in colourful fabrics, which had now been moved to make space for the children who stood in clusters according to their ages, clad in different shades of whites or purples for their district colours. Most of their eyes peered at the large Justice Building looming in front of them, which stood tall and proud with its majestic white pillars and clear windows. A stage had been constructed this day, for the Reaping, as the children watched puzzled at their Capitol escort, whom began to ramble passionately about the honour of the Hunger Games.

Delphine Carus’s mouth looked funny as she talked, as it was smudged in a sparkly purple lipstick. Her eyeshadow matched this colour, as did her flamboyant dress which cascaded down in large, light ruffles all across her body, also splattered in bright sparkles. Delphine’s porcelain skin was studded with tiny inlaid diamonds, which glittered harshly against the bright sunlight. Her entire appearance was an attempt to pay homage to the Career district she was representing. Purple, for the district’s symbolic colour, and diamonds; for their export. Her jet-black hair, which was squeezed into a tight and spayed bun, was the only conventional feature of her eccentric, outwardly Capitol appearance.

“I am ferociously honoured and just so, so excited to represent the beautiful and courageous District One for the annual 61st Hunger Games!” Delphine beamed, her wide and purple smile catching the lens of the recording cameras. “Now, let’s see if District One’s tributes this year are as gorgeous as the jewels and luxuries they provide to the gorgeous Capitol!”

Sapphire rolled her eyes, her impatient tapping coming to a halt after being subjected to the annual tedious promotional video of the context of the land before Panem, Panem’s Dark Days and the birth of the Hunger Games. They had learned that continuously at school, although the video wasn’t as excruciating as Delphine’s obnoxious speech. The crowd disliked Delphine’s Capitol appearance, her Capitol demeanour, and her obvious love of her own voice; but they were obedient and cordial to their government. So, the crowd kept quiet, and listened.

“As always, let’s see which District One’s beautiful lady will have the honour of competing in the 61st Hunger Games!” Delphine smiled, walking over to the crystal bowl which held the eligible female names. Her violet stiletto heels clacked on the metal stage, as a tense silence hung in the air with it, only growing as Delphine’s manicured fingernail dug into the bowl of paper slips. She dug around for a few seconds, her pale hand finally grasping a slip from the bottom and fishing it out. She stepped back over to the microphone.
Despite the thousands of paper slips in that crystal bowl, Sapphire knew there were only two names that could be picked. For District One’s volunteering system: a trial was held for applicable volunteers in the Training Centre, until five volunteers of each gender were selected for the semi-finals. These five had one hour to display their skills in all aspects: weaponry, combat, survival, and intelligence. After this test, the panel chose two volunteers from each gender they believed were the best. After that, it was up to Delphine’s random selection whom would be reaped for the arena.
The four other volunteer girls standing at the front of the female side of the Reaping mirrored Sapphire’s expression of hope and impatience. All knowing out of the five of them; only two had been actually selected, and only one would be chosen.

Sapphire gritted her teeth and squeezed her fist as Delphine opened the slip, poising it in front of her as she held her glittery purple mouth out to the microphone. The camera lens caught her face as her lips finally opened as she stated: “Sapphire Peridot.”

Eager applause sounded across the square, as Sapphire immediately smiled graciously at the camera which caught her. The four girls next to her applauded her, albeit jealousy and disappointment dripping from their eyes, as Sapphire made her way up the steps of the stage. Her courageous smile brought out her deep blue eyes of which she had been praised for her entire life, the same shade which matched her name also matched her tight satin dress, accentuating her slimly athletic figure. Sapphire’s fiery red hair, hanging down her shoulders in waves, bounced as she mounted the steps of the stage.

“Over here darling, come join me.” Delphine beamed, holding her manicured hand out which Sapphire graciously took as her escort led her next to the microphone. “Well my oh my, I see you’ve exceeded our expectations here,” Delphine began, “Beauty and strength? What more could we want from a fierce volunteer tribute to represent District One this year in the Hunger Games!” Excited and supportive applause and clapping filled the square, many angles and shots of which were caught by the recording cameras. Sapphire held her hand out and waved, blushing. She couldn’t tell whether she was flattered or terrified.

“Ok, now that we have our gorgeous female tribute, let’s find our handsome male volunteer!” Delphine exclaimed, clinking over with her high heels to the other side of the stage, to the other crystal ball dedicated for the males.

Elixion stood beneath, on the very end of the line of the five male volunteers. His classmate beside him, Gloss, was slightly sweating. Elixion could tell, and he could also tell it was not from the bright heat of the Reaping noon but from his creeping anxiety. He smiled, confident. He was absolutely ready for this. He watched as Delphine’s hand snaked into the reaping bowl, only for a couple of seconds, as she made a decision and swiped a paper slip from the side of the bowl. Elixion cleared his throat, poising his posture, as the escort crossed back to the microphone. Delphine opened the slip, taking a moment to decipher the name in front of her as the sunlight streaked her vision, and announced: “Elixion James.”

Elixion grinned, knowing his confidence never guessed him wrong. He heard Gloss breathe a sigh of frustration as he crossed his counterparts, whom patted him on the back in praise and congratulations as he made his way towards the stage. The deliberate lack of a blazer of Elixion’s white suit displayed his prominent muscles, which he made no intention of hiding as he shook hands with Delphine as cheers were thrown his way. “And another gorgeous tribute- my, District One has officially been blessed!” she declared, “All your doing, Miss Carus.” He winked, brushing a lock of his golden hair behind his ear, leaving Delphine to blush as he grinned towards the applauding crowd.

The applause wasn’t loud or vibrant but it was strong. Their approving faces satisfied him, but not as much as Gem’s. He found her beautiful and proud face in the crowd, her smile warming his heart.
“We have it District One, your two proud volunteers- Sapphire Peridot and Elixion James!” Delphine cheered, the two tributes grinning at one another and courageously shaking hands.

Delphine couldn’t have wished for a better Reaping, she had selected the poster-image of District One’s tributes: beauty, charisma, and strength. She giggled, overjoyed that she had been assigned such a promising Career district to escort. Unlike a few of her friends, she’d been given a lot to work with.

*****

Sapphire sat on the plush couch in the Justice Building, patiently waiting for her family to arrive. She was slightly in shock. All these years of training, of pressure, to become a tribute in the Hunger Games. And she finally did it. She was chosen. Her disbelief and undeniable anxiety was hard to wipe from her face once she heard the wooden door open, her family entering the room. Sapphire managed a feasible smile.

“Sweetheart, you were chosen! They picked you!” Her mother gleamed, wrapping her daughter in a tight embrace. She brushed a strand of Sapphire’s red hair to the side, stroking her locks endearingly, taking in her face. “You’re so beautiful, and so strong, you’re coming back to me a victor.” Her mother said. Mr. Peridot set his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, smiling, “We’re so proud of you, Sapphire.” Despite the reassuring praise that she was bathed in by her thrilled parents, Sapphire couldn’t help but catch the twinge of jealousy that played in her elder brother’s eyes at the scene. He was supposed to be picked, three years ago. He’d volunteered, he’d made it to the semi-finals, he stood by the stage eagerly, waiting for his name to be called by Delphine. It wasn’t.

Silver approached his sister, hugging her tenderly. “I’m so proud of you Saffy. You’re going to win, for One. For us, for me.” He exclaimed, and she hugged him back. “I will. I love you guys.” Sapphire proclaimed. “Here, take this. Think of us when you’re in the arena, fighting for us.” Her brother insisted, sliding a silver ring into Sapphire’s palm.

Despite the valiant smile plastered on her face, Sapphire hoped her family didn’t notice the slight tremor in her hands.

*****

“My brave, brave, boy.” Ms. James cried as she held her only child in her arms. She used her jacket sleeve to wipe away the tears that kept rolling down her cheeks but they kept coming.

“Oh Ma, stop it now.” Elixion chuckled, locked in his mother’s embrace. “You know I’ll be back here soon with a house waiting for us in the Victor’s Village.”

“Yes, yes you will.” She nodded, taking a step back and taking in the last of her son’s face. “You’ll bring pride back to your home, back to me. I just, I’m just scared, Elixion.” Her tears brimmed in her eyes once more, which her son softly wiped away.

“No need to be scared, Ma.” Elixion said, gently stroking his mother’s arms, “Tell you what. Throw a celebration party for me tonight.” He laughed, “Drink way too much wine!”

Not very long after his mother was escorted away from his room in the Justice Building by Peacekeepers, the wooden door opened once again. Elixion’s love entered, he immediately rushed towards Gem and pulled her into a deep kiss. His hand hitched at her waist, tugging the hem of her white dress up. “How much time do we have?” He smirked, “They said I’m allowed fifteen minutes.” Gem replied, matching her boyfriend’s mischievous expression as she tugged on the belt of his trousers.

Their mouths locked together, Elixion picked Gem up, holding her in his arms as she wrapped her legs around his waist. With no time to waste, he laid her down on the desk behind them. The couple quickly pulled their under-garments off down to their knees, as Elixion pressed tenderly into his lover. They both gasped, establishing a quick but passionate rhythm. Elixion left the marks of his lips all over Gem; on her own lips, her throat, her neck. Gem struggled to sustain a loud moan that escaped her mouth as Elixion’s breath hitched as his pace increased. He chuckled, “Quite a farewell, huh?”
“Not a farewell,” Gem stated in-between her pleasured breaths, “This isn’t the last I’m seeing of you.”

Elixion smiled, pulling his lover into a passionate kiss as he hammered her against the desk. “I love you.” He said, Gem’s face in his hand as their eyes locked.

“I love you.” She declared back, after a lustful gasp.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT TWO

Tildessa winced at the creak of the front door as it closed, the early morning sun locked away as she entered the dark confines of her home. All the shutters were closed. An occasional floorboard whined as she crossed the hallway to the small kitchen, checking to see if the kettle contained any water. To her convenience, it did, and so she turned the stove on which soon sounded a shrill whistle of the kettle. Finally, the water boiled enough so Tildessa poured it into a mug, filling up a teabag. She sat on the rough couch in the front room, switching on the TV as she blew on her tea.

The slightly cracked screen zapped on, filling the dimmed room with a glow. For a few moments Tildessa struggled to comprehend which channel had automatically switched on, in the districts only three were allowed. Panem National News, Panem Mandatory Broadcast, and Panem Mandatory Hunger Games. Tildessa soon realised the Hunger Games one was playing, a re-run, as through the low volume she heard Caeser Flickerman’s incessant commentary and watched as reels from last year’s Games were displayed, matching his excited voice. A panorama shot displayed the hollow and vast glacier caves, the arena which was used. Tildessa shuddered, she hated the cold.

She forgot about her tea, setting it on the floor by the couch, as she laid down and relaxed on the sofa. Tildessa wasn’t even focusing on the TV, she was using the hushed noise of the commentary as white noise. Her entire body ached, she was exhausted. The day before, she engaged in District Two’s Volunteering System: twelve selected volunteers of each gender for the final phase of the trials had to fight in a small arena, a rocky cove, until one remained standing with their bracelets still on. Those eliminated had to have their three bracelets ripped off, as Tildessa and her best friend Lena had managed to work together and rip their opponents bracelets off together. It was them two left standing, in a gruelling battle, which left Tildessa victorious. Thus, she had earned the title of District Two’s female volunteer tribute for this year. A celebration was held last night, with all their peers, involving copious amounts of praise, cheers, and booze. Too much booze.

Shuffling uncomfortably on the couch, Tildessa rubbed her head. Despite the fun she had last night, on her walk home, she realised she couldn’t sleep. So she went to the Training Centre, which was open especially for her and Ajax; and trained until the early hours of the morning, sweating the inebriation off. She had trained from the middle of the night until well past dawn, to assure herself she was prepared. Of course she was prepared. Tildessa won all the trial phases for a reason. She assured herself with this thought as her eyes dozed off, the soft glow of the TV fading as she unintentionally fell asleep.

“Up, I said!” Mr. Slate repeated, yelling this time, smacking his sleeping daughter on her arm. Tildessa jolted awake, rubbing her eyes, “What time is it?” She asked.
“Too late! The Reaping is in two hours.” Her father spat, which instantly sent her scrambling upright, “I’ll be ready soon, it’s fine.” She assured herself, getting up to quickly make her way towards the bathroom. Her father caught her arm, his grasp firm, which sent his daughter looking back at him with an edge of fright.

Her little sister peered silently from the corridor, eyes wide.

“Don’t disappoint me, girl. I mean it.” Mr Slate said, Tildessa pulled away and straightened her training academy uniform shirt, which had creased as she slept on the couch.
“I won’t.”

After quickly bathing, Tildessa was hurrying to get herself in order. Her little sister, Mercia, brushed and tied together her hair as the two girls stared at their slightly dusted and cracked mirror. Mercia was in her elder sister’s old reaping dress, which at the age of thirteen, fit her perfectly. Tildessa had her mother’s old dress, a maroon colour which held a few creases and a missing button, on a wooden board on the floor. She was attempting to iron out the creases and stitch the missing button to the fabric to make it seem as though the slip did not even exist.

“Do you think mom would even approve of this?” Mercia asked in a quiet voice, pondering, “We know how she felt about the Games…” but her rebellious thought was cautiously and quickly trampled by her sister’s sharp voice.

“It doesn’t matter what mom thought, Mercia. Father has wanted this for us ever since we could walk. Two has wanted this for me. I’ve been chosen to bring honour to my district, and to us.” Tildessa replied, pulling the last thread together for the button. She held the dress up, content at its masked appearance. “This’ll do, right?”

"Right.” Her sister nodded.

*****

Ajax didn’t really have any friends.

He was respected, of course, at school and at the training academy. He held a high status as the High Peacekeeper’s son. He was feared for this also, as well as being amongst the tallest, strongest, and most arrogant of all his peers. His reputation as an impulsive, violent bully didn’t really help his social life either. He hadn’t even really been invited to the celebration party last night, not genuinely, which had been dedicated to those who’d actually passed the full volunteer trial phases. Which should have been dedicated to him.

Fuck friends, he thought. He didn’t need friends. One of those big, pretty houses in the Victor’s Village would belong to him at the end of the month. He’d be a celebrity across all the country, Victor of the 61st Hunger Games. Another representation of District Two’s honour. He’d have status, and fame, and power.

Ajax Howard didn’t need friends. He craved power.

He chuckled as he swiped the head off a dummy clean with the blade of his sword in less than a second. The power he wielded the day before as he knocked five of his eleven competitors to the ground, ripping their bracelets off clean, and not losing any of his; was invigorating. They’d all spent their whole lives training for the Games but he ripped all those years of blood, sweat and tears from them in just under two hours.

The Training Centre was empty that morning, nothing but the sound of Ajax’s own grunts and the whizz of his sword wafted through the warm summer morning air. Until the sound of footsteps approached the room, causing Ajax to whip his head around in their direction. Head Trainer Demetrius Deen approached, his muscled arms crossed. “Training here early before the Reaping, Ajax. I expected no less of you.” He exclaimed.

Ajax shrugged, turning back to his practice. “I’ve not even left Two yet and I’m already thirsty for blood.” He simply stated, the head of a dummie dropping to the floor with a thud after the swipe of his sword.

*****

Severus Young removed his sunglasses, eyeing the scene in front of him from the stage. District Two was comprised mostly of stone, which showed through the cobblestone grounds of the district square, the limestone and granite exterior of the Justice Building; which rested tall and proud over the children assorted for the Reaping ceremony. The backdrop of the mountains completed the firm image of the district. The children were draped primarily in differing shades of a maroon red, standing out against the greys and browns of the basalt buildings surrounding them.

“Welcome again to District Two, Mr Young.” Mayor Steel approached Severus, shaking his hand in a firm yet polite grip, which he reciprocated.

“I hope I’m not too late for the Reaping, I only just arrived. There were technical issues with the train on the way here.” Severus announced, the Mayor shook his head. “No, just in time, Mr Young. We’re just about to begin, the spot for you to stand is right by the microphone.”

“I know where I need to stand.” Severus spat, stalking over to his spot in front of the brass microphone. He stared over at the crowd in front of him, the children positioned in a militaristic fashion in their places, awaiting further instructions. Excited adults not of reaping edge were crowding the perimeter of the square, by the ropes separating them from their children. He was glad to represent a Career district, Severus thought. They were still district, still other, and still barbaric. But at-least they were loyal to the Capitol and produced promising tributes. In his five years as their Capitol escort, Severus had supported two victors. Eyeing the line of volunteers at the front of the Reaping crowd, he huffed, content. This line-up of volunteers was strong and determined, like every year; with their toned bodies and determined demeanours. Severus wanted to escort another Victor.

“On in three!” A voice from the camera crew suddenly announced, Severus cleared his throat and straightened his neon yellow jacket. A smile immediately stretched from his plumped lips, on time with the flick of a camera which began to record.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen of the bountiful Panem, to District Two’s Reaping for the 61st Annual Hunger Games!” Severus cheered into the camera lens, his dyed gold eyes shining.

Tildessa winced at the sight of the Capitol escort, whom was gloating only a few metres above her. Severus Young’s jacket looked like a highlighter, it hurt her eyes, and his silk red trousers were too baggy on his legs. Severus’s artificially curled hair matched this colour, albeit more bright and bold in saturation. Her thoughts mirrored the entire district’s, a consensus of confusion and disgust at the Capitol image extended to represent their home. Still, Severus was met with a one-sided respect.

As the promotional video was broadcast on the large screens that straddled the square, Tildessa felt her best friend gently squeeze her hand, which was crossed behind her back. She turned to face Lena, stood poised and upright beside her in the same manner, whom mouthed “You’ve got this.” Tildessa smiled in return, shooting her a wink, before the video ended and the dominating sound of the square was filled with Severus’s hoarse voice yet again. She had to suppress a puzzled laugh, his stern and deep voice most definitely did not align with his bright and aberrant appearance.

Ajax stood, rigid and stone-faced, tediously listening the promotional video and then again, Severus’s voice. He was bored. This was taking too long, he wanted to be up on the stage already, broadcasted to Panem for the ruthless fighter that he was. Ajax’s caramel skin began to glisten with sweat from the harsh sun shining down onto the square, which angered him. He was not about to be on camera, already sweating like a pig. This entire process was too long.

“And now, finally, let’s introduce District Two’s honourable tributes fighting in the 61st Hunger Games!” Severus declared, the volume of his voice now raised. The camera panned to the female reaping bowl, countless paper slips contained in the large glass, which was met with Severus’s hand. Not bothering with suspense, as everyone knew the chosen would be replaced, he snatched the first slip his fingers brushed against. He opened it, unenthusiastically reading the name: “Phoenix Prior.”

After a few moments, a slender girl with dark hair brushed neatly to her shoulders and a burgundy red dress, emerged from the fourteen year old section. She walked down the square and up the steps of the stage, joining Severus at his side. The cameras displayed a twinge of her nervous facial expression. “Our female tribute, District Two.” Severus proclaimed, setting a hand on the reluctant girl’s shoulder. “Do we have any volunteers?”

Tildessa smirked, stepping forward and raising her hand. “I volunteer!” She yelled, the camera immediately catching her eager face. Loud cheers and roars boomed across the square, Lena drowned her friend in rapid applause. “Of course, a volunteer, come on up now.” Severus said, as Tildessa obeyed, mounting the steps and standing beside him on the microphone as Phoenix scurried back to her spot in the ropes, sighing in relief. The determined volunteer made sure to sport an unemotional but eager demeanour, her sharp facial features still but content. “What’s your name?” The happy escort asked, “Tildessa, Tildessa Slate.” She responded, her arms behind her back as she looked straight ahead. “And how old are you, Tildessa?” Severus questioned, “I’m eighteen.” She said.

“District Two, let’s show our support for our brave eighteen-year-old volunteer: Tildessa Slate!” The cheers increased in volume, virtually every face in the crowd was yelling at Tildessa with pride and excitement. She nodded courteously.

“Now, let’s not waste our time. Over to the boys.” Severus exclaimed, walking over and again, snatching the closest slip in the bowl. Into the microphone, he announced: “Damian Leary.”

A chuckling young man stepped out of the front of the crowd, the eighteen-year-old section, laughing in the direction of his peers. He had light blonde hair which was slicked back over his head, and a red button-up shirt with his black trousers. He almost skipped up the stage, approaching Severus. “Damian Leary as the tribute. Do we have any volunteers?”

“I volunteer as tribute!” Ajax shouted, storming up the steps of the stage and taking Severus’s hand to shake. Severus had to refrain from yelping at his Ajax’s overwhelmingly strong grasp, as loud cheers filled the warm air. “What is your name?” Severus asked, “Ajax Howard. I’m eighteen, and a proud volunteer.” Ajax responded, ignoring the acclamation hurled his way and standing beside Severus, stone-faced, prepared for the next steps of the Ceremony.

Severus grasped the microphone, staring at the camera lens focused on him. “As usual, District Two serves the Capitol with two ferocious volunteer tributes. Tildessa Slate and Ajax Howard!” He declared, hoots hollering loudly as the two shook hands which increased in volume as they raised their arms in the air for the cameras and the crowds. Ajax allowed a grin to snake on his lips. He believed his district was looking at their next Victor. Severus hoped so also, grateful for the favourable tributes he was provided, stark contrasts to the pests of Districts Six and Eleven he had to work with in his earlier years as an escort. The two volunteers could almost pass as civilised, Severus thought. Almost.

*****

Lena kissed Tildessa on the cheek, longingly, as the two girls sat on the couch in her room in the Justice Building. They wrapped their arms around the other’s shoulders.
“My best friend, going into the Hunger Games! Who would’ve thought!” Lena laughed, “It was supposed to be me, you bitch.” She exclaimed, smacking Tildessa on the shoulder.
“Hey it’s not my fault your reflexes are weak. If you’d had worked on your reaction time like I’d been saying you’d be sitting here not me.” Tildessa stated, her friend rolling her eyes.
“No, you deserve it. You’ve earned it. You owe me a cut of your Victor earnings though.” Lena smirked, laying on her friend’s shoulder.

“Tildessa!” Mercia called, rushing through the door, only five minutes after Lena was asked to leave. She wrapped her big sister in her arms, pressing her head against her chest. Tildessa smiled, wrapping her arms around her concerned sister in return. “You’re going to the arena.” Mercia said.

“Yes, she is.” Their father stated, walking slowly into the room, the door shutting with a thud behind him at the hands of a Peacekeeper. “Stop acting weak, girl. You’re lucky there’s no cameras around in here.” He spat. Ennius Slate detested displays of emotion or affection, the only exception to his rigid exterior to be anger. His youngest daughter reluctantly obeyed, taking a step back and composing herself. Tildessa had learned by now to never let anyone know what she was thinking or feeling, especially her strict father. She stood by the window, which was streaked with a light layer of dust and sunlight, her hands at her sides and her chin up. She was going to represent her home and her family with honour.

“Don’t you let me down, girl.” Her father demanded, Tildessa crossed her arms, nodding. “I wouldn’t be letting anybody down but myself. I trained, and volunteered, and I was chosen for a reason.” She replied, as her father pursed his lips in a content and approving manner.

Mercia pulled a small figurine from out of her dress pocket. It was a horse, made of granite, and Tildessa immediately recognised it as her mother’s. “She’d want you to have this.” Her sister stated, as Tildessa took the figure into her hand and slipped it into the pocket of her own dress.

“Thanks, sis.” She said, taking her little sister’s hand and squeezing it lightly. “You wait for me, ok?”

“You come back, Tildessa.” Ennius Slate exclaimed, sternly. Tildessa couldn’t help but chuckle. Her father never referred to her by her actual name.

*****

Ajax sat on the wooden armchair in his room in the Justice Building, staring at the patterned walls. His fingers tapped the desk impatiently, watching the clock on the wall slowly move its hands and huffing at every tick that sounded from it. The Capitol wanted a show, they wanted a Games, so what were they waiting for? Ajax was ready to dive right in and start finally putting his power and years of training to use.

He heard the heavy thump of his father’s footsteps before the door was even opened, which increased in volume once he actually entered the room, followed by Ajax’s three younger brothers. “Come on man, you’re in the Games!” One of his brothers, Sebastian, hollered, patting Ajax’s back. “You’ll wipe them out cold!” The youngest of the boys, Draco, cheered, quickly silenced by their father. Still in his white Peacekeeper’s outfit, Crassus Howard stepped over to his fretful son, grinning. “I’ve gotta say, I’m proud to announce to everyone at-least one of my sons is doing the honour of fighting in the Games.”

“Yeah, Archer was too chicken-shit.” the other brother, Blaze, huffed. “Where is he now? Prancing around in Four?” Sebastian chuckled, their stern father silenced them once again with the wave of a single finger in their direction.

“Archer was stationed there, to do his duty as a Peacekeeper.” Cassus rebuffed, turning back to Ajax and setting a firm hand on his shoulder. “But my eldest is a disappointment.” He grimaced, “You, my boy, you’re your father’s son. You slit the throats of those kids clean and come back victorious. Prove yourself to President Snow. You hear me?”

Ajax didn’t blink. “I’ll give him a good show.”

Chapter Text

DISTRICT THREE

“Don’t play around with your breakfast. We’re lucky to have such a meal today.” Mrs. Ziegler commanded, referring to her three children sat at the table, which wobbled and creaked as their rusted spoons moved on their chipped dishes. One of the table legs, already broken and held together loosely by cheap tape, was on the verge of giving way.

Glitch stared at it, trying to distract herself from the foreboding Reaping ceremony awaiting her in just a couple of hours. The letter sat on her crooked bedside table, the letter announcing she was selected for the Pre-Reaping. Her brother, Excel, only a year younger than her at the age of fourteen, was not. He got to stand on the other end of the ropes as Glitch had to anticipate her fate, which rested in those ominous glass bowls. Every shiver of fright was attempted to subside with a spoonful of her breakfast, a measly porridge that tasted like cardboard.

“You’ll be fine, Glitch, there’s hundreds of other names in there.” Excel reassured his sister, as she shrugged in response, unconvinced. “Easy for you to say, you’re spared this year.” She huffed. She knew as the eldest of her three siblings she had the responsibility to bring food to their small, dark home when her overworked parents’ subpar wages fell short. Unfortunately, that meant she had to sign herself for tesserae. She was glad she could feed her family in times of need, but those packages of bread, oil, and chicken came at a cost of her increased chances as a lamb chosen for slaughter.

Scraping the last remnants of her unappealing breakfast into her mouth, Glitch’s mother beckoned her over to the closet they called a bathroom. She thoroughly brushed her daughter’s hazelnut-coloured hair, splitting it apart and tying her long hair into two braids. “When’s dad coming home?” Glitch wondered.

“I don’t know, love. He took the overtime shift, but he should be at the square for the Reaping today.” Elektra Ziegler replied, securing a brown hairband over her only daughter’s braid. “There, look at yourself.” She said as the two stared at the withered mirror in front of them.

Glitch’s reflection stared back, her hazel eyes strained with anxiety. “You’re beautiful.” Her mother exclaimed, planting a kiss on her cheek, “I fixed your Reaping dress, it’s on your bed. Hurry now, we have to leave soon.”

Glitch thanked her, stalking over to her shared bedroom. She found herself dazed, not completing her intended task. Her stomach felt as though it was being ripped apart as she stared at the letter on her bedside table.

***** 

It was impossible to tell whether the thick grey that wafted in the sky was heavy clouds or polluted smoke. All work was supposed to be suspended for Reaping day, but Mac knew that rule was hardly enforced.

He slid through the narrow, brown alleyways of the North Side until the District square came into view. He watched as a large collection of figures were gathered by the Justice Building. A stage was being constructed for the Reaping, large screens were being erected across the square and a Capitol camera crew were setting up their recording equipment. Mac rolled his eyes.

He crossed to the end of the square, were there were still a few merchant markets left standing. The rest had cleared out after their early morning hassle to make way for the Reaping ceremony, as were these last few, packing their things together and taking apart their stalls. Mac breathed a sigh of relief as the person he’d been hoping to see still remained, running over to his generous acquaintance.

Zoe was finishing throwing a bundle of wires into a box before Mac approached her. “I still made it in time!” He hollered, she chuckled.

“What have you got today for me then, Mac?” She asked, setting her hands on her hips, “You’ve only got about two minutes before we’ll be thrown out of here.”

Mac handed her a sack, which to Zoe’s delight, contained a cluster of fresh strawberries. They glistened, red and ripe. Her stomach gurgled. “You’ve hit the spot today.” She smiled, reaching over to her bag and pulling out a handful of coins. “As much as I love your offer this is all I can give you.”

“Come on Zoe,” Mac frowned, his eyebrows furrowed, “I’ve plucked out all of my grandmother’s pretty little strawberries for you and you can’t give me a few extra?”

“Out, now!” A Peacekeeper yelled from a few metres away. It was to the merchants’ luck they had just finished packing away their stalls.

Zoe sighed, grabbing two more coins and placing them in Mac’s hand. “Final offer. Now scram!” She exclaimed, Mac grinned and dumped the coins into his pocket and scurried from the square, catching the next shuttle just in time to make it home to bathe and get dressed before the Reaping.

The little house smelled of strawberries once when Mac entered the front door, causing him to lick his lips. “Can I have some?” He gleamed as he entered the crammed and dark kitchen, gesturing to the strawberries his grandmother was boiling on the stove.

“No, Mac, they’re for the jam I’m making for tonight. You can have them as a sweet treat after the Reaping.” She objected, stirring the berries in the water. The condensation left tiny bubbles of water sticking to the wall. “Did you get much for the rest of them from that sweet Inkler girl? That miracle plant back there will be barren until fall.”

Mac placed the collection of coins on the kitchen table, the sound of them clattering sending gleeful feelings among them. “Should be enough for a packet of rice and a couple chicken stews.” He replied. Luckily for Mac and his grandmother, the little strip of grass at the back of their house happened to grow a strawberry plant; which sometimes fed them and lured a little money into their pockets.

She smiled, ruffling her grandson’s messy hair. “You’re greasy, go wash up. I’ve already run the bath for you, hop in before it gets too cold.” Mac enthusiastically obeyed, rushing out of the kitchen.

*****

Despite her big age of fifteen, Glitch had a burning desire to grasp onto her mother’s hand as they approached the District square. Anxiety bubbled in her chest as she joined the queue of children, lining up uneasily to sign in for the Reaping.

“Can’t they do that any other way? I hate blood.” Excel groaned, wincing at the sight of a Peacekeeper pressing a needle into a boy’s finger. “You don’t have to worry about that today, love.” Their mother ushered, hitching her little boy, Zinc, higher over her shoulders so he hung onto her more comfortably. At the busy scene, he began to cry, requiring some soothing and gentle, motherly pats.

“No. But I do.” Glitch shuddered, feeling as though she was about to be sick. Excel wrapped an arm around her, “Shut up, Glitch. You’ll be fine.” She took a deep breath, feeling worse the faster the line moved.

Her mother pulled her daughter into a quick high, “The Odds are in your favour, my love. Be calm.” She said, which with the tickle of her youngest brother on her ear, gave Glitch no choice but to stop panicking. She squeezed her baby brother’s hand, causing Zinc to giggle.

“Why you still loitering here? Get to the ropes!” An impatient Peacekeeper demanded, shoving Glitch forward and pushing her family away. “You’ll be fine!” She heard Excel call out as he was led away. Another Peacekeeper grabbed her hand, piercing a small needle into her finger.

“Ow!” Glitch cried out, pulling her hand back to herself, as a couple seconds later a screen lit with her name. “Signed. Next!” The Peacekeeper called out, as Glitch navigated her way through the mob of children to the fifteen-year-old female section.

Mac rubbed his finger, which stung after being injected, looking straight at the Justice Building. The tall, off-white building stood as a stark contrast to the navy steel buildings and rusty railings, and unappealing brown warehouses that littered the perimeter of the square. He didn’t imagine District Three had many Capitol supporters in terms of aesthetics. Only another half hour and the Reaping should be done, he thought, then he could go home and indulge on his grandmother’s strawberry jam.

Soren Snapp applied the last of her gamboge yellow lipstick to her plump lips, admiring her reflection in her dainty hand-mirror. “We’ll be proceeding with the ceremony in a minute.” A voice declared, in a reserved tone. Soren turned to see it belonged to the sour-faced Mayor Nichrome, whom wanted her out of his district as soon as possible.

“Perfect, I’m ready.” She said, quickly tweaking her frizzy, dyed amber hair. “Don’t you think orange is my colour?” Soren smirked, with the mayor scoffing and taking his seat on the stage. District people were no fun, she remarked in her mind. Soren took her place in front of the microphone, waiting patiently and merrily smiling at both the cameras that had just hit record and at the miserable crowd of children.

“Good afternoon, Panem, I so glad to be here in District Three for the Reaping of the 61st Hunger Games! Let’s hope it’ll be another intriguing year!” She called out, smiling wide. If the Justice Building was an outlier to the setting of the district, it had nothing on Soren. She was swimming in her favourite colour: orange. Her dyed marmalade-coloured eyes beamed at the terrified children, her flawless coffee skin striking the camera lens, which acted almost as a backdrop to her bright outfit. An apricot cashmere blouse hung on her torso, linings and patterns of pearls embroidered on it. A matching pair of tight cashmere trousers hugged her legs, accentuating the pastel heels that clinked on the stage as she walked; and the several gold bracelets that perched on her arms.

It was as though Soren beamed an energetic brightness, a positivity; which evaporated in the miserable District Three crowd, impenetrable to her seemingly radiant image and persona.

Once the promotional video had finished, Soren wasted no time in announcing her voice, and her presence again. “Now, for the moment we’ve all been waiting for- let’s pick District Three’s tributes. How exciting!” She beamed. Glitch’s breath hitched in her throat, her heart pounding heavier and harder in tempo with Soren’s orange stiletto heels that clinked against the stage, making their way to the female reaping bowl. The entire square was deadly silent as Soren’s hand briefly hovered over the bowl, looming over the thousands of paper slips available.

“Hmm,” Soren exhaled, unsure of a decision. Finally, her hand reached into the bowl, shuffling around for a few seconds, as she plucked three paper slips out. The weaker two dropped away, slowly falling onto the stage, as one remained in between her pursed fingers. Glitch swore she could hear a hundred hearts pounding in the tense, morbid silence as Soren stepped back to the microphone. She smiled wide, opening the slip, and reading the name: “Glitch Zeigler.”

Elektra Zeigler’s scream could be heard by the whole square. Cameras caught her wailing. “No, no please! Please don’t take her!” She shrieked, her husband pulling her back. Glitch stood in place, paralysed. The world around her: her mother’s screams, the girls eyeing her pitifully, Soren’s distant orange figure; didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be real.
“Glitch Zeigler?” Soren repeated, after a while with no movement. The cameras finally found Glitch’s face within the crowd, as she stood in shock, as a pair of Peacekeepers began to approach her. The girls around her made way, but Glitch didn’t move. She felt light-headed, her heart was exploding in her chest. Suddenly, she fell to the floor. Gasps were heard across the square. Eventually, the pair of Peacekeepers found Glitch on the floor, dragging her up. She had fainted.

Soren stammered, perplexed on what to say or do. Glitch was smacked on the face in an attempt to awake her, it didn’t. A Peacekeeper slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried her into the Justice Building.

“I- well, we will meet Glitch Zeigler formally at the Capitol tomorrow!” Soren produced an awkward chuckle, clearing her throat as she was clearly flustered. “Any volunteers?” She asked in an enthusiastic voice. Her question was met with silence, and the distant sound of Elektra Zeigler’s sobs.

“Right,” she smiled, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead, “Let’s find District Three’s male tribute.”
Mac exhaled an uneasy breath as Soren crossed to the male reaping bowl. The scene with the fainting reaped girl caused a sad shock within the entire square. He didn’t even really have time to register the calling of his own gender’s selection as he was trying to tune out Mrs Zeigler’s cries. Soren quickly placed her hand in the glass bowl, extracting a paper slip from among the top layer, fumbling it open as she stepped back to the microphone. Reading it, she announced, composing her upbeat tone again: “Mac Tesla.”

An overwhelming feeling of dread ripped into Mac as he heard Soren’s voice echo across the square. It was him. The cameras found his face, as he shuddered, stepping into the central walkway and making his way to the stage. He felt his entire body burn with fear as he mounted the stage, Soren placing her hands on his shoulders and leading him to the microphone.

“The honour as District Three’s male tribute has been given to Mac Tesla here!” Soren cheered. The crowd was silent. Forlorn expressions stared at Mac, whom had gone as white as a ghost. “How old are you, sweetheart?” Her voice chirped at him, as he gulped and in a quiet voice replied, “Fifteen.” He looked away, down at his shoes on the stage, away from his entire home’s eyes. He didn’t want to know what his grandmother looked like, right now.

Soren wanted to go back in time and request another district to escort. Even she couldn’t optimise her way out of this mess.

*****

Glitch was snapped back to reality after a glass of water was thrown at her face, followed by the smack of a Peacekeeper’s hand. Her eyes flashed open. “You have seven minutes.” One of them stated, as the pair left the room in the Justice Building, Glitch’s family rushing in.

“Oh, oh my love!” Her mother cried, taking her firstborn child into her arms and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. Tears flowed down her face, dropping onto Glitch’s, mingling with the tears on her own face as she began to cry. “I knew it was gonna be me, I knew.” She heaved. Elektra let out a sound of despair, clutching her daughter desperately, which struck Excel. He had been trying to hold in his tears but now they streamed down his pale cheekbones. He knew this would be the last he’s seeing of his sister.

Neith Zeigler approached his daughter, closing her in a loving embrace. “You can still do this, my little girl. You can still do this.” He choked, joining his wife with the tears, as they held her close for as long as they could.

Excel didn’t know what to say, he had nothing to say, so he just gripped onto Glitch’s hand as the whole family closed around her and cried. He gripped onto her so tight, hoping he could grip her life in his hands and protect it from the Capitol’s merciless malice. “This isn’t fair.” He finally said, in a small voice.

When the Peacekeepers came back to take them away, the Zeigler family wouldn’t budge. The room was echoed with screaming as Glitch’s mother was ripped away from her.

*****

Mac laid with his grandmother on the couch in his room in the Justice Building. He had his head nestled on the crane of her neck, as she stroked his hair. His thin hands were cradled in hers, she was memorising his touch.

She was singing a song, softly to him, a lullaby. He’d shrugged her off the last few years, when she tried to sing it to him, which now he deeply regretted. He let her tunes light up the room, light up his mind, focusing on her voice instead of the distant sounds of screaming across the hall.

Ada Tesla didn’t exchange many words at the final farewell with her grandson. She just held him in her arms, for as long as she could.

Mac wiped the tears away, taking in the last of his grandmother’s smell. She smelled of strawberries.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT FOUR

The water was cold against Marina’s feet, the waves lapping softly on her legs and fingertips. She enjoyed feeling the water tickle against her bare skin as she laid on the cool sand, staring at the sunrise ahead of her. Hues of a deep pink and orange were smothered like a painting on the early morning sky; the picturesque moment soothing her. She wanted to stay in this moment forever.

“Ah!” Marina heard her friend, Bermuda, gasp in surprise. She raised her head, eyeing the drone in the sky surveying the beach. After a few moments, it whizzed away. “They’re probably doing the routine checks.” Marina sighed, laying back down to enjoy the fleeting sunrise which was filling the coast up with light.

“You sure you don’t want anymore?” Bermuda chuckled, waving the half-empty bottle of posca in her friend’s face. Marina huffed, undecided. “I’m sobering up though, I feel so peaceful right now.”
“You can be at peace with more!” The inebriated girl exclaimed, taking a swig from the bottle. “I don’t even know why Osiris threw the party last night, for his last Reaping year. Surely it would’ve made more sense to throw it tonight?”

Marina shrugged, feeling the sunlight cast down onto her body and begin to warm her up. “Last night was just a warm up, he’s throwing another one tonight. Everyone’s coming.” She said, Bermuda laughed, “You call you making out with Nikki Kark and then tripping over Osiris’ chair head first a warm-up?”
Marina let out a loud laugh in response, rubbing the slight bruise on her temple. “I am not getting that drunk tonight ok!” She sat up, taking the bottle of posca from Bermuda’s grasp and pressing it to her lips, letting a large gulp flow down her throat. She grimaced, swallowing it in disgust and chuckling. “Maybe not tonight, but why not now?” She giggled.

Marina stood up, stepping into the waves until they splashed onto her chest-deep, allowing the water to swallow her. She took another swig of the posca. “Get in, the water’s nice!”
Bermuda sighed, lifting herself to her feet despite her spinning head and jumping into the waves, approaching her friend.

“How about we go to the Reaping drunk?” Marina smirked, tapping the glass spout of the bottle. “What?” Bermuda rebuffed incredulously. “Come on, it’ll be fun. A way to get us through that cursed fucking ceremony. I’m already halfway there.” Marina laughed, allowing herself another drink of the alcohol. Bermuda considered for a moment, then smirked. “Fuck it. Pass me the bottle.” She took a large gulp, the cold of the sea balancing the burning heat of the posca in her throat.

Suddenly, the brush of a fish on Marina’s leg sent her shrieking, which sent the two girls to erupt in laughter. “What, you thought was a shark was gonna get you?” Bermuda chuckled.

*****

The boat rocked on the waves, sending Calypso and his father wobbling occasionally. It was a windy night, the harsh sea breeze proving their fishing quest difficult. The pair had been on the boat for almost five hours, dedicating to this task overnight, with only a small handful of fish being caught in their net. Eventually, as the sun began to rise, the wind subsided and lowered in its pace but still, no further fish were captured.

“Looks like we wasted another night. It’s supposed to be better in the dark.” Calypso’s father muttered in a tired voice, disappointed, as the boat glided back to shore. Calypso patted his father on the back, shrugging. “We still caught a few, enough for the soup mom’s making.” He nodded in response, helping his son gather their catch in a basket.

“Thanks for coming with me anyway, especially the night before the Reaping.” Gilbert Reef exclaimed, “You’re a good kid.” He didn’t know what he’d do without his son.

A pleasant aroma wafted in the house when Calypso and his father arrived back home. Sand dusted around the floor as Calypso walked, their attempts and ridding it useless due to the gaps in the walls and floorboards that allowed it to freely roam inside. He liked it, though. It reminded Calypso that they lived near the beach, his safe haven, even though the only view out of his bedroom window was a brick wall to the neighbour’s house.

“What’s my lady cooking?” Gilbert smiled, entering the kitchen and wrapping his wife in a hug from behind as she kissed him on the lips. “Your breakfast. You bring me any fish?” She asked, throwing the chopped carrots into the pot of brewing broth.

“Yes we did mom!” Calypso shot up, placing a handful of fish on the chopping board next to her. Mrs. Reef frowned. “Is that all?”

“That’s all. There’s a high tide coming in and you know how it is with those big fishing machines now.” Gilbert sighed, sitting by the wooden table in the kitchen and rubbing his face in his hands. Calypso’s mother took a chopping knife and sliced into a fish, preparing it for the family’s meal. “No problem, it’ll do.” She said. She turned to Calypso, who threw a glass of water down his throat, his eyes wavering with tiredness.

“You should scrub the sea and sand off you, Calypso.” His mother stated, dropping a fish into the pot and jabbing her knife blade into another. “And after catch a nap, the Reaping isn’t until noon.”

He nodded in return, leaping up the stiff steps upstairs, throwing his clothes off and turning the shower on. He slipped inside, groaning as the lukewarm water trickled against his salty skin. Calypso just wanted to forget today. He wanted it to run by like a whizz, and be over as soon as it started. He didn’t need to remember, to be torn back to the ceremony. To have a reminder itching at his skull of his best friend’s name called out by the shrill voice of the Capitol escort last year. To be forced to watch as his best friend’s body burst into countless red, wet fragments on the screen.

Calypso’s mouth twitched, he punched the tile of the wall, stinging his knuckles. The water had gone cold. He picked up a bar of white soap and began lathering it across his body, scrubbing hard. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the image of what was left of his best friend could not be cleansed from his mind.

*****

Seraphina Lynx exhaled a breath of peace. She liked the way the gentle sea breeze brushed against her face, her hair, calming her. How fresh and clean the air tasted. Her nerves of her first time as a Capitol escort were spiked high, especially on the train to District Four from the Capitol, as she felt her stomach wrenching. She had the responsibility of representing an entire district for the Hunger Games.

She’d be fine, she thought, as the summer sun cast over her ivory skin. The view from the stage; of the glittering sea, the soft white beach, the baby-blue sky- was nothing short of perfect. It was exactly what she had seen on the advertisements on TV and posters on the streets, portraying District Four as the perfect beach getaway. An entire section of the coastline was closed off, resorts built solely for and marked for Capitol tourists. She’d seen her friends posting pictures of the flowing blue waves, the magnificent sunsets on her visits. Seraphina would come back here properly another time, she thought. Maybe the next month, hopefully with a handsome suitor to hold her hand as she rested on the beach with a cold cocktail perched in her other hand as the sun basked them.

“Miss Lynx,” A voice called, interrupting Seraphina’s daydream. Mayor Zambesi stood beside the nervous Capitol escort on the stage. “Welcome to District Four, I hope you’re liking it so far.” She exclaimed, Seraphine smiled, her eyes lighting up. “Oh I’m loving it here! It’s so beautiful and calming, I’d love to visit properly another time.”

“It’s a shame the reason of your visit is for such an event.” The mayor stated. The comment puzzled Seraphina, whom furrowed her eyebrows in response. “You’re familiar with the process of our Reaping?”
“Yes, I call the location on the slip first before the tribute name?” Seraphina asked, Mayor Zambesi nodded “Exactly.”

The Capitol escort looked at the crowd of children, belonging to the Estelle settlement which hosted the Reaping stage, whom were sorting into their spaces in front of her. “Good afternoon, what a beautiful day!” She yelled out, receiving confused looks in response. They were clad mostly in clothing of light blues and whites, consternation creeping on their expressions. Still, the crowd flowed with a cheerful energy, as people chatted amongst each other and shook hands to uplift the doom approaching their eligible children. Unlike most of the districts, where the Reaping would by conducted by their Justice Buildings; District Four seemed to boast their picturesque scenery by hosting on one of their many beaches.

Marina watched as her sister engaged in a light-hearted conversation with her history teacher on the other side of the ropes, as her head spun. She felt cramped in the crowd, uneasy, especially after her pricked finger felt sore. It definitely didn’t help that she was still somewhat drunk. She turned to Bermuda whom stood beside her, suppressing a laugh. This caused Marina to smirk, which quickly enough evolved into a released chuckle. “I can’t believe we actually turned up here drunk.”

It was a miracle her sister didn’t notice when she got home, and on the way to their settlement’s, Palermo’s, ceremony. Still, the dread that tainted the event was lifted up as Marina watched it through spinning vision and a warm stomach.

“My dad’s not happy, he figured when I got home. Called me s-s-stupid and reckless.” Bermuda almost slurred, crossing her arms. Marina laughed, “You are stupid and reckless! You listened to me!”
Their humorous conversation was halted as the large screen looming over the Palermo town’s crowd clicked on, displaying Seraphina Lynx’s figure on the stage. Silence was instated all across the district instantly, the cameras recording over every settlement for the Reaping.

“We are live at District Four for the Reaping of the 61st Hunger Games! Aren’t we excited to see what brave tributes this beautiful sea haven will provide?” Seraphina boasted. “She looks better than the one last year, and younger.” Marina whispered, recalling the spiky neon clothes and multi-coloured hair which made her almost feel sick. “Yeah, her outfit isn’t terrible either.” Bermuda remarked, “For Capitol standards.” Marina smirked in a hushed volume.

Seraphina was cloaked in a tight, azure-blue dress. It squeezed at her slender figure, stretching down to her ankles. There were openings in the shape of sea waves all around, revealing dots of Seraphina’s ivory skin. A silk scarf, imitating seaweed, clung around her smooth arms. Her long blonde hair strung from her head in a manicured and gelled volume of waves, sprinkled with sea shells all over. Gleaming white pearl earrings dangled from her ears, wobbling slightly as she talked. A dark blue eyeshadow was smudged over her eyes, which dazzled in a striking honey colour as they pierced the camera lens as she talked.

Calypso watched, thinking she was quite attractive. The ocean-themed outfit didn’t look bad on her at all. She didn’t drown herself in the usual ghastly and garish Capitol attire, it was toned down and didn't overshadow her natural beauty. He also noticed there was an apprehensiveness in her tone, she was nervous. It must have been her first year as an escort. He decided admiring Seraphina’s looks was a distraction from the promotional video that played and the angst that snaked within the Venus settlement’s Reaping crowd.

The sound of the nearby waves lapping against the shore as the wind blew soothed him, anger bubbling in his heart. Thames should have been standing there with him, commenting on how pretty and conventional Seraphina looked. Not in pieces, six feet under the town’s cemetery.

“Ladies first.” Seraphina exclaimed, walking over to the female Reaping bowl. Every settlement in the district pulsed in a tense silence, the only sound being the slight clacking of Seraphina’s indigo heels on the stage, playing on the screens. She reached into the glass bowl, extracting a paper slip from the bottom. Nerves pulled at her, but she contained a belated smile on her face as she stepped back to the microphone. Opening up the slip, Seraphina tried to purse it in her fingers as a strong breeze whistled against the stage. Beginning to speak, she stuttered slightly, remembering the rules and realising she was just about to announce the names first. She got back on the right track. “From the Palermo settlement,” she stated, “Marina Corale.”

Marina hadn’t even been paying attention, locked in a drunken trance, wishing nothing but for a bowl of mangoes and the comfort of her bed. It was only when she noticed Bermuda’s shocked face that she raised her eyebrow. “Marina Corale.” Seraphina’s voice repeated, booming from the speakers of the screen. She shuddered at the sound, and the display now on the screen of her face as the cameras found her. Exhaling a shaky breath, she stepped out into the central walkway, shooting a look to the other side of the ropes; finding her sister’s horrified face. Marina stumbled as she walked, her vision blurring. She straightened her maya-blue dress as she walked, feeling as though she was about to wobble to the ground. A sense of foreboding lumped in her throat, her face displaying clear shock.

Almost tripping over her own feet, Marina stood by the screen, facing her town. The heaps of bricked and wooden houses of Palermo down the hill, lurked behind the crowd, relieved yet saddened eyes burned into her. She felt like she was about to throw up. Wether from being drunk or from the shock, she didn’t know, but she reckoned it was probably both. “How old are you, Marina?” Seraphina’s voice boomed through the speaker. It took Marina a few moments to find her voice. “I- Six, sixteen.” She slurred.

“What a favourable young lady District Four is sending into the Games!” Seraphina’s voice perked, “We should now find a daring young man to accompany Marina.”

She walked to the male glass bowl, her manicured teal fingernails brushing against the top layer of the paper slips. Calypso gulped in fear as Seraphina’s hand broke the surface, reaching almost halfway through the load and drawing a slip out. A small collection of slips escaped the bowl with her movement, blowing into the crowd below her. Several children frantically attempted to catch them, hoping to find their names on the fallen slips. Seraphina’s hand ripped the envelope open, holding the paper slip out in front of her. “From the Venus settlement,” She announced, as massive sighs of relief were exhaled from the other spared settlements. “Calypso Reef.”

The sighs of relief released across the district was followed by Calypso’s sigh of terror. His lip quivered, his fists clenched by his sides. It was his name called by the pretty Capitol escort. He’d hoped she’d have spoke his name in a different context.

The boys around him made way, as he stepped away from them at the front of the crowd and walked towards the screen. Fear jabbed into his chest every time he took a step across the sand. His entire home town A harsh breeze rushed past, threatening to spill the hot tears that brimmed in his eyes. It took everything in Calypso to keep from crying. He couldn’t cry.

Realising she forgot to ask for volunteers after calling Marina’s name, Seraphina’s eyes bounced with anxiety. “Any volunteers?” She asked this time, correctly, familiar that District Four sometimes had volunteers brought forward. The silence she was met with confirmed that wasn’t the case this year, unfortunately for Calypso. “I believe we have a handsome young man from the Venus settlement. How old are you, Calypso?” Seraphina’s voice beamed from the screen.

He swallowed, moving his teeth from his lip which he was biting down on. He tasted blood. “I’m eighteen.” He replied, turning to the side as he heard his mother’s stifled cries beyond the ropes. He couldn’t look at her. He stared at the beach instead, watching the waves crash harshly against the shore.

Calypso heard the seagulls in the sky cackle above, it was as though they were mocking him.

*****

Marina had been shocked into sobriety. She stared out of the window of her room in the Justice Building, tears streaming down her topaz-coloured face profusely. The door snapped open. “You have ten minutes.” A Peacekeeper’s voice stated, as Oceanelle Corale burst into the room and ran into her younger sister’s arms.

“I’m so sorry,” She cried, grasping onto Marina’s back. Marina began to sob, the sight of her pained sister breaking her heart. She believed she’d never see her again. “The fuck am I gonna do?” She heaved, pulling away from her sister and wiping her tears.

“It’s ok, y-you have training,” Oceanelle said, holding firmly onto her sister’s shaking hand. “You can swim like one of the fishes themselves. You know how to fish, you can defend yourself.”
Marina scoffed, wiping her eyes dry. “I stand no chance.”

“Were you drunk?” Oceanelle asked, Marina laughed. “Yep. Chose the wrong day to be stupid.”

“For God’s sake, Marina.” Oceanelle shook her head, sighing in frustration. “I really hope that didn’t show on the cameras.” Marina sighed, chuckling. “Maybe it’s good. They’ll see I’m a fun time, could be automatically likable to those sick cunts.” She spat, tears flowing down her face again. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Her sister tried not to cry, wrapping Marina in her arms and holding her close. Oceanelle was not ready to lose her entire family.

“This is so fucked.” Bermuda yelled, laying on her best friend’s lap. “What the fuck am I gonna do without you?”

Marina laughed, squeezing Bermuda’s hand. “Your life is officially as over as mine.”

Bermuda shot up, staring at Marina angrily. “Don’t say that,” she cried, “Don’t you dare say that. Your life isn’t over!” Bermuda wiped a tear from her face, sitting beside her friend. Both their faces were wet. “You’re gonna do this fucking thing, you’ll make the Capitol love you and you’ll ace your way through the Games.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a piece of cake.” Marina said, “Do you think they’ll have any booze in the arena? It’ll be the only thing to get me through it.”

“You stupid bitch,” Bermuda laughed, laying on her best friend’s shoulder as they clasped their hands together. Her fingers caressed Marina’s slender wrist, fingering the amber bracelet that matched her own on her wrist. “You wear that bracelet in the arena, our promise bracelets. That’s your good luck charm. You’ll be wearing it when you come back home. You’re coming home.”
Marina didn’t want to waste the last of her time with her best friend with unrealistic assurances. She sighed, wiping her tears, as they placed their wrists together; their amber bracelet beads clacking against each other. “Osiris’ party tonight better be in my honour.” Marina laughed, Bermuda chuckled. “It’s gonna be fucking sick.”

*****

Calypso was slouched on the floor, his head in his hands. The stained glass lamp on the desk was now shattered on the mahogany floorboards, the chair flipped upside down and the bookcase in the room broken. Calypso was livid. Anger boiled in his veins, hot tears shot down his face. They were going to kill him like they killed his best friend. He wanted to stomp on President Snow’s head, over and over, until all that was left was bloody mush.

“Calypso!” Misty Reef wept as she entered the room in the Justice Building, rushing over to her only child. Calypso stood up and held his body open for his mother’s, which crashed into his with desperation. She cried into the crane of his neck, as his father stood by the door.

“I’m gonna be ok, mom. I’ll be ok.” He said, rubbing his mother’s back. His knuckles hurt, red and bruised from punching the bookcase shelves. Gilbert Reef couldn’t find it in him to take a step forward, or speak. He could hardly look at his son. Terror and devastation brimmed inside him but he couldn’t find a way to let it release itself.

Misty refused to let her son go, clinging onto him as though she could shield him away from the Peacekeepers waiting outside to drag him to his menacing fate. “I’m not losing you, I’m not losing my son.” She cried, “You’re strong, you’re smart. You can win, Calypso. You can win.” Calypso didn’t believe her pleas but he nodded, holding onto his mother. A fisherman’s son wasn’t going to leave that arena alive.

Gilbert stared at his son, his hands trembling. His heart was wrenching. The barrier broke, a wounded gasp escaped his mouth. A tear streamed down his face, his lips quivering. “I love you, my boy.” He sobbed.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT FIVE

Volta squirmed as he groaned loudly, he was practically roaring. His hips buckled as he panted, getting out of her and laying down next to her as he was finished. Albus Carmine was a gross man in bed, to say the least. He reeked of cigarette smoke and had no consideration for a woman’s body, or women in general. Volta was a representations of so; as she covered in bites and bruises, her thighs were sore and her head ached. She wanted nothing more but to leave Albus’s grungy apartment, but she had to wait for the money. Her stomach growled with ravenous hunger. Slinging her clothes back on, Volta stood up. She eyed Albus’s Peacekeeper uniform, which was chucked on the floor.

“Oh don’t act all high and mighty now.” Albus spat, retrieving a small handful of coins from his desk and chucking them in Volta’s hand.“This isn’t enough, the deal was ten coins.” She stated, confused.

“You’re a dirty slut. You’re not worth ten.” He scoffed, “Be grateful I even gave you anything.”

Volta scowled, tucking the coins into her pocket. There would be no chance of bargaining. To him, her body was worth seven coins.

“Don’t you have the Reaping to get to, little girl? Get the fuck out.” Albus spat, which Volta obeyed gladly. Fucking asshole, she thought.

Volta squeezed past the narrow streets of the Eastern Quarter, the dingy alleyways lurking around her. She sat down in a corner, licking her lips at the sandwich in her hands. It was cheese and tomato. She bit into it, gulping it down her throat fruitlessly, savouring every precious bite. She hadn’t eaten in six days. At least her degrading encounter with Peacekeeper Albus Carmine bought her a meal, and a vial of morphling. They came at a price though, her dignity. Volta couldn’t afford dignity. She did what she had to do to survive. If that meant pickpocketing the merchants and spreading her legs for Peacekeepers and seedy men in alleyways then so be it. The power plant didn’t pay nearly enough and she was all alone.

She got home, or the box that was technically her home, exhausted. She laid down on her bed, the mattress strings whining loudly, and fished out the morphling from her pocket. Volta spun the vial between her fingers as she picked up the needle from under her bed. If she got high now it would subside just before the Reaping, she had time. Sticking the needle into the vial and soaking up the pale yellow liquid, she then jabbed the needle into her arm, a spot void of the other bruises.

Volta moaned, her eyes rolling backwards as the drug entered her bloodstream. A wave of euphoria and calm washed over her body.

The sound of the electricity towers buzzed outside her rusty window, which she looked out of and stared at as she rested her head on the thin pillow. The buzzing and the hum trickled in her eyes, her vision distorting. For once, the world felt amazing. It felt tolerable. Volta managed to drown out the pain, the hunger, and the desperation that tormented her life every day, with one easy needle.

*****

It was a windy Reaping morning in the Eastern Quarter. The harsh sun kept popping in between heavy clouds, over the concrete houses and winding roads dotted over the large beige hills. The seemingly endless power lines dangled over the majority of the district like hanging fruit, buzzing and whining as the long copper wires jolted with electricity. They swayed menacingly in the wind.

The creaking of the copper and the breeze pushing in Ion’s face unnerved him. The raven locks of his fringe kept spitting at his eyes, causing him to curse and aggressively flick them away. The hook of Ion’s harness clanged against the thick metal railing of the voltage tower, moving in rhythm with the wind. Ion had already been up it for over forty minutes now, his supervisor wouldn’t be happy if he took any longer than an hour to repair a broken conductor bundle. Even if it was the morning of the Reaping, and work was supposed to be suspended for the day, the quote had to be met.
Meeting the quota would be exponentially more difficult for Ion, seeing as he only had one hand to fix the bundle with. It was his choice, he brought himself forward for the extra shift. And his supervisor knew he was efficient at his job despite the obvious disadvantage of his limited mobility. It was either this or Eos wouldn’t get his meds tonight, Ion thought. He needed the money. The harrowing thought of his cousin’s pain if the job wasn’t done motivated Ion to hurry and complete, squeezing the spare parts in his knees as his only hand twisted at the conductor bundle.

Eventually, after his entire body felt like it was being squeezed at also, the sound of a clink sent a wave of relief and joy through his chest. The bundle on the voltage tower was finally fixed. The quota was met. His supervisor would hand him the bag of coins after all.

Ion smiled as he climbed back down the tower, comforted at the fact he could now afford to spring to the pharmacy in the merchant quarter for the pain medication his cousin needed.

“It’s not too cold, is it?” Ion asked, scrubbing his cousin’s back. The cold water nipped at Ion’s hand as he kept dunking it back in the bathtub to soak up the sponge.

“It’s fine.” Eos replied, looking upwards, flushing with humiliation and despair. Ion could almost taste it, his heart sinking as he watched the anguish on his Eos’s face. He scrunched the sponge, letting water wash away the soap on his cousin’s skin.

“Listen, I’ve already told you don’t be embarrassed with me bathing you when your mom can’t, it’s really fine.” Ion exclaimed, his cousin huffed. “I’ve gotten over the embarrassed part. You know how grateful I am for you, cuz,” he stated. Looking through the murky bath water he saw his pale legs, which limped there motionless. Eos gritted his teeth. “I just- I just can’t live like this anymore!” he yelled, gripping at the side of the bathtub. The water was cold, and it didn’t help to cool the fury boiling inside him. “I’d rather be dead than keep living like this.”

Ion grabbed Eos’s shoulder, twisting him so their eyes could meet each other. “Don’t say that, Eos. Ever.” He demanded, rinsing the soapy sponge in the water and chucking it to the side. He rose up, handing his cousin a towel. “It’s a miracle you survived that day.”

“Some damned miracle.” The scorned boy muttered, as Ion rolled the wheelchair towards him.

*****

Volta held out her hand to the Peacekeeper as she approached her desk by the Reaping crowd, more familiar with the procedure than she wished to be. The small needle pricked the beige skin of her finger, slightly drawing blood. She sighed, already missing the bigger type of needle she preferred, picturing jabbing it into her arm tonight.

The small screen on the needle-machine flashed, displaying her name in a white font. “Next.” The monotone voice of the Peacekeeper lady called, as Volta stepped forwards into the central walkway of the Reaping crowd. The tingling of her head was now subsiding, the effects of the morning’s morphling doze wearing away. She sniffled, itching at how raw and exposed and utterly hopeless being sober made her feel. Even though the bright sun found a way to beam through the thick clouds in the sky, Volta was shivering.

“Volta, is that you?” a voice called out incredulously, she turned to face Alva Nobles behind her. Despite both belonging to the working-class demographic of District Five’s Eastern Quarter, Volta couldn’t have felt any poorer looking at her old friend. Alva’s midnight blue cotton dress hugged her slender frame, her auburn hair tied it into two neat braids. Her cheeks flushed with life. It made Volta feel small, feel shrunken in comparison. She thought about how she looked to Alva now, to everyone, in her withered navy dress with the threads pulled out of place and the poorly covered tear marks. Her bony body must have made people grimace as they walked past, she thought. With her dry hair which was only pulled in a lazy ponytail, and her pasty skin and bloodshot eyes. She just wanted to kneel down and cry.

“I haven’t seen you in like, what? Almost two years now?” Alva said, “You look… different.” Volta shrugged in response, her fingernails digging into her palm. “You here with anyone? My brother had to go to the back obviously. He’s terrified but I told him it’s only his first year he’s got nothing to worry about.” Alva asked, Volta shook her head, managing a weak “No.” She found her voice through the envy of her old friend’s normal state. “I’m not here with anyone.”

Alva frowned, grabbing Volta’s hand, “Then stand with me. Nobody should have to go through this alone.” This caught her by surprise, as the girl led her to the sixteen-year-old section of the female side of the Eastern Quarter’s Reaping crowd. They found their places towards the middle, positioning themselves as the other children milled into place. Volta was frozen, stunned at the warm arm slung around hers. It made her stomach flutter almost the same way morphling did.

“I’ve gotta admit, at least one bright side of this limp hell is that I don’t have to worry about this no more.” Eos exclaimed, gesturing towards the queue of children waiting to sign in to the Reaping.
“Shame this wasn’t enough of an exception.” Ion chuckled, waving his stump towards his cousin’s face. They both laughed.

“Enough with the pity party, boys.” Mrs. Suzuki rolled her eyes, careful to push her son’s wheelchair safely through the jagged, rocky pavement. “Now good luck dear Ion, you’ll be at the table for supper tonight. For my bean potato stew.” She encouraged, patting her nephew on the shoulder. “Bet you can’t wait for her LOVELY stew.” Eos jeered, followed by a light smack on his cheek by Mrs. Suzuki. The boys laughed again.

“Move.” A Peacekeeper commanded in a hoarse voice behind them, pointing at Ion with his gun and then to the queue. Ion scoffed, obliging.

Damocles Euterpe had to admit, he was grateful his role for the Reaping as the Capitol escort was conducted inside the Mayor’s office of District Five’s Justice Building. That way, he didn’t have to pretend to smile for the cameras despite the dreary and depressing concrete buildings that littered the district. And those power lines, those ugly power lines! He thought, no sense of structure or concern of architecture to them. No need to have to actually stand near any district people also. They always smelled. Damocles had to always spray his neck with extra rose perfume when he had to be up close with the tributes. Where were their showers, their lavender body gels, their aromatic deodorants? Ghastly. One thing he allowed himself to appreciate was District Five’s Reaping colours, as the youth was dominated in different shades of dark blue. He approved.

“The mix-up with the slips is now fixed,” Mayor Sonnet declared, breathing a sigh of relief. “We can proceed.” He nodded towards Damocles, whom cleared his throat and readjusted his long black hair. “Recording in three, two, one… Action!” A voice from the camera crew called, the light on the camera flashing red. Damocles raised his arms and grinned, almost as though he was about to break into song. “Good afternoon, people of Panem!” He cheered into the lens.

Ion thought the Capitol escort looked like an absolute tool. He couldn’t tell whether the spayed onyx monstrosity that hung down to Damocles’ hips was a wig or genuinely real hair that the escort had chosen to style that way. His dyed purple eyes seemed as though they impended over the Reaping crowds through the large screens in every quarter in the district, big and bulging. His unnaturally paper-white skin reminded Volta of a corpse, the way it seemed too preserved to be attached to a person. Small purple inked patterns were dotted across his face and his hands, in the shapes of stars. A bulky, orchid-purple tuxedo pulled on Damocles’ round figure; dazzling in shimmering sequins. Ion suppressed a taunt. Surely even the Capitol disliked the fashion choice that creeped on his head and protruded on his fat body.

“Girls, be prepared to hold your breath!” Damocles chuckled finally after the speeches and the promotional video was over, his polished leather shoes stomping loudly on the wooden floorboards. He reached the female reaping bowl, as the girls unintentionally followed his advice as the Capitol escort dug his podgy hand into the heap of paper slips. Volta found her breath hitched in her throat, her arm wrapped tightly around Alva’s. Damocles rustled in the bowl for a lengthy while, for what must have been less than ten seconds but what felt like an eternity for the odds that weighed on the children’s shoulders. Mothers gripped their husbands’ hands, praying their children were spared.

Damocles’ hand finally retracted a slip out of the bowl, from the very bottom of the pile, a slip at the very base of the glass bowl. He stepped towards the camera. “Drumroll, please!” He laughed, as his fingers tore away the envelope, stretching the slip out towards him. “From the Eastern Quarter: Volta Tydal.”

His excited voice rang through the speakers in the Eastern Quarter. Murmurs sounded within the crowd on the other side of the ropes. Rumours of that name had swirled around the streets, the markets, the power plants, the tavern.

Volta’s mouth hung open, her blue eyes wide. Her hands began to tremble. She heard steps and shuffles, turning to see the girls around her made way for the central walkway. Her heart dropped as she felt Alva’s arm pull away from her, a bewildered and saddened expression painted on her face. “No.” She gasped, “No!” she said again, this time turning her heel and running. Damocles was heard to gasp through the screen, voices sounded in scuffles. Volta pushed her way through the crowd, sheer panic brimmed inside her, sprinting for the other side of the ropes. She got within a foot to them, before a Peacekeeper caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder, throwing her to the ground. She landed hard on her side, yelping.

“District Five provides a feisty one!” Damocles’ voice sounded from the speaker on the large screen ahead, as two Peacekeepers seized hold of both of Volta’s skinny arms and pushed her to the front. She couldn’t help but weep, tears running down her face. “How about we see if her male counterpart has just as much energy- over to the boys!” Damocles’ cheerful tone didn’t falter. That wretched girl may have screwed her chances of sponsorship already with that embarrassment, he thought, but she sure wasn’t going to embarrass him.

The murmurs in each quarter died down as thousands of scared eyes watched through the screens as Damocles crossed over to the male reaping bowl. His fleshy hand shot inside, pushing through the slips until he grabbed an entire handful. He then held his fist over the hem of the glass bowl, letting them all trickle like snow back to their prior location until only one remained. The envelope was ripped away, the camera lens focusing on the slip which Damocles held towards himself as he read: “From the Eastern Quarter: Ion Suzuki.”

Ion’s heart dropped. Loud exclamations of anger and disbelief rose from the crowd in the Eastern Quarter. “You’re gonna take two of our kids?” A man yelled, his further attempts of protest cut short by the threat of a Peacekeeper’s gun waved his way. Ion tried to keep his face as emotionless as possible, pursing his lips and looking straight ahead as he walked out of his place in the crowd and towards the front, by the big screen where Damocles’ big face loomed over them.

Ion didn’t even know what to do with himself, he just pushed his legs to keep moving until he reached Volta, whom cowered underneath the screen. He finally reached her, taking a step beside the freaked girl. His heart felt like it was going to burst.

“District Five’s tributes for the 61st Hunger Games, everyone, haven’t we got a pair: Volta Tydal and Ion Suzuki!” Damocles declared triumphantly. Or, rather, in the most triumphant tone he could conjure. The murmurs in the Eastern Quarter intensified as the cameras displayed a close-up shot of the two tributes; the rip on Volta’s dress sleeve from her fall on the ground earlier showcasing the needle marks on her arm, and the stump where Ion’s left hand should have been.

District Five had a pair to send to the Games, alright. A pair they had no confidence would return to them alive.

*****

The air in the Justice Building felt poisonous. Volta’s lungs were on fire, she felt like her shock and misery were solidifying into stones in her throat. Choking her. Stabbing at her insides. It felt like she was drowning, even though there was no water nearby.

The door clicked open, as weary steps slowly tapped into the room. Volta hardly noticed, gripping onto the sides of the desk, trying to keep herself breathing.

“Volta?” Alva’s concerned voice called out, seeing the bony girl hunched over. She rushed to her aid, gently grabbing Volta by the arms. “Just breathe slowly, breathe slowly.” She calmly stated, as Volta looked at her through tear-cloaked eyes as her ragged breaths filled the room.

“Pace yourself. One, two, three… like that. Slow it down, slow. Breathe.” Alva instructed, rubbing her back. Volta had no choice but to obey, allowing herself to find her breaths and pause. Gradually, she managed to slowly lower her breaths until her lungs no longer felt like they were torched by scorching embers. She exhaled, turning to Alva and throwing her arms around her. “How did you know how to stop that?” She cried, as Alva and embraced her old friend.

“It’s called a panic attack. I get them too sometimes.” The comforting girl replied, as Volta found herself clinging onto her and crying into her shoulder. Every part of her screamed with shame for allowing herself to be so vulnerable, and guilt. Red. Hot. Guilt. Volta’s chest hammered with this unbearable guilt, this unbearable shame, as she recalled how Alva’s father handed her ten coins after having his way with her in the janitor’s closet of the power plant, only a couple of months ago. Volta didn’t care who the man was, how repulsed he made her as his familiar face struck her memory as he unbuckled his pants in that closet. She’d only cared about getting the cash for her next fix.

Perhaps selfishly also, Volta found herself burying the guilt and the shame in Alva’s touch. It had been buried by her caring, comforting touch. A loving touch, which she didn’t remember the last time she had. It was so different to the sharp, grimy, predatory touch that Volta had grown used to the past couple of years from men who’d only wanted one thing. Alva’s embrace was so warm, so real.

Volta concluded she’d be fine dying if this was the last thing she could look back on.

*****

“That sick fuck, he was toying around with those slips like it’s all a fucking game.” Eos yelled, gripping onto the sides of his wheelchair.

Ion found himself unable to even speak. He’d have thought he’d cry into his aunt’s arms, which rested mournfully on his, but his eyes remained dry. He couldn’t even find what emotion was spiking inside of him.

“Your parents would have been so proud of you, Ion,” Therma Suzuki exclaimed quietly. “You’ve always been a selfless, honourable young man. How well you’ve handled yourself since they passed, since your accident, how much you’ve helped us. You’ve done so well.” Ion furrowed his eyebrows. Why was she talking about him in past tense?

The wind whistled against the window, a crack had been slightly left open. He’d always jittered in fright at the feeling of wind, from the anxiety of hanging high in the towers. But now, the soft breeze that brushed across his neck calmed him.

Eos’s hand was trembling in anger, but he pressed it onto Ion’s palm. He slipped him a rusty metal chain. It was little and chipped, almost falling apart. Another metal part was linked to it, cracked and faded letters reading the phrase ‘Salt Lake City’. Ion’s heart warmed with nostalgia, a smile creeping on his face as he looked at his cousin. The words didn’t mean anything to them, and they were perplexed what the object was and why it was linked to the name, but a core childhood memory was attached to the mysterious object.

“We found this when we were kids,” Ion said, recalling their little hands digging the metal chain from the sand. “Yeah. Must have been something from the pre-Panem days.” Eos replied, holding back tears. “You take that shitty little chain with you in the arena, Ion, and you fight your way back.”

Ion shook his cousin’s hand, nodding sincerely. He knew he couldn’t keep the promise.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT SIX

Kia held the glass up to her mother’s lips, pouring the water down her throat. Jersey Hadley hardly drank it down, her bloodshot eyes rolling backwards, and her head sunk down back to her pillow. Kia sighed, picking up a cloth and lightly dabbing it around her mother’s sweat-stained face.

“Come on, mom, you have to get ready for the Reaping.” Kia exclaimed, receiving a moan of discomfort in return. Jersey turned around, her back to her daughter, digging her face in the polyester fabric of her pillow. Her hair was wet with sweat, matted and greasy, her skin pasty and pale. Worst of all were her eyes, which were strained with sickly red lines and yellow tint. They hung open for a few moments, staring at the sunlight that streaked through the battered window, then shut back.

Kia picked up the needle from the bed, placing it onto the withered bedside table alongside the vial of morphling. She stared at it, and considered picking it up and smashing it to the floor, imagining the yellow liquid spilling across the floorboards. That would create more problems than solutions, she thought.

“Mom get up.” Kia said again, this time her voice louder and firmer. Jersey grunted, rubbing her temples.

“I’m up, I’m up,” she mumbled, sitting up and sighing in discomfort. “Get ready, I’ll be down in a half hour.”

Walking out of the room and over to the tiny kitchen, Kia obliged. The stench of mould wafted in the room, as the twins ignored it as they sat on the floor, watching the grainy box of a TV. Kia plopped the crusts of what was left of the bread on two chipped plates and handed them to the twins, Chicago and Venice, serving them the only breakfast they could scavenge.

“Bread crusts, again?” Chicago frowned, Kia sighed. “Yeah, my tesserae shipment should be coming in next week we’ll be eating better soon bud.” She replied, laughing at the repulsed expression on Venice’s face. The door, which shrieked on its broken hinges, opened. The eldest Hadley child, Bentley, entered.

“Mom okay today?” he asked, Kia shrugged her shoulders. “She’s awake.” She handed her brother a cloth, “Can you look after them? I’ve already bathed, I need to get dressed now.” Bentley nodded in return, as Kia scurried to the bathroom.

Jersey groaned in pain in the bathtub, shakily washing herself. Kia tugged her Reaping dress on her bony body, readjusting it as she watched it in the reflection of the bathwater. It was a pretty enough dress, white with small black flowers dotted across.

“That used to be mine,” Jersey stated, running the soap through her hair. “The flowers were good luck, as they will be for you too.” Her eyes barely hung open as she spoke, her voice almost mumbling. She winced as the water made contact with the bruise on her arm.

Although the broken window, which had cardboard taped over it, looked ugly; Kia was glad that it dimmed the room. The house was better in the dark, where she couldn’t see the green patches of mould that lingered on the ceiling, the dwindling furniture, the cracked tiles, the empty fridge. Sometimes, if she stood and just waited long enough, Kia felt as though the house was sinking into the marsh.

*****

The grey smoke that usually itched their eyes and gnawed at their lungs had withered down, evaporated into a light mist due to its absence today. All and any form of work had been suspended, just for today. Just for Reaping Day. Thinking how he’d be diminished into a small speck of grey within the sea of his terrified peers, Cyprian shuddered. For now the only grey Cyprian saw was the subdued smoke hanging in the warm, summer morning air- a cloak to the arrays of jagged buildings and warehouses and factories which littered the West of District 6. Cyprian could see the shapes of the buildings and the crumbling roads stretch out for miles, acting as a sort of background to the baby blue sky. District 6 is the biggest in Panem, it's said. And when he sat by the rooftop the statement is proved by the vastness of the buildings and occasional greenery which seemed to last for eternity.

Cyprian took a deep sigh, smoothing the last of the red paint across the paper that rested on his lap. It left cracked smudges across the crevices of his painting. It wasn't easy getting the paint, had to squeeze some into his little bottle whilst at the warehouse before anyone could catch on.

"You missed a bit there," Raille chimed, pointing at the unfilled corner of his fox sketch. Cyprian rolled his eyes, handing her the paintbrush. "Why don't you fix it then?" He exclaimed, she giddily snatched the brush from him and painted, completing his work and huffing "There you go."

Prius handed Cyprian his cigarette, to which he took a long puff of and let the smoke cloud over his lungs, exhaling it out into the air and passing it back to him. Prius then reached over and wiped the smudges of paint on his friend’s hand, "Come on Cyprian, you gotta be as fresh and clean as a daisy for the Reaping." He laughed, Cyprian rebuffed his gesture and rubbed it off himself, "I'll be fine I'll bathe before I leave anyway." "Speaking of," Raille said, lifting herself up and smoothing her dark curls behind her ears, "It's time we leave. The Reaping starts at noon and you know what they'll do if we're late."

The trio reluctantly obliged, climbing down the abandoned building and using the misplaced bricks as their footing as they reached the ground.

Jumping off the shuttle once it reached his stop, Cyprian then spent ten minutes squeezing his way through the dingy alleyways and tight roads of the North, which is where the poorer of the district resided. Where he lived. Technically not the poorest though, Cyprian’s house although tiny and barely holding itself together with its crumbled walls and splintering floorboards was enough to call a home. That category would belong to the area further up north, right towards the district border, with the shacks of broken houses dotted across the marshland.

As soon as he got home, Cyprian bathed as quickly as he could due to the time running short. When he reached the closet of his room, comprised of off-white concrete walls, a squeaky wooden bed, a small wardrobe; Cyprian tucked his sketchbook under his bed. Throwing on is best clothes takes longer than he thought, wrapping together the frail white buttons of his grey shirt and smoothing down his black trousers. Both items hadn’t changed since last year, although that's probably because he hadn’t gained any weight since then.

He could hear footsteps downstairs, his father must have been ready. Cyprian stared into the mirror, his basil green eyes ladled with anxiety. It wouldn’t be him, he thought hopefully. It was going to be all fine. His pre-Reaping envelope, which was clutched in his hand, didn’t really give him much assurance.

*****

Mayor Kone stared at Spart Xanderwinkle as she tweaked on the finishing touches of her eyeliner, making sure everything was perfect before the cameras would begin rolling. Despite her outlandish appearance that never failed to confuse the citizens of District Six every year, and her giddy demeanour, the mayor had grown used to the eccentric Capitol escort. She was an oblivious and harmless woman, really. He was convinced she never actually grasped the gravity of her job, despite her past seven years of arriving to District Six to pick out two children to send to their deaths.

“Oooh, Mayor Kone!” Spart called out to him, as he approached her. “How do I look? I spent HOURS getting ready today and I still feel incomplete!”

He huffed, his hands in his pockets. “You look just fine, Miss Xanderwinkle.” Her eyes lighted up. She turned and stared at the crowd in front of her, the Reaping was gathering into place. “I just love seeing their cute faces.” She beamed.

Kia and Bentley had to practically drag their mother to the district central square. She was having trouble walking, her legs buckling beneath her. The bright sun burned Jersey’s eyes, giving her a splintering headache. She wanted a hit more than anything. Just one.

 “We’re almost there.” Bentley stated, the tidy bricked buildings of the centre coming into view. They were certainly a stark contrast to the massive grungy warehouses and narrow alleys that made up the rest of the district. The merchants had it alright, it seemed.

Kia tightened her grip around her mother’s arm, hoisting her up to help her walk. If they let go it seemed like Jersey would collapse any second. “Mom, are you ok?” Venice called out, concern edged into her voice. “I’m fine honey, let’s just keep moving.” Jersey managed a smile, falsely assuring her daughter. Unlike the little girl, Kia was old enough to know she was lying.

“We need to get her off this morphling shit,” Bentley stated with gritted teeth. Kia sighed, pushing her way through the mob of people milling towards the central square. It was only a five minute walk from the shuttle stop to the Justice Building but it had felt like they’d been pulling their mother for an eternity. “Her and half the district.” Kia replied, catching the occasional same bloodshot pair of eyes in the crowd.

Finally, the Hadley family reached the square. Kia gulped, fear creeping in her throat. She let her shaky breaths subside as she considered the countless other girls queuing for the Reaping sign in and taking their places in the Reaping crowd. But she shuddered, only in a few years would the twins’ names enter the Reaping bowl.

“You’ll be fine, my angels. It’s your last year Bentley.” Jersey perked, kissing her two eldest children on their cheeks. Kia wrapped her mother’s thin frame in a hug, as Jersey could feel her daughter shaking against her. “It’s ok, Kia. It’s ok.” She ushered, rubbing her back. Kia felt as though she was about to be yanked into the earth once she pulled from her mother’s embrace, taking a step towards the queue. The twins took their mother’s hands and helped guide her to the other side of the ropes. Kia eyed her brother, her body trembling.

Within the half hour of the shuttle ride to the Centre, Cyprian and his father were squished towards the doors, barely able to breathe. Despite the sheer amount of people packed into the shuttle, the air hung mostly quiet. Despite his own unrest, Cyprian was glad that, luckily, Raille herself had been exempt from this year's Reaping; not having been picked in the pre-Reaping. He recalled how he and Prius sighed at the dread that washed over them as them received our pre-Reaping letters last week that announced we had been selected.

Despite his attempt to rationalise the relative unlikeliness of his name being drawn, Cyprian found himself trying to the ease the knots of fear twisting in his stomach, making it hard to breathe. His father noticed this, setting a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. "It's alright Cyprian, don't worry." He said. Cyprian would usually be embarrassed by this sheer display of vulnerability in public but considering the circumstances, he didn't think anyone cared, especially considering the tints of panic edged on their own faces.

Finally, the doors opened as the shuttle reached the District centre, and they were released to the fresh air. Making their way through the polished streets, Cyprian was reminded of the nice parts of this District. Despite the shabby buildings and warehouses that littered the district; the centre and the town square offered some pleasant buildings that weren't subject to the suffocation of the grey smoke, kept in pristine condition with their white walls, red bricks, and glass storefronts. There was even a stone-carved fountain in the square, however today it was concealed amongst the ocean of children milling into their places.

"Good luck son," Cyprian’s father stated, squeezing his son’s arm. He smiled back at him, almost to say he loved him, but he was quickly shoved into the queue by an impatient Peacekeeper. Cyprian wondered where they learned this aggression, this rigid upkeep of totalitarian order enforcement. Are they that brainwashed in District 2? He thought. That obedient to the Capitol? That's where the majority of Peacekeepers are from, apparently. However, a handful do come from the Capitol and there's an occasional sprinkling of them from the other Districts. Jonquil, one of the Peacekeepers who stands and observes by the school gates is from District 11, although he's the nicer of the Peacekeepers- usually engaging in light-hearted conversation with the kids and only spitting a firm warning when there's any hassle. Raille's oldest brother got recruited to become a Peacekeeper last winter also, Cyprian guessed when they saw his tall, muscular frame and rather impressive strength they thought he was more useful than carrying crates of metal or constructing vehicles.

And then within a blur Cyprian was stood still in the section of sixteen year old boys, most of whose faces alien to him. The knots in his stomach tightened, as he convinced himself to take deep breaths as the reality of the situation sinks in. He scanned his eyes around for any sign of Prius, to no avail.

Then soon enough, all silence was ordered as Spart Xanderwinkle entered the stage in front of the Justice Building. From the far distance of which Cyprian was standing, he squinted his eyes just far enough to make out a bright white item of her clothing, shimmering against the heat. One of the big screens placed amongst the square illuminates this to be a dress; adorned in what seemed to be artificial ice glacier patterns. Quite a compliment to her porcelain skin. Her candy-pink hair drooped in small braids this year, the top of which is covered in a snow-white hat covered with snowflakes. "Welcome my dear and courageous young men and women of District Six, to the Reaping of the annual 61st Hunger Games!" she chimed, her dark blue lipstick-smudged mouth twisting funnily during her speech. At first Cyprian was genuinely perplexed as to the purpose of this winter-themed outfit of Spart's, considering the angry July heat beating down on everyone’s heads. Then he was reminded, it paid a homage to the arena of last year's games. Glacier Caves. Host to one of the most violent deaths in the Hunger Games history, as Cyprian recalled a female tribute's skull being bashed against ice, creating cracks of red with it.

The 'promo' video played as it did every year- the destruction of what used to be referred to as North America through rising sea levels, blistering heat. A treacherous war, the horrors which it brought with it. The foundation of Panem, the Dark Days- the creation of the Hunger Games as punishment for the Districts. Kia spent the whole time trying to keep the terror simmering inside her bottled inside.

"Right, and let's not waste any more precious time and proceed with the selection of this year's brave young lady!" Spart smiled, almost wobbling over to the female reaping bowl, her high heels clinking behind her. A tense silence hung in the air she reached into the bowl, rummaging her hand about for a few seconds. Finally, Spart's icy blue acrylic nail plucked a slip from the middle of the bowl, as she walked over to the microphone, unwrapping the black slip which would reveal a girl's inevitable fate. Kia hardly breathed, her hands dug into her dress to stop from shaking. She could sense a girl literally holding her breath next to her. Nobody dared to breathe. Spart's shrill voice booms across the square, "Kia Hadley."

Kia’s face fell with shock as she heard Spart’s voice boom from the microphone. The cameras found her face, her aghast expression displayed onto the screens in the square. She moved through the crowd, stepping into the central walkway. She was sure she heard Venice cry out from the other side of the ropes.

Two peacekeepers marched behind her as she was led through the square and onstage. Kia tried to stop herself, praying she wouldn’t cry. But her body betrayed her. Her tears flowed profusely down her flushed cheeks. By the time she'd made it on stage beside Spart her entire face was puffed red, brined with hot tears. “Don’t worry sweetheart, you’re doing great.” Spart exclaimed. Kia's short gasps of despair were heard through the microphone during Spart's awkward and brief attempt of consolation, she placed her beside the microphone and announced. "We've got our lady, time to see District 6's proud young man!"

The knots in Cyprian’s stomach ate at his ribs as he clenched his fists, as Spart's heels clinkered to the other side of the stage. Instead of digging around, she instantly snatched the first envelope her hand found, crossing her way back to the microphone beside Kia, who was practically wailing on the spot. "Cyprian Hargrove."

Cyprian exhaled a sigh of relief, the anxiety in his stomach loosening. Before he looked on the screen to meet his face zoomed in. And realise his name was just said. No, it can't be, he thought frantically. There's got to be another Cyprian Hargrove in the massive population of District 6- there must be! Cyprian’s fruitless denial was abrupted by the snatch of a Peacekeeper's grasp on his shoulder, pulling him forward out of the crowd. Pitiful yet relieved pairs of eyes scoured him as he walked forward, feeling his eyes begin to blur. Well, I'm dead, the thought. The Peacekeeper behind me may as well just pull the trigger right now.

Surprisingly, his eyes stay dry, void of tears. The knotting in his stomach almost felt like a knife ripping through him, perhaps a funny sign of foreshadowing; as h was led onstage besides Spart. He blink against the sunlight, lost in the eternity of eyes trained on him. "And here, we have our two tributes from District 6 for the 61st Annual Hunger Games- Kia Hadley and Cyprian Hargrove!" Spart bellowed, Cyprian turned to face Kia, her miserable and panicked state unchanged. She couldn’t help but sob, feeling nothing but utter horror and despair fill her. The pair shook hands, Cyprian could feel the vibration of her cries against him as their skin made contact.

Next week, the cameras will find their way on Cyprian and Kia again. However that time, they were both certain it would be to broadcast their deaths for live entertainment.

*****

Kia sobbed into her mother’s shoulder, surprised that this many tears could still flow from her eyes. She didn’t ever want to let go.

The twins sat on the sofa with them, both quiet, their hands resting on their eldest sister’s arms and back. At the age of eleven, Chicago and Venice were still small children, but they were old enough to grasp what the Hunger Games was. And they were old enough to realise what would happen to their sister.

Bentley kneeled on the floor, one arm draped around Kia and the other around his mother. Both were in tears. Jersey kept stroking her eldest daughter’s plaits, her face. She was memorising her touch. “I can’t lose you too.” She wept, caressing Kia’s hair. Every bone in her body screamed at Jersey for another hit, but she pushed her selfish urges aside and huddled her daughter. Kia’s entire face was wet with tears.

“I love you, Kia.” Bentley said, facing Kia so their faces were even. “I know I never say it but I love you so much.” He cried. Kia snivelled, staring into her brother’s blue eyes. “I know, I love you too.”

Kia screamed, sobbing, as she heard the door open. Jersey dropped to the floor with a loud thud, her knees giving way and her eyes snapping shut.

*****

Cyprian thought about how he’d never seen the inside of the Justice Building, only its granite-bricked exterior. The room he was held in could probably be described as the most prestigious location he’d ever been in thus far, an embroidered carpet hugged his feet. He ran his hands along the oak desk, the china lamp.

Cyprian had already accepted my fate. There's nothing he could do now but admire the last things he could see and touch before being lifted into that tube next week.

"You have three minutes." A hoarse voice exclaimed as the door barged open, his father pushed in with the wooden door slammed shut behind him. "Cyprian," Charleston cried, embracing his only son in a tight hug. Cyprian had only ever experienced the intimacy and urgency of his embrace a few times in his life, the most notable being straight after the death of his mother. It is then within his arms Cyprian found tears brimming at my eyes, fighting for a release. They lost.

"Listen, son, you can do-" Charleston began but Cyprian cut him off, there wasn’t enough time for false hope and comforting lies.

“Dad, you have to stop that morphling." Cyprian stated, clutching his arm just above the purple bruises across his skin. His tired, withered eyes met his. "I know you couldn't stop taking it after mom died but you can't anymore. You can't, not after when I'm gone." He said, his father squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Charleston knew the second he’d have to leave the Justice Building he’d be itching for the needle on his bedside table.

"You'll have less money coming in because I won't be in the factory anymore but I have bottles of paint in my room. Just nick some from those jugs if you ever get the chance, the merchant kids will buy some off you." Cyprian told him.

His father seemed to almost doze off, reduced to nothing but a shell now. Charleston found himself shrinking into the darkest corners of his mind. His son was all he had left. "Sell whatever morphling you have too, the-" "The morphlings at the dens will trade anything for it, I know." He finishes Cyprian’s sentence, as they stared at each other for a few moments. Cyprian took in the last of his father’s image: his greying and scruffy hair, identical in its honey colour to his own. The stubble plastered across his chin, his smell of juniper and metal shavings. Cyprian couldn’t bring myself to look directly into his blue eyes, strained with cracks of a sickly red.

"Time's up." That same hoarse voice from before announced, the door quickly thrown open. "I love you Cyprian!" Charleston yelled as he was dragged away by a pair of Peacekeepers. "I love you too dad." Cyprian cried, catching the golden hue of his air amongst the sterile white uniforms of the Peacekeepers before that door was once again slammed shut.

It was opened again a few minutes later, but this time Prius and Raille were thrown in. Cyprian mostly just held Raille's hand as she sobbed, tears streaming furiously alike to Kia's down her caramel face. H kept her pressed against his chest as Prius stood in front of them, a solemn look masked over his tanned face. "I- it shouldn't have been you, Cyprian, oh- oh my god" she stammered against his shirt, Cyprian just keep grasping her hand. He was going to miss them. Their delinquency at school, their shared suffering at the factory, their quiet evenings on the abandoned rooftop, watching the sunset.

"Prius?" Cyprian asked, as his friend cleared his throat, attempting to look strong, "Take care of my dad, ok? Make sure he doesn't get too hungry. And if you see him use any of that morphling shit you find some way to get him off it." He exclaimed, Prius nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder. The door clicked open. "No!" Raille whimpered out, but her cries were silenced by the Peacekeepers force of them out of the room.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT SEVEN

The rain pelted against the window, the water streaking down the glass. The sky was brewing with dark clouds, masking over the trees which slightly swayed in the wind. The sound of the rain soothed Birch, as she stared back at her reflection in the mirror. Her emerald green eyes concentrated on her hair, which she was trying to brush and smooth thoroughly. Birch’s champagne-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in luminous and delicate waves, accompanying her soft ivory skin. Her plush lips slightly tensed, annoyed that her hair wasn’t styling the way she wanted it to.

“Stop stressing, you’re perfect.” Aspen chuckled, approaching his fiancé from behind and wrapping his sturdy arms around her waist. She smiled, relaxing her grip on her hairbrush, and giggled as he planted a kiss on her neck.

Birch looked at her lover’s reflection back in the mirror, blushing at his hazel eyes that scanned all over. His gaze was filled with love. And Birch looked back; admiring his short dark hair, his smooth tanned skin, the slight muscles that flexed through his shirt and brushed against her slender arms. They were a beautiful couple. Everybody said so.

“My mother would kill me if I wasn’t presented as my very best.” Birch rolled her eyes, running her hand through her hair and adjusting it so it looked just right. Aspen turned her around, so she’d face him, and cupped her chin in his hand. “Stop wasting time when you already look perfect, come sit with me.” He said.

Birch obliged, placing her hairbrush on her dresser and taking a seat on the edge of her bed with Aspen. He took her hand in his, as they both looked into each other’s eyes longingly. He could feel the tremor in her grasp, the anxiety looming inside her.

“What you nervous for?” Aspen asked, “The chances of your name being pulled are slim. Besides, I doubt Mayor Standall would let the prettiest girl in Seven be sent away.” He stated, nudging her shoulder as she rolled her eyes and smiled.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Birch remarked, “You don’t have to worry about the Reaping anymore. I still have another year after this one until I’m free.” The dread spiking in her veins wasn’t alone, it matched the unease lingering across the entire district; impenetrable to the heavy rain that hammered down on them. Birch was constantly reminded of her aunt whom was reaped before she was born, whom she never got to meet, as she was sent back home in a box. She’d been told her mother was never the same since, but Birch wouldn’t know. Her mother was the same weary, uptight woman she’d known her life.

“Just try not to think about it babe, ok? There’s no use. Think about rehearsals tonight, the play is only in a couple weeks now.” Her fiancé stated, which Birch had no reason to disagree with. Aspen was right, she had her big role in the school theatre which she’d been practicing for, for months. Realistically, her worries should have been more focused on remembering her lines rather than the Reaping.

“Ok, you’re right,” Birch admitted, straightening the collar of Aspen’s shirt. “You’ll come back round tonight, help me rehearse?” She asked. He smiled, “Of course.” And pressed his mouth against hers. The kiss picked up in rhythm, as Aspen’s hand snaked from her jawline down to her neck.

“Birch, come down!” Mrs. Thicket’s voice sounded from downstairs.

The command startled the young couple, causing them to hastily pull away from each other. “You should go.” Birch said, standing up and scurrying over to the window, drawing it open. The whistling of the wind and pelting of the rain increased in volume.

“Wow, you’re gonna kick me out into the rain?” Aspen said, climbing through the window and holding onto the pipe that latched onto the house. “You wanna face my parents who’ll see you in my room here alone?” Birch asked, her hands on her hips. Aspen laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take the rain.” He chuckled, as Birch leant down to part him with a quick kiss before he climbed down the pipe and leaped onto the ground.

*****

A loud thud sounded as the blade of the axe sliced against the tree trunk. Rory grunted, pulling his axe out and swinging it again, cutting the wood further. One more swing, then another. He took a step back once he heard the creaks sound and the tree wobbled, collapsing to the ground. Another lumberjack jumped to the side, dodging a falling branch narrowly.

“Hey!” He shouted, storming towards Rory. “That almost hit me!”

Rory shrugged. “Shouldn’t have been in the way then.”

The lumberjack’s scowl on his face grew wider, as he stopped closer towards Rory, right up towards him. He could feel his breath on him. “Get out of my face.” Rory said, plainly. The angry lumberjack didn’t move, instead he smirked.

“What you gonna do about it, pussy boy?” The lumberjack jeered. His question was answered by the force of Rory’s hands on his chest, shoving him away. He stumbled back, almost tripping. Almost roaring in fury and embarrassment, the lumberjack lunged back, his fist raised. Only to be met with Rory jabbing his fist in his face, knocking him down. The other group of lumberjacks hollered and cheered, circling the two. Their excitement was quickly de-escalated as the supervisor, Oaken, stepped in and broke it up.

He grabbed Rory by the shoulder and pushed him aside. “Enough, Rory. Haven’t you gotten into enough trouble lately?” He said, cautiously checking their surroundings, “You’re lucky your ass ain’t been spotted by any Peacekeepers today. You’re seriously on thin ice.”

“I don’t care what they do to me.” Rory spat, shrugging Oaken’s hand off.

“Well, I do. I ain’t losing one of my best workers cuz he don’t use his head.” Oaken declared, picking up a chainsaw and tossing it into Rory’s hands. “Your tree’s the last one we need for today. Chop it up and we can get it in the lorry and be home before noon. You got somewhere to be, don’t ya?”

Rory huffed, stepping back to the fallen tree and pulling the string back of the chainsaw, igniting it. It whirred loudly and muffled as he stuck it into the wood, the chips flying around as he watched through his goggles. Nobody noticed as he yelled the entire time, his anger drowned out through the noise.

The light mist of moisture that fogged in the air that morning clogged together and thickened, as by the time Rory got home he had been drenched in the thick rain that poured over. He shut his wooden door behind him, his wet boots squeaking on the floorboards.

The dreary grey that polluted the sky dimmed the inside of the small shack, even though the windows were drawn. Rory flicked the light switch on, the weak lamp on the ceiling flickering and providing his home with a light glow.

Rory stepped over to the fireplace, scratching a match against the box and chucking it into the small stack of dry firewood. To help the blaze expand, Rory had no issue throwing his pre-Reaping letter into the fireplace. A content and vengeful smirk stretched on his face as he watched the paper scorch into ash, the pristine white blackening and being scorched clean from what it once represented. A warm fire grew, sending pleasant waves of heat that trickled against Rory’s wet and cold skin. He knelt down in front of the mantel, picking up another match and holding it against the fire that began to expand and trickle with warmth over the damp coldness of the shack. Once lit, he pressed it into the candle that rested on the mantelpiece.

Within a few seconds, the small flame danced; the light casting onto the photograph positioned next to the candle. Rory’s heart panged as he looked at it, it was the only and last photo he had of his family. His mother and father’s faces beamed, bright and happy, forever still. At the bottom of the frame his brother mischievously slung his arm around a younger Rory. Rory’s heart felt as though it was being stabbed with a thousand needles as he thought back to the memories of his family, then was brought back to the lone silence of the shack.

Rory picked up a wooden ball from the mantelpiece, resting it in his damp palm. His grip around it tightened as he shut his eyes and prayed. Prayed to God or the souls of his lost family. Prayed to God for his own soul. Prayed to God for the pain to go away.

*****

Birch threw the hood of her raincoat off, letting her champagne locks flow free down her head. “Here, I’ll take your coat now.” Her mother insisted, helping her daughter out of the raincoat. The rain had only increased as the day neared the Reaping, the hill where the ceremony was to take place was thankfully sheltered under a large and thick connection of canopies that hung amongst the trees.

“May the Odds be ever in your favour, honey.” Mr. Thicket exclaimed, patting his daughter’s shoulder reassuringly. “And they will be!” His wife proclaimed, “Nobody’s taking my little girl.” As she stroked a strand of Birch’s hair.

“I’m not a little girl, mother,” Birch said, turning to see a Peacekeeper only a few feet away. He didn’t say or do anything but she could feel his eyes on her. “I love you.” She exclaimed, squeezing her parents’ hands, and turned to join the sign in queue. As she waited for her turn she looked around to see Aspen, finally spotting him in the crowd. He waved at her, the sight of him easing her tensing nerves. She moved her hand to wave back, interrupted by the shove of a Peacekeeper pushing her forward to the desk.

Another Peacekeeper took hold of her hand and stretched it closer towards him, pressing the needle from the small machine into her finger. It pinged with her name. Even so, after his task was completed, he still kept hold of her hand. His gloved hand caressed hers, increasing his grip on her wrist. Birch froze, unsure what to do. After a few seconds, he chuckled, letting go. She sped off into the Reaping crowd.

Rory didn’t bother to wipe the cut on his finger after he took his place towards the front section of the Reaping crowd. He let the blood drip down, falling onto his shoes. The red trickled as harsh as the rain onto the canopy hanging above him.

He pictured as the rain above to be acid, tearing through the fabric of the canopy and burning into the Peacekeepers. That was one way he convinced himself he could manage to cope through the ceremony.

“I wasn’t informed of or prepared for such dreadful weather.” Glaucia Lusitania glowered, scrunching her nose at the smell of wet grass and timber smoke. Her copper skin was covered in goosebumps, as she shivered from the cold. “It is summer, for Panem’s sake!” she cried, crossing her arms.

Mayor Standall suppressed his deep disdain for the Capitol escort, holding out a white woollen blanket towards her. “Perhaps this will help warm you up, ma’am?” He asked. Glaucia shot a look back at him as though he had asked her to walk on hot coals.

“I would rather freeze to death than wear that rag.” She spat, ignoring the mayor and stepping towards the microphone. “Can we just get this over with already?” A member of the camera crew held a finger out towards Glaucia in response. “We’re rolling in a minute!” A voice answered back, met with her discontent huff. Glaucia wanted nothing more than to be back on the train to the Capitol already. She’d only taken this job because she thought it would be adventurous and it paid well, and made her rather famous. The last two years of representing proved her otherwise, with the dirty District Seven residents and the ungrateful tributes.

To Glaucia’s relief, the camera pointed towards her flashed red. She extended her arms towards the lens and plastered a smile on her face. “Welcome District Seven- to the Reaping of the 61^st Hunger Games!” She chimed, “How honoured I am to be here in your… green and earthy district, and represent your promising tributes!” A drone buzzed over the canopy, displaying a panoramic shot that was cut in to the live TV feed of the Reaping crowd on the hill surrounded by the dense forest that displayed the district’s industry and export.

She didn’t dress appropriately for the weather, Birch thought, as she stared at the Capitol escort. A tight and sparkly cherry-red bodysuit squeezed onto Glaucia’s figure, most of her body left exposed. Layers of long red laces drooped from the suit, a sort of texture added to the outfit. Glaucia’s boots tromped on the stage, they were high up to her knees and sharp on the edges. Her dyed snow-white hair was tied into a rigid ponytail that stuck down to her back, with the same red laces on her outfit interweaved into her hair. Rory stared up at her eyes, perplexed, as this year they seemed to be dyed fully black.

“What a powerful and true message!” Glaucia cheered after the promo played, “District Seven: may we now find two brave souls to flesh out that honourable message, the necessary and beautiful spirit of the Hunger Games.” She declared, stepping over to the female Reaping bowl. Her boots thudded loudly on the stage as she walked, the only sound on the hill as every child below her held their breath and prayed her sleek hands wouldn’t find their names.

Glaucia’s long, coal-black nails stretched out like spikes, and they dug into the bowl. Her hand was only in the pile for a couple of seconds, as she yanked a paper slip out and walked towards the microphone. She used her long black nail to pierce open the envelope, letting it fall onto the stage, as she straightened the slip and read out the name: “Birch Thicket.”

Birch could hear her mother gasp in the distance, on the other side of the ropes, before her name was even fully called. She felt herself go light-headed, her legs felt as though they were losing their weight. She stepped out from the seventeen-year-old female section and walked forward, catching the camera zoom into her face on the screen. Feeling dread tickle at her head, she remembered to compose herself. Despite feeling as though her feet were tied down with rocks, as it was a challenge for her to put one foot in front of the other as she neared the stage, she kept her head straight and her eyes dry. She even managed to present a humble smile on her face.

As Birch neared closer to the stage, Glaucia’s eyes lit up at the sight of the girl. “What a gorgeous young lady!” She beamed, holding her hand out to Birch from the steps. Birch took it, wincing as the ends of Glaucia’s long nails poked at her wrist. Glaucia positioned her next to the microphone, smirking. Now this I can work with, she thought. District Seven doesn’t provide such pretty little birds every year.

“Let’s see who will be your partner, Birch.” Glaucia exclaimed, trotting over to the other bowl. Her fingernails clacked against the opening of the glass bowl, her hand reaching far into the load. She finally drew her hand back out, a few slips escaping the bowl with it, as she stepped back towards the microphone with the one she chose. “Rory Elmwood.” Her voice announced.

It boomed across the Reaping crowd, striking Rory in the chest. It felt as though the vibrations reached into his guts and poked at them. He felt his blood boil. He wanted to pick up that microphone and swing it into her fake white head.

“Rory Elmwood?” Glaucia repeated, after a while of no commotion. The cameras finally found him at the front of the male crowd, and the snarl seeping on his face. A pair of Peacekeepers pushed past a few of the young men standing around Rory, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Get the fuck off me you bastards!” He shouted, shoving the gloved white hands away from him.

Gasps and murmurs sounded on the hill, drowning out the noise of the splattering raindrops, as Glaucia’s mouth parted open in surprise. The Peacekeepers seized hold of both of his arms, yanking him out of the crowd and towards the stage. He cursed and yelled, resisting incessantly against their grasp. “I said get your disgusting hands off me!” Rory demanded, kicking one of the Peacekeepers in the shins. He doubled backwards, as the other struck Rory in the head with his gun. More gasps sounded, as he fell to the ground and groaned in pain.

The two Peacekeepers held him up and dragged him up the steps of the stage, easier this time, and threw him on the top. He looked out towards the crowd, his home, and stood up as he approached Glaucia beside the microphone.

“Rory,” She stammered, “Rory Elmwhite, everyone!” She called out, before he interrupted her. “It’s Elmwood.” He said, sternly. “If you’re gonna send me to that arena at least say my fucking name right.”

Glaucia scowled, eyeing him. How dare district scum talk to her that way, she thought. Especially on live television. Keeping it professional for the cameras, she morphed her scowl into a wide smile. “District Seven’s tributes: Birch Thicket and Rory Elmwood.” She declared. Glaucia pursed her lips, her eyes glaring in Rory’s direction. She couldn’t wait to see how his blood spilled out of that foul mouth.

*****

“Fuck, Birch, if I’d still been in the Reaping pool I would have volunteered-“ Aspen cried, silenced by his lover quickly. “No, at-least one of us needs to stay alive.” She said, muffling into his shirt as she had the side of her face pressed against his hard, sturdy chest.

“What are you talking about? Alive?” Aspen protested, taking Birch’s face in his hand and forcing her to look at him. “You’re winning these Games, Birch. I’m not losing you.” He said, cupping her face with both his hands.

She let a tear fall down her cheek, exhaling a shaky breath, as they pressed their foreheads together.

“Ok, ok.” She exclaimed, gripping onto his shirt and holding herself closer to him. “You’re supposed to be my husband someday, and that’s not going to change.” The words fell flat as they left her mouth, even she didn’t believe them. Her heart wrenched with devastation.

Aspen took her hand in his, pressing his thumb against his fiancé’s engagement ring which rested on her slim finger. It was a cheap metal, dainty and old, nothing special. But it didn’t have to be, it solidified their love. Their union. Aspen wasn’t just going to let the love of his life be ripped away from him.

“I love you so much baby,” He cried, wrapping his girl in his arms and desperately kissing her.

Myrtle Thicket was quiet as she stared at the last of her only child. She hadn’t been in this room in the Justice Building in twenty-nine years, but she remembered it clear as day. It was a beautiful room; mahogany walls, fine embroidery, coloured glass and vintage china. That was all just a distracting illusion. Because she remembered all too well this room brought nothing but grief and pain.

“Oh, my little girl,” Birch’s father wept, holding his daughter close as she cried into his shoulder. His wife watched as his hands trembled around their daughter.

Myrtle had stood in the same spot in the room, feeling as though she was witnessing everything in third person. It was as though she was blocking it out, tuning it out. It was better that way. Easier.

“Mother, I love you!” Birch shrieked, throwing herself around her mother. Her green cotton dress was soaked in her tears. They latched onto her mother’s own dress, mirroring the internal struggle fighting inside of her. Myrtle found it in herself to hug her daughter, but the noise of her family’s despair was tuned out in her ears.

*****

Rory stood in his room in the Justice Building, his fists clenched into balls.

God didn’t seem to want to save his soul, after all. To protect him. There was nobody left to protect him anymore, not after his family was taken by the Peacekeepers and never seen again. After they fired bullets into their skulls, leaving them like abandoned rag dolls in the dirt.

The only emotion Rory could decipher was a blind rage. It coursed through him like blood. Thick and strong. He wanted this cursed fucking world to burn to ash.

There was a china lamp that rested on the sleek, polished oak-wood table in front of Rory. He picked it up, lobbing it at the window. It crashed through, shattering the glass into numerous shards on the floor.

He had to protect himself now.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT EIGHT

Lilah winced, the small spike of her sewing needle accidentally jabbing into her finger. She yanked it back, grimacing at the drop of blood that trickled out of her pierced skin. She quickly pulled her hand back to herself, before the pearl-white wool fabric before her would be marked by a drop of her blood. Lilah nursed her finger, swiping the cut with her hand at an attempt to ease it.

“Quilt, what’s the hold up?” An attendee yelled, stepping next to her station. “I don’t see you working.”

Sitting up straight on her stool, Lilah found her voice against the aggressive one wielded against her. “Sorry, just a little cut. I’m fine.” She said, as he crossed his arms and took a glance at her hand. “Get back to it. Less work done, less wages. You have until the clock strikes two.” The attendant hissed, moving forward through the warehouse. It was massive, filled to the brim with the sound of sewing machines tapping against fabric, the wheels of clothing crates scraping against the concrete floor, the rustling of materials brushed against the weaving desks.

Reluctantly, Lilah obeyed. She couldn’t afford a cut back on the wages. She hooked a string of the red thread to her needle and pierced through the white woollen carpet, letting it sever through, and pulling it through the fine fabric until it was all stitched together. Finally, a carpet was completed, and she placed it on the tray beside her, containing the bundle of other textile items she had sown and constructed together throughout her shift.

It was well past nightfall when Lilah had finished work. Her hands and back ached, she groaned in exhaustion as her eyes wavered, barely able to remain open even as she stepped out of the warehouse. Lilah’s fatigue was soothed by the clanking of coins in the pouch that was slung around her waist, she was paid. The overtime shift was enough to get her by the next week.

Lilah’s stomach churned harshly, tugging at her insides. She hadn’t eaten anything proper in almost three days. The last thing being half a jar of paste, which she’d stuffed into her mouth despite the disgust it brought, just to silence the screaming hunger. She smiled. Tomorrow for breakfast she could cook Lucet scrambled eggs for breakfast, his favourite. Lilah made a mental note to rise early for the Reaping morning despite her exhaustion, to purchase a box of eggs from the merchant markets from Pleat Town. Her lack of sleep was a small sacrifice to make Lucet a little happy.

The usual scurrying of footsteps and holler of voices was absent as the night sky hovered over Tack Town. It was strange, Lilah thought, to hear only the thuds of her boots against the asphalt tiles as she made her journey home. The brief sense of peace she felt was overshadowed by the edge of fear engrained in her brain, as Lilah recalled how a girl at the warehouse mentioned the creepy men lingering around Tack Town after dark. There was never really any issue, Lilah justified to herself, as she tightened her grip around her satchel and picked up her pace as she squeezed through an alleyway. Although, she’d only ever crossed through Tack Town to get to work during the daytime.

The adrenaline in Lilah’s veins spiked as she heard footsteps sound from the other end of the alleyway behind her. Her cautious stroll picked up to a jog as she exited the alleyway, crossing the road into Tassel Town. Lilah relaxed at the familiar sight of the grungy apartment buildings that shot into the sky, the flickering streetlights that beamed overhead, and the winding concrete roads that jagged in various directions. Stepping into one of the countless run-down tenements that housed her, Lilah’s footsteps echoed as she climbed the three chipped flights of stairs until she reached her floor. Turning the corner, she almost jumped at the pair of eyes staring her.

“You’re home.” A voice called out through the darkness, as Lilah exhaled a breath of relief at the sight of her little brother, whom was sat next to their front door with his knees up to his shoulders.

“Why are you out here, you airhead?” She questioned, pausing at the end of her sentence when she noticed the fresh bruise that tainted his cheekbone. Lucet didn’t have to speak to answer her, his face said it all. “Has he come back drunk again?” Her sad question hung in the air, evaporating into the darkness that led to the next flight of measly stairs. Lucet didn’t have to speak to answer that either.

Lilah huffed, rubbing her eyes. She wasn’t about to make her brother or herself enter the apartment whilst their father was brooding in there, a bottle of liquor clutched in his rigid fist. They both knew how that would end up for them. “Come on, let’s go up.” Lilah beckoned, stretching her hand towards Lucet. He gladly took it, as they stepped up the stairs until there were no more to climb. With a few jiggles of the chipped wire Lilah kept in her satchel, the heavy door to the rooftop opened. The pair both chuckled as they stepped out into the air, feeling the cool night breeze brush against their skin.

They sat on the edge, staring at the red lights that dotted the tall buildings that jagged the cramped concrete landscape. Not one star could be seen in the navy sky that their tired eyes blinked up at.

Lucet laid on his big sister’s shoulder, yawning. Lilah allowed herself to join him.

“Is life always gonna be like this?” Lucet asked. The question caused his sister to stammer, looking over to his sombre face. She caressed his messy locks of hair, sighing sadly. “I think so, bud.”

*****

The rustling of paper, one page being slicked open after another, caused Oxford to shuffle in his seat. Mr. Toque’s strained eyebrow, furrowed upwards as he adjusted his glasses, didn’t help to ease him either. Oxford couldn’t let him down.

“Interesting,” The teacher remarked, pouting his lips as he turned the next page of his student’s orderly notebook. After a tense while of review, he snapped the notebook shut and handed it back to Oxford. “Your report certainly attempted to meet the task.”

Oxford adjusted his blazer, “So did I do well? I covered all the bases, all the notes. I did the analysis.” He waited for his teacher’s response. The weight in his chest was lifted once he heard Mr Toque’s impressed tone as he answered, “You did excellently, Oxford. You by far exceeded the rest of your peers in this class.” Oxford smiled, smug. He knew he’d pass through.

“I have a new assignment for you.” Mr Toque said, pulling open his desk draw and fishing out a sheet of paper, which he placed in front of his student. “After the Reapings are conducted today, I want you to analyse all of the tributes. Estimate their strengths, and weaknesses, only from their initial impressions. Who would you bet on?”

The task puzzled Oxford, as he glanced at the few sentences and questions typed on the sheet in front of him. “You want me to guess who will be this year’s Victor?” He was used to spending his evenings huddled over his desk, scrambling answers into his notebook and scouring through textbooks to complete Mr Toque’s history assignments. But his new task was the Hunger Games?

“Yes, Oxford.” Mr Toque. exclaimed, “I’ve seen your reports from your other teachers regarding your performance in your other school subjects. You’re the best in every class.” Oxford hung his head forwards in pride. “You’re my best student. Besides, haven’t you completed this task before anyway?” Oxford furrowed his eyebrows at the question. “I- I don’t think so, Mr Toque?” He answered.

The teacher chuckled, swiping his glasses off of his face and polishing them with his handkerchief. “Yes, you have. Last year, you predicted one of our very own would win. You studied Cecilia from the moment she left Eight until she was the only one left standing. Nobody else would have thought she’d be the one to leave that icy arena alive.” He stated, placing his handkerchief neatly into his pocket. Oxford ran his hand through his slicked hair, making sure it felt adequate and looked professional.

“No Capitol bets or really much focus were on her at all. But yours was, Oxford, and against the Odds: you were right. You have this exceptional deductive skill and intelligence that I wish to exploit.” Mr Toque. proclaimed, “Whomever you predict, I will bet on. If I receive the money, I will split it with you. How’s that sound?” The question perked in Oxford’s mind. He’d heard about the bets in the liquor dens, merchants spilling their money. It felt cruel to partake in the gambling of the lives of children, especially as they were also district, but if a bit of cruelty returned some cash from children whom were doomed anyway; so what?

Oxford nodded. “It sounds fair.” He folded the sheet neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his navy blazer.

*****

District Eight didn’t have a blade of grass. The entire district was suffocated and buried with winding asphalt roads, narrow alleyways, concrete warehouses and mills, and beige bricked blocks that straddled the cramped city. Well, District Eight could technically be categorized as a city along with a number of the other districts; however, it was divided into a variety of different ‘towns’ as such, separating the areas even though they were hardly different.

Laverne Lysander stared out at the measly scenery before her from the stage of the Justice Building. She thought it being her fourth year representing District Eight, she would have been accustomed to the dreary and depressing landscape before her. She wondered how on earth the cameras would manage to present the district she was representing in any attractive way whatsoever. They’d just have to settle to dominate the footage with her pristine appearance, she thought.

“What a fine day!” Laverne remarked, pointing to the blue sky. “Remember how cloudy it was last year? The sun didn’t find my gown!” Mayor Keele crossed his arms, refraining from rolling his eyes in an obvious manner. “Yes, the weather is good.” He replied. He glanced over to the camera crew, huffing in joy as he realised they were close to begin rolling.

“I must say one thing I can appreciate about your district is the effort they put into fashion.” Laverne smiled, looking over to the Reaping crowd of children beneath her. There was no encouraged colour for the Reaping couture in District Eight’s culture, as a multitude of different colours and textures swam in the ocean of children before Laverne’s eyes. Although the quality of the fabrics that draped the scared children paled in comparison to the Capitol escort’s, Laverne was pleased at the variety she was presented with. The plethora of colours in the crowd at least brought some spirit to the browns and beiges of the district surroundings that stood beyond them.

Lilah held tight onto her little brother’s hand as they squeezed their way through the mob around them to reach the sign in queue. They took their place in the line, as Lilah felt the shivering in Lucet’s hand. He was pale, his eyes strained with terror. He was panicking. “Hey, hey, it’s ok.” Lilah said, wrapping her arm around Lucet’s shaking shoulder. “Your name is only in there once, they’re not gonna pick you.” The assurance slightly worked, the heaving in Lucet’s chest simmering down. “They’re not gonna pick me.” He repeated, at an attempt to convince himself. Lilah promised herself she’d take all the tesserae for as long as she could so her brother wouldn’t need to. It was their primary source of food, anyways, as their father would snatch his daughter’s wages out of her hands and sink them into his liquor in the dens.

“Calm down bud, ok? After this I’ll make you some egg rice for dinner. We still have an egg left over.” Lilah perked, rendering a smile on Lucet’s face as he nodded. However, the smile didn’t hold for long until he reached the desk and was signed in for his first year in the Reaping. Lilah was familiar with the drill, holding her hand out for the needle machine and walking forwards once she was signed in, able to mask the resentment that cooked in her eyes as she passed the Peacekeepers.

Lucet ran back to Lilah as they approached the Reaping crowd, huddling beside her. “Boys that way.” A Peacekeeper spat from in front of them, motioning his gun to the left side of the crowd. Lucet trembled, grabbing onto his sister’s hand. “Can’t we just stay together?” He asked, as the Peacekeeper grunted and grabbed Lucet by the collar, pulling him away from Lilah. “I said that way.” The Peacekeeper repeated, shoving him to the twelve-year-old section of the male side. Lilah glared at him for the way he handled her brother, but she was put back to her powerless level as he shoved her forward. “Ain’t got all day, missy. Get to your place.”

Oxford took a space in the crowd, adjusting his slicked hair, and his ironed blazer, and his polished leather shoes so he looked presentable. He was to represent the Keele name with grace. He tried to ignore the snorts of mockery from boys around him, as some sneered and whispered to each other. He knew he was disliked, for being the mayor’s son and the way he curated his image. For the privilege he obtained over them.

“He thinks he’s so much better than us.” One of his peers retorted less than a metre away. Oxford cleared his throat, crossing his hands and poising them neatly behind him as he looked forwards to the Justice Building. Even the merchant kids of Velour Town held disdain towards him, jeering as they passed his house. Oxford huffed. He was better than them.

The microphone on the stage screeched as Laverne opened her mouth to speak, causing many of the children in the square to grimace. The cameras decided to divert this accident, quickly opting for an aerial drone shot of the district before it was rectified. Once Laverne began to speak again, the sound was in order, and the cameras switched to her on the stage. “Happy Hunger Games, District Eight! We should be all so honoured for Reaping day.” Her shrill voice boomed through the speakers.

Laverne Lysander seemed to constantly switch up her image, a new look every year that District Eight saw her. Oxford recalled how last year her dyed rose-gold hair twirled freely to her legs, and the silk gown of the same colour that adorned her body. This year, her hair was the opposite: it was cropped short to a dyed pea-green, as some stripes along her head were shaven down to reveal a black buzz of her hear. The pale skin of her entire body seemed to be tinted a mint-green, as her dark eyes were accentuated with a heavy black eyeliner and her lips dusted with gold powder. A rose-coloured silk button-up shirt squeezed her torso, the collar spiking over her neck. A pair of tight black trousers, with sharp slits spotted throughout them, rested on her legs. Simple black heels clinkered on the stage as she paced during the promo video played. Oxford laughed. Was she having an identity crisis every year?

“Now, I know everyone is on the edge of their seats to see which District Eight tributes are lucky enough to visit the glorious Capitol tomorrow!” Laverne smiled, “So let’s get on with it and choose District Eight’s lady.” She crossed to the glass reaping bowl, taking a good look at the load of paper slips before her. Her hand shot in.

Lilah played with the cotton fabric of her dress uneasily, trying to distract herself from the morbid suspense that suffocated the air in the district square. She watched the screen propped closest to her, as a close-up shot showed Laverne’s green hand retrieving a slip from the middle of the pile. She cleared her throat, opening it up and holding it in front of her, as she announced: “Lilah Quilt.”

Lilah felt her hand tense up rigidly, her fingernails digging into the spot of her dress she had been holding. Her heart hammered against her chest, the beats restricting the air in her throat. She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she stepped towards the central walkway. A girl in the section, a complete stranger, offered her a gesture of support. Despite the petrified and vexed feeling that consumed her, Lilah found that the stranger’s touch gave her a spark of hope. As she walked towards the stage, that spark only intensified as the whole square erupted into applause, and a series of hoots and yells of encouragement. It was tradition. District Eight wouldn’t let their own walk up to that stage in silence, in fear. They would know their home had her back.

An ounce of solace eased the weight on Lilah’s shoulders as she mounted the stage, making sure to keep a brave expression on her face. “Wow, I’m in love with your dress!” Laverne beamed, the camera lens zooming into the cobalt blue cotton dress that Lilah was clad in. A cream velvet hung at the hem, red stitching embroidered throughout. “Thank you, I made it myself.” Lilah exclaimed, attempting a smile at the camera. “What a talented girl we have here, indeed.” Laverne cheered, gently guiding Lilah next to her on the microphone. “Gentlemen, it’s your turn!” She exclaimed.

A collective halting of breath was felt amongst the male side of the Reaping crowd as Laverne’s heels bounced amongst the stage. She considered the bowl for a moment before plucking her hand inside, rummaging for a few seconds, and bringing a slip from the middle of the pile out into the air. Oxford saw the beads of sweat trickling from the back of the neck of a boy standing in front of him. He was too busy focusing on trying to contain his own anxious sweat that began prickling at his sandy skin to notice Laverne opening the slip and declaring his name: “Oxford Keele.”

It took a few seconds for Oxford to register the name that was called. When he did, the hands he kept poised behind himself so orderly, fell to his sides. They were limp. A shocked gasp escaped his breath, followed by the low sound of sneers from a couple of boys near him. He marched out of his section and into the central walkway, making his way towards the stage. Oxford was in utter disbelief, even denial, the entire moment feeling surreal as the Justice Building came closer and closer as he walked. Although the cheers and hoots of support were fainter than the ones which showered Lilah, they still filled his ears. As he’d always been taught and reminded, Oxford represented the Keele name with grace. Head held high, posture straight, humble expression on his face; he mounted the stairs to the stage. He even made sure to straighten the sleeves of his navy tweed suit. There was a bump in his composed exterior as he saw his father on the stage, his head down as he looked at his shoes. Mayor Keele was trying to keep his emotions in check, too.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lysander.” He said, extending his hand out. The Capitol escort  gleefully took it, shaking Oxford’s hand, as he stood beside her on the stage. “What a set of manners on you!” Laverne beamed, “And what a handsome suit.”

“Thank you,” Oxford nodded, “Your hair looks beautiful this year.”

“Why, thank you!” Laverne blushed, playing with a twirl of her cropped hair, even though there wasn’t much to twirl. “The polite and well-dressed tributes of District Eight, Panem: Lilah Quilt and Oxford Keele!” She yelled into the microphone, as supportive cheers were again thrown their way. The pair eyed each other evenly as they shook hands.

*****

Lilah admired the appealing interior of her room in the Justice Building. A fine tapestry hung on the wall, it was certainly aged but held in good condition. She stared at it, exploring the image sprawled across the wool. Figures of people were latched on the edges, a grand white building mounted the centrepiece, as though the people revolved around it. She wondered when it was made, and what it meant.

“You have ten minutes.” A deep voice sounded as the door clicked open, Lucet barging forwards and sprinting into his sister’s arms. His face was strained even paler than before, his eyes red and puffy, he’d been crying. The tears rolled out again once he hugged Lilah. “No, they can’t take you!” He cried.

Dacron Quilt stumbled into the room, his head spinning, and his mouth reeking of alcohol. His children felt his presence, which filled them with scorn, but they paid him no mind. He opened his mouth to speak, the speech slurring, and he gave up as he took a lousy seat on the couch. Lilah’s heart dropped as she faced the reality of having to leave Lucet behind alone. With him.

“I have a friend from the warehouse, her name’s Brella,” Lilah whispered into her brother’s ear, away from the ears of their inebriated father, “She lives in Branson Town, Block C, number 57. She’ll take you in when he gets violent.”

Lucet’s face scrunched up, a cry of despair and mourning released from him that broke Lilah’s heart. “Please come back, Lilah, please.” He wept, clinging onto her dress, “You can do it. You can win, you can come back.”

Lilah shut her eyes, exhaling a forlorn breath as she laid the side of her face against Lucet’s head. She hung onto him, breathing in his scent. He smelled like home. “I’ll come back, ok bud?” She said, soothing his messy locks and trying to relax the rapid beating in her chest. “I’ll try. I’ll come back.”

Lilah tried her best to convince her brother as she held him in her arms, refusing to shed a tear of her own. Convince him she could return to him. She knew she couldn’t convince herself.

*****

“You’re a phenomenal student. This is outrageous.”

The phrase drifted towards Oxford but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to even listen to it, accept it. What did it matter, he thought, if he was the best student in school? His test scores wouldn’t exactly help him out in the arena. He thought of all the long hours he’d spent burying himself in books, in papers, in assignments. The effort he’d pour into them, the pressure he’d succumbed to in order to be perfect. To prove himself to his parents, to Mr. Toque. How capable he was, how smart he was. Oxford really hoped his apparent gift of intelligence and his hard work would earn him some sort of a bright future. At least brighter than the warehouses and textile mills that most of his peers would turn to. He felt hot tears edging at his eyes at the thought it was all for nothing.

“Maybe… maybe I have an advantage.” Oxford exclaimed, digging his fingers out of his hair; which was now a slicked, tussled mess. “I’m smart. There’s been so many victors that have won due to applying their wits in the Games.”

Mr. Toque cleared his throat, readjusting his glasses. “Yes, Oxford. Perhaps.” He said. His voice betrayed his words, it was devoid of any attempt of pretending he agreed, or believed him.

Oxford slammed his back into the couch, crossing his arms and staring up at the glass lamp that presided over the ceiling. He thought back to his father’s pacing in the room ten minutes prior, his mother sitting sorrowfully next to him and offering comforting words that were probably spoken more for her sake than his own. “They must be punishing me, we’ve come up short with export this year.” Mayor Keele’s voice wavered across the rooms, blending in with the sound of his stressed footsteps.

Even at their final farewells with him, Oxford realised both of the men he looked up to so highly in his life didn’t have an ounce of faith in him. And were more concerned as to how his brutal fate was affecting them.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT NINE

The heat of the oven hissed against Zea’s skin.

She bit her lip as she placed the tray of dough inside, shutting the oven door and sighing. It was hot inside the bakery, as the beaming sunlight outside didn’t help to cool the lit furnaces inside. Zea could feel the sweat slicked over her body, rubbing her dark hair in discontent. The exasperated expression on her face lightened as she saw her dog scurry into the room, panting whilst looking up at her. She smiled at Buddy's cute expression, rubbing the dark blonde fur of his neck.

"You want a treat?" She beamed, trotting over to the cupboard in the kitchen and clipping a small piece of dough as Buddy followed her, wagging his tail excitedly. He sat, sticking his tongue out and panting. Zea fed him the dough piece, chuckling as he took it and scratching the back of his head.

"What did I tell you about not wasting food on the dog?" Ms. Wheatley complained, crossing into the kitchen with an annoyed expression on her lightly sweaty face. She crossed her arms over her flour-covered apron. "He's got his own raw meat." 

"Yes mother, but Buddy's such a good boy, a little bit of dough won't hurt." Zea rebuffed, as the dog proved her point as he scurried over to Ms. Wheatley, looking up at her with cute eyes. Her mother rolled her eyes as she released a smile and petted the joyful dog. 

"The last of today's load of bread is in the oven," Zea said, "Mayor Barley will want three loaves before noon?" Her mother nodded in response. "Don't worry about that, I'll take care of it. You go freshen up for the Reaping." She said, kissing her daughter on the forehead. 

Zea obliged, making her way up the steps to their apartment; which consisted of a bathroom and shared bedroom above the bakery. The wooden floorboards moaned as Zea walked over them, throwing open the door to the bathroom and turning the tap on.

She watched as the water flowed into the tub, stripping off her sweaty and floury clothes and wincing in delight from the sensation of the cold water as she stuck her hand under the faucet.

Buddy stepped over into the room and laid against the cool tiles, causing Zea to giggle and crouch down, scratching his back. She felt his soft fur brush against her fingertips, as the canine offered some comfort to the unease that pervaded Zea's mind about the incoming Reaping. At the age of eighteen, it was her last year which proved hopeful as after today she could be free from the possibility of the Hunger Games forever. However, her name was entered in the bowl eight times. Still, the fact she didn't have to take tesserae like a large portion of District Nine's children assured her slightly.

Waiting for the bathtub to fill, Zea listened to the lapping of the water as she threw open the wardrobe in the bedroom, sighing distastefully at the limited options of her very best. The Reaping dress she wore last year had a hole in the back now, towards her lower back; but the rest of her dresses were either not formally up to standard or too small for her.

She bit her lip as she examined the beige cotton dress after wearing it, grunting at the hole that ruined the outfit.

“I have nothing else!” She stressed, fumbling through the other clothes in the wardrobe to no avail. Ms. Wheately heard her daughter’s distress as she climbed the steps, an idea lighting her head.

“Hold on Zea.” She instructed, sliding open the top dresser draw and rummaging between clothes, finally pulling a thick leather belt out and holding it out towards her daughter. “Just sling this on, it’ll cover the hole.”

With no choice but to obey, Zea clicked the belt over her waist and turned to take a look in the mirror. Her chest flooded with relief, as she hugged her mother and kissed her cheek. “You’re a lifesaver.”

*****

The wheat fields were prettiest in the sunrise. Clearfell loved how they were bathed in the toned yellow of the emerging sunlight, not yet completely revealed as shades of red and purple swam in the sky. The wheat waved against the soft breeze that trickled against them, as the sun spilled over the horizon. Clearfell spotted how the light caught over the sunflower field in the distance, the specks of a vibrant and warm yellow of their petals catching his eye.

He loved sitting on the front porch of his house, just staring out at the seemingly boundless fields that fed his family and provided them with work. It wasn’t easy work, but it gave them purpose and never did them wrong.

“What you gawking at loser?” A voice playfully called out, as Clearfell’s younger brother punched him on the shoulder and took a seat next to him. “A loser face now.” Clearfell chuckled, grabbing Parel and trapping him in a headlock. After a few seconds he released him, laughing.

“Yeah yeah you can tease me all you want but you’ll be shitting yourself soon!” The younger boy exclaimed, as Clearfell rolled his eyes. “No I won’t. I ain’t scared of the Capitol.”

“Boys, breakfast!” Mrs. DeLuca yelled from inside, as both her sons gleamed at the thought of food to satisfy the churning in their stomachs as they hurried into the kitchen, taking their seats at the small table.

Clearfell sliced open a small loaf of seeded bread in half, lathering both sides in butter. He took a big bite, savouring the deliciously simple taste. His brother stuffed the loaf into his mouth, grinning hungrily.

“We should leave in an hour to make it on time for the Reaping.” Mr. DeLuca stated, blowing on his hot tea. Clearfell groaned, dreading the three hour journey on foot that awaited the family. “Surely they should provide us with buses or something?”

“As if they’d care.” His mother scoffed, smothering her bread in butter. “I got blisters on my heels from last year. Blisters. I’ve heard in some districts they hold the Reapings in their separate quarters or settlements.”

“So why can’t we do that?” Parel moaned, met with an begrudged shrug from his parents.

Clearfell sighed, finishing the last of his breakfast and straightening his sand-coloured button-up. He found himself smoothing his coffee-coloured locks, trying to seem presentable as the family were preparing to leave their house.

“Don’t worry son, you look handsome. Just like your father when he was your age.” His mother smiled, tweaking his fringe. Mr. DeLuca laughed, slinging an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Not better though.” He winked, as the family chuckled.

*****

District Nine was a scattered and sparsely populated district, which was inconvenient for the citizens when they had to gather for events such as the Reaping. Menodora Nereus still couldn’t believe some had to leave their villages at the crack of dawn to make it to the stage on time. It was situated by a large wheat field, in front of a big and rusty copper mill, straddling the lush green grass as it overlooked the children whom were milling into place.

Menodora decided that despite District Nine being deemed outlying and unremarkable in her home city, she liked it. The rich wheat and corn fields veiled over the thick grass, as pleasant clusters of trees dotted throughout the landscape whilst also accompanied by some flowing rivers. It was a nice contrast to the noisy and bustling metropolis of the Capitol. She found it in herself that the district helped her realise that she liked nature, and appreciated the charm of the district folk as she watched them band together before her.

Many hugged each other, engaging in longing and upbeat conversations as they prayed for their children’s odds once they found their place in the Reaping crowd. Menodora appreciated how here, nobody was pretending.

Zea strolled her way through the Reaping crowd, exchanging warm smiles and nods with familiar faces and hushed conversation with her friends. She took her place in the middle of the eighteen-year-old female section, surrounded by girls draped in similar shades of beige as she.

It was easy to forget the foreboding reasoning of the ceremony, due to the hopeful and peaceful atmosphere that permeated through the crowd that gathered by the stage. District Nine wasn’t going to let the Capitol scare them into silence, into despair. They held a small and subtle rebellion by keeping their spirits high.

That is exactly what Zea convinced herself she was going to do, as she tried to ignore the stinging in her finger. Despite the dread that ripped at her lungs, she giggled with her friends and kept a smile on her face. She’d hoped that smile would remain after it would be revealed today, she was no longer stuck in the Reaping pool.

“You’re bringing the posca!” Alicia cheered, locking her arm around Clearfell’s. He chuckled, nudging his friend. “Yep, my dad got me three bottles,” He said. “Oh, it’s gonna be a fun night.” Alicia smirked, kissing him on the cheek as she scurried back to her family as they neared the sign-in desk.

“May the Odds be ever in your favour, boys.” Mrs. Deluca gulped, placing two firm hands on her sons’ shoulders as she stared at the Peacekeepers pricking needles into childrens’ fingers. Her eyes widened.

“Ah, you don’t need no odds. Hurry up so I can get started on my posca quicker.” Their father grinned, lightening the mood to match the rest of the crowds’. It worked slightly, as the boys let resilient smiles play at their lips as they stood in line to be registered.

“I hope you get picked just so you can stop pestering me all the time.” Parel playfully sneered, earning a jab in his arm in return. “I hope you get picked just so I can watch you piss your pants.” Clearfell replied, flicking the back of his little brother’s neck.

“Move it.” Barked a Peacekeeper nearby, holstering his gun, which silenced them both as they approached desk. Familiar with the routine, Clearfell stuck his hand out ready for the Peacekeeper in charge of the registration. She pierced his finger with the needle, his name buzzing on the little screen. “May the Odds be ever in your favour.” The Peacekeeper’s voice mockingly said, and Clearfell chuckled at the familiar voice that placed behind the mask. He knew he’d see Alexis at the festival tonight, without her Peacekeeper uniform, drunk and dancing.

“Don’t worry.” Clearfell tried, as he squeezed his brother’s arm once they departed to find their places in their respective sections in the Reaping crowd. Parel’s shaky breath, full of trepidation, worried Clearfell.

He decided to pay it no mind, tuning out the promotional broadcast video and the Capitol escort’s opening speech as he daydreamed of the festival tonight, as the whole district would gather at one of the Northern corn fields and dance to the instrumental music, gorge themselves on alcohol, and throw knives at scarecrows. To celebrate the children who were spared another year, and to wish luck to those whom were taken away.

Menodora’s presence filled the recording cameras. Her platinum hair was cropped perfectly to her shoulders, her face caked in a rosy powder, her eyes glittered with gold. A mint-green blazer hugged her figure, most of the buttons done apart from the top few to reveal her lemon cashmere blouse. The green of her outfit was mirrored in her short and creaseless skirt, as her tanned legs exposed patterns of black ink in numerous floral patterns, studded with a bright palette of light blues and pinks for the petals. Pristine leather sandals squeezed Menodora’s feet, with the strips circling in swirls over her ankles.

She loved nature, but there was nothing natural about her appearance to District Nine.

“It is time to select the tributes from District Nine for the 61^st Hunger Games!” Menodora cheered, the triumph in her face entirely artificial. She took a deep breath, stepping over to the left side of the stage. The female Reaping bowl loomed ahead, getting bigger with every step she took. Menodora felt every eye around her strained onto her hands, her fingernails decorated with a bright yellow colour which circled the hem of the bowl.

Exhaling slightly, she stuck her hand inside, feeling the little envelopes jab at her skin as it slid through. Some of the paper corners stabbed into her palm like thorns, as her hand reached the middle of the cluster. Menodora allowed her fingers to clasp a random slip, extracting it from the bowl. A weight rested on her shoulders as she reached the microphone, as she tried to avoid the terrified expressions of the girls below her which increased the weight. Unwrapping the envelope and stretching the paper slip out towards her, Menodora cleared her throat. She read: “Zea Wheatley.”

Zea’s hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. She looked to the screen beside her, finding her denim-blue orbs staring back at her. Every muscle in her body tensed, she felt as though she was about to sink into the grass her feet trembled on.

“Zea Wheatley?” The Capitol escort’s voice repeated, as a few seconds later her pale face matched the name as a Peacekeeper barged his way through the front section of the female Reaping crowd, grabbing Zea’s shoulder and pushing her out into the central walkway.

She bit her lip, finding the strength to place her feet forwards and walk towards the stage. She grasped onto her belt, a way to distract herself from the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Zea couldn’t let herself cry, she knew it would only create more problems.

Menodora noticed the pained expression on her tribute’s face, the quivering of her lip as she tried to maintain an unemotional façade which was breaking. She made herself wobble, almost tripping on the stage. The cameras immediately whipped to her direction, as she exhaled an awkward chuckle and wiped her forehead. “Oh, don’t mind me! The heat is making me feel whoozy, so hot today!” She laughed, fanning herself.

By this point, Zea was already beginning to mount the steps to the stage. The quivering of her lip relaxed, her face seeming less like it was on the verge of portraying hysterics. Menodora sighed in relief. The distraction worked.

“Zea, how old are you, darling?” Menodora asked, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder and situating her next to the microphone. “E- eighteen.” She exclaimed, finding her voice and staring at her home in front of her. She felt a pang in her chest as she realised this was probably the last she’d be seeing of it.

“What a fine young lady, with such extraordinary eyes too!” Menodora chimed, hoping to elevate the status of her tribute. “Now, Zea, now we have to find the young man whom will be joining you.”

The gasps of suspense and trembling hands passed over to the parallel side of the Reaping crowd, as Clearfell heard his own heart beating as Menodora’s feet tapped against the stage and her hand reached the glass bowl. Ignoring the weight that pressed onto her, Menodora stuck her hand into the envelopes, the corners poking at her skin. Again, from the middle of the load, she pulled an envelope out and crossed to the microphone. She held the slip in front of her, gulping, and declaring the name: “Clearfell DeLuca.”

The rapid beating of Clearfell’s heart seemed to come to a halt, time seemed to just stop moving. It was almost as though a ringing permeated through his head, as Clearfell found it in himself to step forwards, passing through his saddened peers, and walk towards the stage. The beige of the Reaping crowd’s outfits, the green of the corn fields, the yellow of Menodora’s bright blouse; all seemed to blur before him.

“No!” A voice loudly cried, “Clearfell, no!”

The devastated voice of his younger brother snapped Clearfell back to reality, throwing his head back to see Parel barging through the crowd, out into the central walkway, and racing towards him.

“They can’t take you!” Parel cried, crashing against his older brother and wrapping him in his arms. A pair of Peacekeepers began marching towards them, but Alicia got to them first. She rushed over to the DeLuca brothers, taking Parel by the arm. “I’ll be ok,” Clearfell said to his brother, turning back to the stage and walking forwards. Everything inside him wanted to scream but he kept himself collected for the cameras, and for his brother’s sake.

“We have such a brave young man. How old are you, Clearfell?” Menodora asked as she positioned him on the other side of her by the microphone. He looked in front of him, finding several familiar faces in the crowd watching him, their gazes ladled with pity. Why did it have to be him?

“I’m seventeen.” Clearfell replied, looking down at his shoes as he was afraid his collected exterior was about to fade, the very solid possibility that he’d never live to see eighteen dawning on him.

“I bet my blazer that was your brother!” The Capitol escort chimed, as he nodded, feeling the hot summer breeze ruffle his hair. “Yes, he’s my brother.” He couldn’t see where Parel was now, but he hoped Alicia led him away from the force of the Peacekeepers.

“Well, he must be proud of you, Clearfell.” Menodora said, with a smile. Clearfell furrowed his eyebrow at the sight; her rouge-smothered lips had been stretched upwards the entire ceremony but this smile was different. It wasn’t filled with the fake and constructed enthusiasm that paired her loud words as she spoke into the microphone. It was genuine. Pitiful, even.

“Let’s show some support for our tributes, District Nine: Zea Wheatley and Clearfell DeLuca!” Menodora’s voice yelled through the field. She watched as the pair shook hands, her heart hurting at the forlorn expressions on their faces.

She’d been told it was normal to have a difficult time the first year as a Capitol escort. But by her fourth year, Menodora found that her guilt and sympathy for the scared children she’d have to send to the Games only grew thicker and coarser with each passing Reaping.

*****

Zea fiddled with her belt, feeling frustrated and uncomfortable as it kept loosening, losing its grip on her dress.

She’d been trying to distract herself from the agonising anguish that lurked in her chest, embodied through the hot tears that puffed her eyes red. It didn’t help when her mother wasn’t able to keep from sobbing, burying her head in the crane of her daughter’s neck.

Galette Wheatley was a blubbering mess, any words that she tried to exchange with Zea were incoherent against her gasps and sobs. Her girl was beautiful and kind, compassionate. She would never hurt a fly. She thought how her daughter would even tiptoe around ants on the ground, feed the stray cats the last of her rations even when there was nothing left in the cupboard for herself. To her dismay, Galette knew that Zea was too pure of a person to leave that arena alive.

So, she took in the last of her few moments with her only daughter.

*****

Clearfell had rarely ever experienced the urgent and intimate embrace of his little brother. Parel was always a fussy and stubborn little bastard, but his love and concern for his elder brother cut right through that persona as he hugged Clearfell tight.

“You’re smart, you’re strong, son.” Wheaton DeLuca insisted, biting his lip as he tried to keep his composure. “I’ve taught you boys both how to fight. You know how to use a scythe, just a few different jabs and it’s a good weapon against a person.” Clearfell took in every word his father reamed, hearing the panic in his frantic voice. It scared him, but he wasn’t going to leave his family without showing his backbone.

Hazel wept as she placed her hand on her eldest son’s shoulder, moving her fingers through his thick locks of hair. Her mind played back to every death she could recall in her forty seven years of watching the Hunger Games. She couldn’t even comprehend having to watch her son in any of those horrible ways, on the screen. She wouldn’t allow him to let himself end up as another cannon.

“You can do, this Clearfell.” She said, her eyes squinting as a hopeful smile flickered on her face. “You can do this.” Clearfell didn’t care if her words were false, because he knew she believed in him. He grasped onto his mother’s hand.

Parel couldn’t afford his parents’ assurances to fall short. He needed his big brother.

He clutched onto Clearfell’s arm, tears streaming endlessly down his face. “You’re gonna be the winner.” He said, as Clearfell sighed sadly and held his family close.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT TEN

Lleyn breathed a deep sigh of annoyance, her hand gripping the cow’s teat tightly but as she squeezed nothing came out. She stared down at the bucket below her, the height of the milk inside was only a few inches high. The bucket had to be at-least three quarters full.

She moved her hand to the final teat of the cow, steadying her grip and squeezing down. Her joy at the expulsion of milk was short-lived, as only a few weak drops managed to drip into the bucket.

Lleyn sighed, standing up and looking the cow in the eye. She ran her hand soothingly across the brown fur on her head, blinking sympathetically at the oblivious creature.

It was obvious, and there was nothing she could do. She knew the cow’s time was up.

Crouching back down to the side, Lleyn picked a handful of hay and held it towards the cow’s mouth, which licked it up from her immediately. She led the creature outside into the field, letting it roam free across the grass during the little time it had left.

“117 is barren now, huh?” Bronco asked as he approached his best friend, whom stared at the animal sympathetically and at the number imprinted on its side in bright blue. “I recognise that look in your eyes.”

“And I recognise that look in yours.” Lleyn replied, making eye contact with the boy and then her sight fell to his white apron, stained with splatters of a dark red. Bronco could smell the sharp, copper smell of blood that lingered on him, counting down the minutes until he could wash it all away. He was grateful that his shift today would be short, due to his mandatory attendance for the Reaping later.

He glanced over to his coworkers carrying the limp, slain creature out of the slaughterhouse across the field and into the truck, shutting his eyes and trying to forget the helpless look in the animal’s eyes which he had to look away from as he swung the machete into its neck.

Bronco rubbed the dried blood on his hands against his dirty apron, his mouth tensing as it still remained. He felt as though he was bathed in red.

Lleyn noticed his struggle, retrieving a wet cloth from the barn which she handed to him. Bronco thanked her with a lukewarm smile, cleaning his hands, and staring out at the green expanse before him.

“I wish I could work at the horse stables.” He muttered, dabbing the cloth across his arms. At-least then his work wouldn’t send him home with a suffocating guilt every night. Lleyn shrugged, picking up a pitchfork and heading towards the pig farm. “Wishes mean nothing in this place.” She said, wiping the sweat off her brow.

Bronco had no choice but to agree. He sighed, watching a group of chickens be herded into the slaughterhouse, as he clutched an axe in his grasp and headed to his assigned job.

Lleyn’s long morning was forgotten the second she opened the creaky door to her home.

“Mommy’s home!” She smiled, her eyes lighting up as her son sat up from playing with his wooden horse on the carpet and giggled, crawling towards his tired yet excited mother.

The toddler cooed as Lleyn swept him into her arms, picking him up and kissing him on both of his cheeks then keeping him slung by her shoulder as he tapped his little fingers against the bridge of her nose.

“How was work?” Lleyn’s mother wondered as she sat up from the small table in the kitchen, handing a glass of water to Bronco whom was clearly lathered in sweat from the boiling heat outside.

“It was… work, Ms. Maddox.” Bronco replied, gulping the water down thirstily. He loved his best friend’s mother but he wanted to leave his brutal tasks within the confines of the slaughterhouse, choosing to forget when he was finally released into his spare time.

Bronco chuckled, stretching his hand out to the toddler whom wrapped his fingers around it, giggling as his nose was then booped. Lleyn smiled, tenderly kissing her son’s soft head.

“Go wash up first upstairs, hun, you’ve both gotta be at the Reaping in three hours.” Bessie Maddox exclaimed, placing an affectionate hand on Bronco’s shoulder as he nodded and stepped up the wooden steps to the second story of the house, throwing off his dirty, bloody clothes and turning the knobs of the rusty faucet.

Lleyn took a seat on the sofa, placing her son on her lap as she switched the TV on. The grainy screen flickered on, displaying the live feed of the scared faces of the children in the Reaping Crowd in District Twelve. Bessie took a seat next to her daughter, playing with the little socked foot of her grandson.

“The poor chap,” she said, gesturing upstairs, “His father was a good man. How’s he been taking it?”

Lleyn sighed sadly, turning away from the TV screen. “As well as he can, I guess. Mr. Vasquez was sick for a long time so I think Bronco had time to kind of prepare for when the time came.” She said.

Bessie nodded, her sympathetic expression uplifting into one of adoration as she made contact with the small, beaming eyes of her grandson. She lightly squeezed his chubby cheeks, running a finger through his thin wisps of hair. “And such a nice young man, too. He’s more of a father to little Rex here than that damned bastard you let yourself get caught up with.”

“I don’t wanna talk about Briar, mom.” Lleyn huffed in exasperation, swatting away the subject of her ex-boyfriend every time her mother went against her better judgement to bring it up. She leant forward, relaxing at the sensation of her chin rubbing against Rex’s little ear.

She held her son pressed against her, dreading to let him go as the Reaping ceremony impended closer with each passing minute.

*****

Xerxes Ravinstill blinked at the sunlight that invaded his eyes, blocking his sight. He could barely look out towards the Reaping crowd in front of him, seeing flickers of browns and blacks of the children’s clothes and the murmurs that sounded.

“I can’t perform here,” he complained, waving Mayor Messinese over. “I can’t even see ahead!”

“I can offer you some sunglasses, sir, otherwise there’s nothing else we can do.” The Mayor shrugged, much to the Capitol escort’s inconvenience. Xerxes huffed in annoyance, crossing his arms.

“Absolutely not, I won’t look professional with sunglasses on for the cameras.” Xerxes rebuffed, looking ahead and squinting. The crowd below him on the stage had shuffled into their places for the ceremony, mirroring the same narrowing of their eyes to watch him on the stage. He wondered which tanned face, strained with anxiety, would be unlucky enough to hear their name called by him.

The stench of manure sent Xerxes to wrinkle his nose in disgust, holding a handkerchief over his face for as long as he could. The stage was propped on a green field, as rolling hills folded the landscape, perked with various farm animals which resided across. Nobody in the Capitol could even dream of such a place, he thought. The districts reeked, and the people beneath Xerxes were inferior in his eyes, not worthy of his courtesy.

Lleyn soothed her little boy in her arms as he began to cry at the commotion of the residents of District Ten gathering at the hill for the Reaping. She patted his back as Bronco had his arm wrapped around her shoulders, leading them through the mob until they reached the registration desk.

The pair felt a juxtaposition of feelings of their last entries for the Reaping; relief and excitement of it being their last year, and fear of their increased chances.

Lleyn squeezed Bronco’s hand. It was firm and strong, the callouses hard against her skin. However, it trembled slightly. She could feel her best friend’s overwrought breaths that he tried to keep subdued inside him, blowing out of his mouth slightly a tense and subtle rhythm in an attempt to squash his rising panic.

“A big, tough guy like you?” Bessie grinned, “Don’t stress over nothing, Bronco. It’ll all be peachy.” She patted his back, turning to her daughter. Lleyn stopped as they approached the back of the queue, planting a kiss on Rex’s little head as her mother took him in his arms.

“You’ll be fine, hun. It’s more likely to rain cats and dogs today than you being taken away from me.” She smirked, smoothing the crease on the shoulder of her daughter’s black polyester dress. “Fuck them, I ain’t scared. They don’t own me.” Lleyn said, earning amused and very approving expressions from her mother and Bronco in return.

Bronco kept Lleyn’s hand in his grasp after they were signed in, as they made their way down to the path towards the stage. They were amongst the last to be registered for the Reaping, as the voices and murmurs within the crowd were dying down as a screeching sound echoed from the microphone. The pair nodded at each other once they reached the front section of the crowd, departing from each other’s grasp and splitting into parallel sides according to their genders.

Finally, only a minute later, the ceremony was officially initiated. The cameras were rolling and Xerxes took his stance by the microphone, showcasing his authority over the district by the way he looked down at the faces peering up at him like they were a piece of dirt on his shoe.

“The Hunger Games is an important and necessary part of our glorious country’s culture. Our opulent nation rising alone in the torn world despite all the odds, all the horrors thrown at us.” His deep voice declared, ringing through the crowd. “As President Snow himself has so excellently said, the Capitol is the beating heart of Panem. It provides order, peace to the country. To you.”

Lleyn shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though her black dress was a beacon to the harsh sun that beamed down on the hill. Every part of her body was hot and itchy, sweat beginning to bead across her skin. The ceremony was dragging, Lleyn tapped her foot impatiently on the ground, rolling her eyes and huffing every time she heard a pause in the Capitol escort’s speech only for him to continue speaking. The promo video hadn’t played yet.

Xerxes wasn’t exactly a hit with District Ten, his first year as an escort for the Games. He rambled about the marvellous standing of the Capitol, the glory of President Snow, the importance of the Games as punishment for the Districts and their need to “heal.” Bronco had to suppress his laughter when a collective and inevitable groan sounded from the other side of the ropes once the escort got to the justification of the Hunger Games in his long and obnoxious speech.

One thing that startled and perplexed Bronco, however, was Xerxes’s very conventional appearance. He didn’t align himself with the usual eccentric and garish fashion and painfully energetic personas that would be expected from a Capitol citizen. He spoke in a deep and measured, almost monotone voice. The only clothing he clad himself in was a tidy ebony suit, a red handkerchief perked in his breast pocket. His hair was a natural brown colour, brushed neatly to the side of his porcelain face; albeit it was tainted by a deep grey and was clearly thinning at the top, symptoms of his age.

“Hence, in order to upkeep the balance essential for order and retribution for Panem’s sake, I will now select two tributes from District Ten for the 61^st Hunger Games. Their sacrifice is not forgotten.” Xerxes declared, pulling two crimson leather gloves from his pocket, and placing his hands stiffly inside of them.

His polished shoes gleamed in the sunlight as he trotted towards the female Reaping bowl, as each step sent every mother’s hands to their mouths in fright and suspense. Xerxes first stopped and stood, his eyes scanning the cluster of paper envelopes in front of him. The load was large, and the choices were countless. He reached his hand inwards, his glove brushing to the bottom. Xerxes made his choice as he pulled an envelope out of the bowl, unwrapping it as he stood back by the microphone. He cleared his throat, perching the paper slip straight in front of him as he squinted to see the name in front of him through the blaring sun. “Lleyn Maddox.”

Lleyn immediately pursed her lips, her hands twitching as they tensed into fists. The cameras found her face, girls around her giving her space to step out into the path. She took a deep breath, setting one foot forwards and then another. Numerous pairs of eyes washed over her, penetrating into the sheer rage that was erupting inside her chest. This was externally portrayed through her furrowed eyebrows and her clenched fists, and her burning gaze at the Capitol escort on the stage. If looks could kill, Xerxes would be dead.

She walked forwards through the path towards the stage, trying to keep her anger sustained as she neared Xerxes’s grinning face. Her nails dug into the skin of her palm. She thought of the irony, remarking how she wasn’t so different to cow number 117 now. Once Lleyn was placed beside the microphone, she pulled her hands away, noticing the red marks on her palms. All she could think about was Rex.

“The Capitol kindly thanks you for your sacrifice, Lleyn.” Xerxes exclaimed, tilting the microphone towards her. Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel tears brimming at her eyes, they were hot and angry. Lleyn managed to keep them contained, closing her eyes for a brief moment to keep her composure before she spoke. “I… I hope to make my district proud.”

“That’s the spirit!” Xerxes cheered, met with silence from his target audience. Lleyn blinked towards the sunlight, crossing her hands behind her as yet again, they balled into fists. “Who will Lleyn’s partner be to accompany her as they fight for the Games? We shall see.” The Capitol escort announced, adjusting his crimson gloves as he walked towards the male Reaping bowl.

Bronco was stunned. He was frozen into place, his devastated breaths hitching in his throat the second he heard his best friend’s name called. His eyes were wide with terror, with disbelief, as he watched her walk to the stage. Bronco’s focus could only extend to the hem of Lleyn’s black dress, he was unable to bring himself to look at her face.

Xerxes stepped back to the microphone, clearing his throat. He held the paper slip outwards, leaning into the microphone as he read: “Teff Hunther.”

After a few moments the name matched the face of a mortified boy at the very back of the Reaping crowd, from the twelve-year-old section. His dark hair sprung in thick curls over his head, his almond skin gleaming with a light layer of sweat. He walked out of the crowd, his head hung down in an attempt to hide his incoming stream of tears. He was in black overalls, which were too big for him as they sagged across his bottom half.

Bronco’s heart sank in his chest as his vision alternated between the terrified little boy and finally his best friend on the stage, as he found it in himself to look up to see her face. She was livid. Hundreds of images filled his head, Lleyn in the brutality of the Games. He couldn’t let her go to the Games alone. She had a son. She was all Bronco had.

After a minute, Bronco clarified his decision. Teff was halfway down the path before he heard a voice ring out, his glassy eyes widening as he saw Bronco push past his peers out of the crowd. “I volunteer as tribute!” Bronco repeated, shoving his way towards the stage. “I volunteer!”

Xerxes raised his eyebrows, squinting his eyes at the scene before him. He was certainly intrigued. “Very well, a volunteer. Come on up.”

Teff gasped in relief, almost crying out, rushing back to his place at the back of the Reaping crowd. Bronco pursed his lips as he mounted the stage, making eye contact with Lleyn as he approached the microphone. Her mouth was hung open in shock, the expression on her face indecipherable. He stood on the other side of Xerxes, whom placed his hand firmly on Bronco’s shoulder.

“What’s your name son, and how old are you?” The escort questioned, as Bronco sighed and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Bronco Vasquez. I’m eighteen.” He answered, staring out at the crowd before him, at the green hills and the animals in the distance.

“I believe it’s been a while since District Ten has had a volunteer. What a surprise!” Xerxes beamed, removing his gloved hand from Bronco’s shoulder and stretching it towards the despondent audience. “Bronco Vasquez, we thank you for your braveness and your sacrifice. The tributes from District Ten: Lleyn Maddox and Bronco Vasquez. May the Odds be ever in your favour.”

There was no applause.

Bronco stepped towards Lleyn to shake her hand. Her grip was strong, her nails pricking into the olive skin of his hand. Their eyes met. Her gaze was dark with an anger that was now only fuelled heavier.  

*****

Lleyn wasted no time crying, or moaning about her feelings. She wrapped her hands around her son as she kept him on his lap, hugging him close and taking in his scent. He smelt like milk and honey, the scent of childhood and innocence. She ran her fingers over his little soft ears, his wisps of hair, his mushy belly. She couldn’t afford to never see Rex again. That just couldn’t be a possibility. A reality.

“I can’t die, mom. I can’t die.” Lleyn said, plainly. Bessie sat beside her daughter on the couch, running her hand through her daughter’s bun of oak-brown hair. She knew her girl was a strong spirit, she wouldn’t back down without a fight.

“And you won’t, hun. You won’t. Rex and I will be right here waiting for you.” Bessie replied, running soothing circles on her daughter’s back.

“No, I mean it.” Lleyn proclaimed, holding her son’s tiny hand in hers, pulling his face to her chest as she kissed him on the cheek. The kiss was warm and tender, as she placed several more quick and desperate pecks across his cheek and head. The toddler giggled softly.

Lleyn sniffled against her son’s ear. “I don’t want Rex to grow up without me. I’m not ready to die, mom. I’m not ready to die.” The words panged at Bessie’s heart; but like her daughter, she refused to waste their final moments on tears. “Bronco will protect you in the arena,” Bessie said, hopeful. “He’s got your back. That boy is loyal, and he ain’t gonna make it easy for ‘em.”

“He never should have volunteered.” Lleyn hissed, the fury bubbling in her chest again. She let it be fizzled out by her love for Rex, whom looked up at her with big, innocent eyes which made her heart melt.

She was going to return to her son. Whatever it took.

*****

Bronco’s legs shook as he sat on the couch in his room in the Justice Building.

The air inside was humid, stale even. It burned at his throat, gnawing his lungs. His hands were pressed together, against his forehead, as he leant forward oblivious to the erratic movements his legs made.

It had all happened so fast. Lleyn’s name announced from the stage, his hand shooting into the air as he yelled to volunteer. His hasty thoughts for the life-altering decision were so quick and panicked, but he was certain he’d made the right decision.

The wooden door clicked open. Bessie entered, as Bronco stood up to face her. She enveloped him into a warm embrace, which he openly took and returned.

“You stupid, stupid boy.” She said, pulling away and eyeing him sternly. “What in the hell did you do that for?”

Bronco huffed, straightening the creased sleeve of his brown button-up shirt. “I have to protect her, Ms. Maddox. She’s my best friend.” Bessie’s mouth drooped at the sentence, her eyes squeezing themselves shut. She wasn’t going to waste time on making a fuss about emotions with her daughter, she thought. And she was going to extend Bronco that same courtesy.

“You’re a great man, Bronco. A wonderful man.” She exclaimed, her hands gripped onto his arms. “Your father would be so proud of you.” Bronco sighed sadly at the mention, wiping at his eye. “Yes, he would be.”

Bessie took Bronco’s hand in hers, squeezing it firmly. “You know you’re like a son to me, don’t ya?” She said, as he nodded. “You protect my girl, Bronco. You protect her with everything you can.” She pulled him back into her arms, hugging him tightly.

“It’ll be the last thing I do.” Bronco said, his voice cracking with edges of sorrow but overshadowed with determination.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT ELEVEN

The branches whined under Fauna’s feet, wobbling as she leaped across them. She kept her grip on the tree, stretching herself up on her tip toes to pluck an apple from a higher hanging twig. She breathed out in victory once the red fruit was clutched in her grasp, dropping it into her satchel.

Placing her foot on a branch a few steps higher, she hoisted herself upwards and stepped on the branch, steadying herself for a moment. She was now on the highest canopy of the slim tree, the wood wriggling under her weight.

Paranoid that the branch would break, Fauna knew to be careful. She lifted her feet forwards, taking small and light steps on the wood and balancing herself cautiously with her arms outstretched as she made her way towards a cluster of ripe apples nestled between the green foliage.

Fauna winced, feeling the creaking of the branch. She couldn’t afford to fall, last that happened she broke her ankle. Couldn’t work for weeks, as her family was then left on the brink of death from starvation.

She was a thin girl, and light on her feet. Fauna convinced herself she’d make it.

Her hands finally got hold of two of the apples, yanking them from the twigs and placing them in her satchel. She leaned out, grasping the few that were left. Fauna sighed, her job was complete. Once she reached the trunk of the tree, a Peacekeeper was already glaring at her. His name was Tychon, and he was one of the countless that surveyed the orchards. She was painfully aware of his bad temper.

“In the crate.” He commanded, as she neared the large crate in front of him which held a heap of other plucked apples. Fauna obeyed, dumping her satchel load into the crate in front of the stern Peacekeeper, holding her empty satchel in front of him to prove she’d done as he’d asked.

Tychon stepped forward, grinning as he placed his gloved white hands on Fauna’s shoulders. She gritted her teeth as she faced away, feeling his hands pat roughly across her body as he searched her. His touch lingered particularly long on her thighs, rubbing against her hip bone. “Gotta make extra sure. Don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?” Tychon sneered.

Fauna recalled a few months earlier, when he’d caught the apple she smuggled between her thighs. His prod that smacked against her face left her unable to open her eye for days, and the lashes on her back stung like sharp blades pressed against her skin that tortured and haunted her. The ghost of the agonising pain sometimes breathed upon her if she laid at an angle in bed. The crushing fear that consumed Fauna of having to relive that traumatising punishment, and the fear that one escalated once she realized it was potential execution for a third offence was successfully contained inside.

After patting the terrified girl down to find no other suspicious lumps on her but her frail bones, the Peacekeeper stepped back and eyed her. “I’m watching you.” He said, as she swallowed anxiously and was allowed to exit. Fauna almost collapsed with a burning relief once she left the orchard, her shallow breaths permeating from her mouth. She unravelled the three concealed apples from her thick braid bun, dropping them into her satchel.

She smirked. It seemed he wasn’t watching her close enough.

The Victors Village was a stark contrast to the rest of District Eleven. The frail, tiny wooden houses that littered in settlements between the orchards and agricultural fields couldn’t even dream of entering a house that seemed so grand. Seeder Prime’s big white mansion stood almost majestically within the cluster of identical properties in the mostly desolate Victors Village, with its tidy brown shutters, polished white exterior, and manicured lawn that was studded with blooming flowers. Fauna felt like she was offending the property by even looking at it.

“Dear, you’re here!” Seeder gleefully exclaimed as she scurried down the steps from her front porch, placing a kiss on her niece’s forehead. “Now, we have to be quick. Patrol will show any minute now, I can’t afford to be caught in any more trouble again.” She said, handing Fauna a few heavy bags which she slung over her shoulders.

“This is most of the food that came in for me today. It’s half, really, but be sure to divide that with Marbury. Jonquil is sharing the other half over with Jemison town.”

Fauna smiled, looking at her aunt’s golden-brown eyes and the warm expression of her face. “Thank you, aunt Seeder.” She exclaimed, as Seeder smiled graciously and clasped Fauna’s hand in hers. “You know it’s no problem, sweet. Now go before they see.”

Fauna scurried home happily, overcome with a sense of miracle as the weight of a secret and promised food hung from her arms. She could silence her family’s screaming bellies.

*****

Huck tapped his foot impatiently as he stood at the back door of Mayor Black’s house. The early morning sun was casting over the horizon as birds chirped melodic tunes within the trees. A canvas of orange simmered ahead, but Huck didn’t have time to admire. He had business to conduct.

He took in the cloud of smoke into his lungs, savouring the last breath of tobacco that was left to creep into his throat, and exhaled. The cigarette dropped to the floor, followed with a stamp by Huck’s shoe.

The white door finally pressed open, the Mayor’s daughter shrugging her cardigan over her shoulders as she made eye contact with the delinquent.

“We agreed sunrise. Been light out for ten minutes now.” Huck scolded, crossing his arms.

“I had to sneak past my father. It’s a busy day for him, obviously. He’s already been up for hours.” Clementine explained, fishing out a small pouch from the pocket of her woollen cardigan. The sound of the metal coins clacking together caused Huck to almost lick his lips.

“He won’t see me here, will he? I ain’t putting my life on the line for your fix.” He huffed, narrowing his eyes at his peer. She chuckled, holding the pouch towards Huck which he enthusiastically snatched and secured into his bag.

“Relax. He’s way too busy to even notice.” Clementine exclaimed, taking the small bottle of blue pills from Huck’s hand.

“He got my buddy done over at the pen last fall. I like my freedom, I ain’t takin’ no chances.” Huck exclaimed sharply, snapping his bag shut.

“What’s a girl like you need ‘em for anyway? Back in the towns they take the edge off and make you forget you’re hungry for a while. Your bones ain’t exactly missin’ much meat.” He questioned, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it into his mouth as he ignited it with his lighter.

Clementine squeezed her arms around her chest, eyeing Huck evenly. “That’s none of your business.” She replied, fiddling the little bottle in her hand. “Why are you dealing drugs? Not exactly a steady or safe job now, is it?”

Huck chuckled, blowing the smoke out of his mouth straight into Clementine’s direction. She felt it tingle at her eyes.

“It ain’t exactly safe working out at the orchards either, princess. But I guess you wouldn’t know about that, huh?” He retorted, staring his dark orbs into hers. “Last week a ten year old kid got his nose broken for eating a carrot on the field. One dude was caught tryna smuggle some seed packets into his shirt and they beat him so hard there was nothin’ left of him but a pulp. His wife was left a widow with six young kids. Over three packets of potato seeds.”

Huck’s words struck at Clementine harsher than the cigarette smoke. Her mouth parted open, empathy twinging at her face but she found herself unable to find words to speak of her own. She looked down at her slippers in shame.

“So yeah, princess. Ain’t no safety around this shithole but maybe in your classy little family.” Huck scoffed, chucking his cigarette butt onto the step of the house’s back porch. “So, I think your daddy has bigger problems to worry ‘bout than somebody getting his little girl her dirty little fix.”

And within a moment, Huck was gone from the back porch with only his exhausted cigarette butts etched onto the porch steps and humbling truths stinging at Clementine’s mind.

*****

Fauna squinted at the sunlight that beamed at her eyes, closing them shut for a moment. As the world was dark it seemed somewhat safer, calmer. Despite the stressed yells and crack of voices, thumbing of numerous hurried footsteps that echoed into her eyes; she felt almost subdued. The slight calming feeling was over as quick as it started once Fauna’s eyes snapped open at the crash of another girl’s shoulder against hers.

“Watch where you’re going!” The annoyed girl scoffed, strutting her heel and continuing in her intended path. Fauna rolled her eyes.

“Will Fauna come back home to us today, mama?” The small voice asked, as Fauna’s little sister hung onto her elder sister’s hand as they navigated their way through the mass of people. Liana was only eight, but she looked up at her elder sister with glossy, innocent eyes and short pigtails. Fauna smiled, rubbing her little sister’s bony little hand.

“Of course, she’s the one who has to help me sweep.” Ms. Lotus chuckled, nudging her eldest daughter’s arm playfully. Fauna giggled, kissing her mother on the cheek then looking back down at Liana, whose mouth hung open curiously with an edge of fright and concern. “Yes, Li-li, I’ll be home today. We can play with those dolls we made when we get back.” A bright smile shone on the little girl’s face.

They were nearing the registration queue now, surrounded by rigid Peackeepers whom acted as barb-wired walls to the enclosure, their holstered guns and dominant eyes threatening as spikes. With knots of trepidation tugging at her brain, causing her to feel light on her feet, Fauna reminded herself to keep calm. Practically all of the settlement’s kids had taken tesserae, lots of it, just like her. She was only fifteen, there were older kids whom had way higher chances. It wouldn’t be her, she tried to convince herself.

“I will see you at home.” Her mother nodded, squeezing her eldest daughter’s hand whom returned a confident smile. Fauna turned to the little Liana and tugged at her pigtail, causing the girl to giggle, and set to join the queue from the pressure of the glaring eyes of a nearby Peacekeeper.

“It’ll be ten coins.” Huck muttered, his hand tucked into the inside pocket of his creased brown blazer as he cautiously eyed his surroundings as he perched in the corner of the crowd before the Reaping enclosure. The man huffed, opening his mouth at an attempt to haggle which was cut short as Huck scoffed and shook his head. “Ten coins. Take it or leave it.”

The man sighed in discontent, pulling a handful of coins from his pocket and discreetly sliding them into Huck’s hand, whom inspected the amount as he turned the small metal circles in his palm. He nodded, dropping the coins into his pocket and handing his client a small paper bag. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He said, and walked into the crowd before the sign-in line.

It was long, stretching to a quarter way of the field, and Huck tapped his foot impatiently and peered forwards to count every head that would minimise as the minutes passed by. He hated waiting. He was frankly angered that he had to wait for such a horrific ceremony, especially when he had business to conduct.

Fauna’s eyes squinted as she looked forwards at the enormous screen looming over the reaping crowd in the enclosure. It snapped on, presenting first the landscape of the district. Aerial shots captured the vast green expanse, honing into the bountiful orchards and crop fields that populated the massive district. The cameras didn’t hone in on the small shacks that the residents had to squeeze their starving families into.

Afterwards, the camera cut to the figure of their Capitol escort. Plotemy Theodosia. His powdered cream face sent nothing but angst and chills slicing through the chests of District Eleven’s children, despite the wide, plum-red smile that burned into Fauna’s eyes. His shrill voice echoed from the speakers in the field, causing Huck to wince and then chuckle at the peculiar Capitol accent that emitted from his wide mouth, within every few syllables within his opening speech.

His white head was entirely bald, smooth as silk. You could see the sunshine reflected on the top of his head. Instead of hair, amethyst spikes with twirls of gold studded the occasional space of skin. His sturdy body was concealed by a jet-black satin fabric that squeezed around his figure in circles, cloaking everything from the neck down. Golden pins of various shapes and sizes dotted around the torso area, and then at his knees. Fauna remarked it was a sort of bodysuit of some kind in an odd pattern. His black boots thudded on the stage with every step, and he spoke in a calm yet enthusiastic voice.

“As we all already know, I am of course honoured to represent District Eleven in yet another exciting year of the Hunger Games.” Plotemy exclaimed through the speakers, holding his hands poised together in a serious manner as he paced across the stage. “To heal and maintain our opulent nation, I will now select two brave young souls from the lush orchards of District Eleven for the Hunger Games. May they bring honour to their home.”

He stepped towards the female reaping bowl, Fauna felt her knuckles tighten as she watched him reach into the bowl. The slips shuffled and rustled in the glass for a few moments, until one was finally extracted by Plotemy’s gloved hand. Heavy breathing permeated in Fauna’s left ear, as she turned to the side and saw a girl beside her struggle to keep her composure as she was experiencing a panic attack. She let the girl’s struggle distract her from the crushing weight on her shoulders as Plotemy unravelled the slip from the envelope and concentrated his silver eyes onto the name before him.

“From the Marbury settlement,” Plotemy called, as a collective of tense and petrified breaths exhaled from the enclosure on the Southern side of the district. “Fauna Lotus.”

The girl’s ragged breaths dropped to a halt, as she turned to watch Fauna’s face which was struck with shock. Her eyes were wide, lip quivering. She cleared her throat and stepped out from the female fifteen-year-old section, making her way hesitantly towards the big screen in front of the reaping crowd. She fought tears harshly, refusing to let them fall as the cameras captured her walking forwards. She fidgeted with her hands nervously as she stood before the screen, Plotemy’s grin seeping into her. Fauna was terrified.

“Excellent, a strapping young lady.” His shrill voice boomed through the speaker of the screen, as he made his way to the male reaping bowl.

Huck wasn’t paying attention, he hardly processed the name or face on the screen revealed. What did it matter, anyway? He thought, she’d be dead in a few weeks. He was twirling a cigarette in his trouser pocket, feeling over the tobacco as his lips itched for a puff. Once the ceremony was done he had to meet Neem Patten by the tangerine orchards in Alhasy village and deliver his package. Twenty-five coins. He licked his lips as he thought of the weight he’d have in his blazer pocket, relishing the thought on his tongue.

“From the Boykin settlement, Huck Parsley.” Plotemy’s voice hissed from the speakers.

The ssss of his annoying accent stung against Huck’s ears. His jaw tensed. No fucking way, he thought. It couldn’t be. Convinced he’d heard him wrong, Huck stayed stuck in place. He didn’t even want to look at the screen in case his own face was glaring back at him, so he averted his gaze downwards.

“Huck Parsley?” Plotemy repeated. Huck tensed. It really was his name called. The firm grip of a Peacekeeper’s hand jolted him out of the crowd, into the central walkway. He glared at the Peacekeeper, pulling his arm away from him and marching forward.

He walked forwards with his chest puffed, his shoulders upright. Despite the sheer fury that bubbled like poison inside him, Huck’s face was relaxed. He yawned. He tried to seem like he didn’t care, especially as he stood facing Boykin in front of him. They all knew who he was, the sleazy drug dealer bringing trouble to their town. Some looked at him in front of them with relief.

Huck bit his lip in anger. The weights of the coins in his trouser pocket that held such promise were now worth nothing to him anymore.

*****

Fauna wept into her mother’s thin arms, her composure at the reaping now completely shattered.

She blubbered like a baby, and the small and soft cries that exasperated from her little sister by her side sent her heart wrenching.

“You know your way around the trees.” Uda Lotus said, tracing circles on Fauna’s neck. She wiped her own tear from her cheek, sniffling, and staring at her daughter.

“You know how to climb, really well, you’re light on your feet. You’re fast. You’re quiet. You know how to scavenge for food.” She stated, clasping Fauna’s hand. They all sat on the floor, gripping each other’s hands. Liana nestled her head into her elder sister’s trembling side.

“You will win, Fauny, and you’ll bring me back a billion pretty dolls from the Capitol. Those big real ones like on the TV!” Liana chimed, causing Fauna to giggle. She wiped her tears, playing with Liana’s pigtails. “Of course, Li-li, I’ll get you a massive dollhouse too.”

Liana held out a little doll to Fauna, which she took. The face was a stone painted on with features, the body compiled together from twigs and string. Her hair was comprised of a few large green leaves stuck together. “Her name’s Princess. She’s my favourite.” The little girl said, hugging Fauna. “Take her with you, she’ll be with you.” Fauna wept harder.

Uda kissed her eldest daughter tenderly on the forehead, her eyes wavering with a stream of tears.

“You’re smart, my girl. Find a way through.”

*****

Huck lit his cigarette in his room in the Justice Building.

He watched the smoke cloud the sleek wooden trims and glass ornaments. He let it fill his lungs and gnaw at them. This wasn’t the plan. He never even really considered the possibility he’d ever be a tribute in the Hunger Games

He laughed, hard. He couldn’t stop laughing, not until he almost choked from the cigarette smoke. What a hilarious situation.

Knowing he was going to stay in the room alone, Huck chuckled to himself. He couldn’t even be mad anymore, at least it would be an interesting way to die. Boykin probably couldn’t wait to see him shaking in his boots on their TV screens.

He stubbed the cigarette onto the desk, causing it to hiss, and staining ash on the mahogany wood.

Chapter Text

DISTRICT TWELVE

The high-pitched twittering of birdsong was the first sound which filled Dahlia’s ears as she awoke. The chorus of chirps and warbles brought a warm smile to Dahlia, despite her tired and wavering eyes. She sat up and stretched her arms as her withering bed creaked beneath her small weight. She threw a jumper over her bony body before pulling up her bedroom window, which whined loudly as the stained glass moved upwards. Leaping out of the window and onto the grass, she headed across the tiny lot of land they called their garden; a small patch of unkempt grass, a young sugar maple tree and two clusters of daffodil plants.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun beamed down in strong yellow ribbons through the cracks of the amber leaves and illuminated Dahlia’s olive skin. A warm, light breeze whistled through the air, sweeping the coal dust from her light hair as she mounted the trunk of the maple tree, hurling herself a few feet upwards until she reached the bird house. She’d made it herself out of twigs and clay, hoping the birds would reside inside. And they did, a family of mockingjays nestled within the small home carefully constructed for them by Dahlia’s frail little hands, perched within the lower hanging branches of the tree by Dahlia’s weathered house, which stood on a barren hill comprised of rough planks on the path to the coal mines.

Dahlia removed the bag which hung on a nearby branch and fished out a handful of seeds, which she hovered towards the opening of the birdbox. Soon after, a young mockingjay fluttered out of the hole and perched onto her fingertip. The black and glossy crested bird nibbled at the offerings, as another joined also beside him. Dahlia giggled, stroking the little backs of both birds gently as they chirped back. The sleek white patches on the undersides of their wings sparked occasionally as more birds came to feast on the seeds in Dahlia’s palm, as one even rested on her head as it chimed. That was Cheeko, her favourite. Sometimes he’d peck on the glass of her bedroom window and demand to be let inside as he’d flutter around the tainted walls of the house, tweeting as she laughed and followed him.

“You want to brush my hair for me today, Cheeko?” Dahlia smiled, as he tweeted again and slightly flippered his white-tinted wings above her dark head of hair. She laughed, lifting her other hand to gently stroke him as his counterparts enjoyed their offered feast from her other palm.

“Dahlia, it’s time to be off!” It was Greasy Sae, wheeling her cart of boxed soup from out of the dilapidated front door. “Help me with these boxes!” she declared, as Dahlia poured the remnants of the bird seeds into the bag on the branch and hopped down to the ground. She landed with a thud, the mockingjays springing into the air, and rushed over to the front door beside the garden.

She picked up two boxes of soup, feeling the warmth radiate against her chest, as she began to walk forwards through the Seam as Greasy Sae pushed the cart through the bumpy, patchy paths which smeared coal dust on the wheels. The early morning sun cast a pale light over District Twelve, illuminating the budding flowers that fought the struggle to rise through the impoverished, soot-stained ground. The houses, cloaked in grime, seemed to sag and groan like dying creatures clinging on their last threads of life. Stray dogs prowled the dirt paths, their whines of ravenous hunger blending with the hurried steps of mothers snatching freshly dried clothes from sagging porches, bracing their children for the looming Reaping.

“Everyone will be hungry after Reaping morning, and sad too. I’ll have to lower my prices today for the soups, and give them freely to the poor souls whose children are picked,” Greasy Sae murmured, her voice heavy with resolve. Her heart wrenched as she watched a panicked, bony woman pull her young son into a tight embrace after buttoning his Reaping shirt. The atmosphere tonight was bound to brim with devastation.

Dahlia glanced up at Greasy Sae’s tired, drooping eyes. Despite the lines etched into her face as symptoms of her age, her fiery blue irises glowed with warmth and determination. Dahlia smiled. Greasy Sae was a good woman, and she was lucky to have her. Without her kindness, Dahlia would have ended up in the Community Home after her mother succumbed to illness. They would have grabbed her up and tossed her away before her mother’s body had even turned cold. Greasy Sae made sure that didn’t happen, taking the trembling orphaned girl in as one of her own. Besides, she also knew the sacrifices Greasy Sae would make, lowering her soup prices for others in need.

Reaching out, Dahlia placed her hand over Greasy Sae’s gnarled fingers, which gripped the bar of her cart. Greasy Sae returned the gesture with a warm smile, and together, they began to make their way through the smoky Seam towards the Hob.

*****

The Hob was certainly alive on Reaping morning. It didn’t lack of its usual chaotic buzzing energy, the old dusty walls filled with noises of murmuring and haggling. An earthy scent of smoke wafted inside through the makeshift fires, which mingled with the smells of bubbling broths and the burn of liquor tucked into concealed corners. The Hob was comprised of an old coal warehouse, which had been abandoned for decades. Its coal dust which clung to the withered floorboards was merely a fossil of the building’s use before, now utilized as a secret hub for vendors and buyers of items unallowed officially. Of items prohibited.

Of course, the Peacekeepers didn’t seem to mind much as Salem watched as a trio of them gleefully slurping Greasy Sae’s soups in the middle of the improvised stalls, as steam rose from the large pit before them. They stuck out like sore thumbs between the small line of greased miners around them but seemed to pay no mind. Salem licked his lips as he inhaled the scent of rabbit and wild onion wafting from over the stall. He saw as Peacekeeper Terce even smiled excitedly as he slung a bottle of posca towards his counterparts, the trio cheered and handed Greasy Sae a handful of coins and motioned for the small girl by her to bring them more soup.

The rumbling of voices and thudding boots was incessant, as Salem wiped a big metal bowl on his stool with a cloth until it specked spotless. His grandfather wouldn’t expect any less. He sighed, setting it beside the other cluster of dishes as he moved towards the grill. Throwing a lit match into the coals, he stirred them with a prod to ignite the grill. Watching the black of the coals begin to curl into an ember red, he tried to distract himself from the fierce rumbling in his stomach.

“I think you’ll love what I’ve got for you today.” A confident voice declared. Salem whipped in its direction, chuckling at the presence of Burdock as he approached the Larkspurs’ meat grill stall towards the edge of the Hob markets.

“You think?” Salem asked, as Burdock chucked down his satchel and flipped it open to reveal four dead squirrels. Salem’s mouth hung open in surprise. “I guess you won the lottery today.” He said, scooping them up and plopping them on the table. He reached into his bag under the counter and handed Burdock almost two handfuls of gleaming coins.

“Thanks Salem, a fair trade is a fair trade.” He smiled, picking up his little daughter beside him and hitching her around his shoulders. At the realisation of her presence, Salem fished out a sugar sweet wrapped in bright purple he’d purchased earlier that morning. He held it towards the little girl, whose beady grey eyes surveyed him and the sweet in his hand cautiously.

“Oh really Salem, you don’t have to.” Burdock shook his head modestly, his matching grey eyes staring back at him, too proud. He ruffled a hand through his dark locks, grinning thankfully at Salem as his young daughter took the sweet between her little fingers and started unwrapping it. He had a sturdy face that looked initially uninviting and icy but once he smiled it filled Salem’s chest with warmth.  

“What do we say to the kind young man, Katniss?” Burdock asked, as she plopped the sweet into her mouth and smiled in delight at its sweet taste. She first furrowed her eyebrows distantly as Salem chuckled as he patted down his apron, but soon gave in to her stubbornness. “Thank you.” Her small voice said, as her dark braid wiggled across her little neck as she buried her face in the crane of her father’s shoulder, almost in embarrassment.

Salem laughed, pulling a long knife from the counter and slicing it into one of the squirrels, as a pool of blood began to smear the wooden board.

“So, hey Mr Everdeen, when can I join you in the woods to hunt? I can skin and cook them just fine. My grandfather finally said he’d allow it.” Salem inquired hopefully. Burdock shrugged, rocking his daughter whom hung around his shoulders as he tucked the coins into his pockets.

“Well, Salem. I’ve already taught you for the past month how to shoot with a bow and arrow, and you’ve done pretty well, kid.” He said, taking a moment to think then deciding. “Ok, to hell with it. You’ll be fine and there’s no trouble with the Peacekeepers, just gotta be careful with the border fence sometimes. Meet me at dawn tomorrow.”

Salem’s eyes lit up with joy, he smirked and clapped Burdock Everdeen on the shoulder which caused him to chuckle, and his daughter to giggle slightly as she sucked on the sweet treat. “Thank you Mr Everdeen, thank you! I’ll be there sharp with my knife.”

Burdock nodded, picking Katniss off of his side and holding her hand as they walked through the Hob. “May the Odds be ever in your favour.” He called back as they parted from Salem’s stall.

*****

Plato Servius huffed a sigh of exasperation as he ejected the umbrella over his head as his polished leather shoes thumped against the stage, which was slicked wet with a heavy pour of rain. It hailed over the small District Twelve, drowning the dreary district square with murky puddles in all its cracked, dusty crevices. Plato watched as the gaunt residents huddled around the Justice Building, shivering and shaking as their clothes matted against their drenched skin and their hair dripped with raindrops. For a moment his eyes twitched as he hung his head down in an awkward shame, feeling callous of his privileged and dry position on the stage above them.

“We apologise for the weather, Mr. Servius,” Mayor Undersee called as he approached the Capitol escort on the stage, wincing at the heavy rain which pelted against his exposed figure as he crossed across the stage.

“Oh, it’s not your fault mayor!” Plato chuckled, stepping closer towards the wet mayor and holding up his bright, tulip-pink umbrella so the two shared the scarce shield from the fierce pour overhead. “The weathercast predicted only a small chance of precipitation today and it was beautifully sunny this morning!” He looked over to the harsh splashes of rain which struck the stage, and then the soaked heads of the terrified children in the Reaping square. Usually, they’d be shivering in fear but this year it seemed to be from discomfort. Small chance of precipitation, my ass- Plato thought, as he cringed at the plop of water that leaked against the tip of his shoe and the vibration of the rain hammering against his umbrella.

“Recording should begin in a minute.” Mayor Undersee exclaimed, as Plato nodded and patted his shoulder as the mayor rushed back to his position at the back of the stage. The camera crew cried in despair, winging from the rain that drenched them as they held their jackets over their heads whilst trying to assemble wires and positions to commence filming. Finally, the order was yelled and the camera light flashed red.

Plato’s smile flickered on his face as quick as the cameras began rolling their live feed from District Twelve. “Good afternoon Panem, as you can see we’re quite wet here in District Twelve for our Reaping today!” He proclaimed in a forced laugh, motioning to his umbrella which was trickled and sagging with moisture, and then to the district square crowd which shivered coldly in the lens of the cameras which captured them. “Now, let’s remember this cold rain cannot budge the strong, warm passion of our promising tributes whom will have the honour of competing in the 61^st Annual Hunger Games!” His loud voice rang across the square, as he smiled over to the children encouragingly. They peered back at him with petrified eyes and dripping clothes. The shivering youths of the poor district didn’t help to align with Plato’s energetic words.

“Well,” Plato continued, optimistic. “The theme of strong passion now would of course be an excellent time to remind ourselves of the unbreakable soul of Panem which underpins the foundation of order and peace in our country.” Plato gestured to the large screen erected over the district square which played the promotional video, its brightness almost garish against the rain-soaked grey of the square.

Dahlia had her hands helplessly clasped around her chest as her teeth relentlessly chattered against her quivering lips, the pleasant warmth of the morning sunshine she enjoyed earlier was long gone as the heavy rain torrented against her skin. The promo video was usually only about six minutes long but it seemed to drag on for an eternity as every child tried to keep from screaming from the biting cold. Dahlia attempted to pass the time by studying the Capitol escort’s appearance: Plato’s hair was dyed a vivid rose-pink, strands of hair were curated individually and glossed together to portray the illusion of blooming petals on his head. A tight and creaseless salmon-pink suit adorned his firm body, a fresh red rose perched in his blazer pocket. His prosecco-coloured leather shoes slightly squeaked as they circled the wet stage, the tattoo of a gleaming golden bird on his porcelain neck sparkled as the camera closed in on Plato’s upper half as he nodded along loyally to the words within the promo video.

Salem didn’t hesitate to hide his astonishment at the peculiar image of the Capitol escort, whom began to enthusiastically chatter away as soon as the promo ended. He wondered how it was possible to attain such outrageous colours, such extravagant style, and such a suffocatingly cheerful manner. He thought to the advertisements and broadcasts that glimmered from the glitchy TV in his grandfather’s bedroom, and the otherworldly quality that seemed to burst from the Capitol. Plato almost didn’t seem real, like he was a caricature. These flamingo birds are the ones seizing us in their fist? He thought in disbelief.

“Of course, now comes the moment to present to Panem, District Twelve’s tributes!” Plato exclaimed, “May they serve us well in the Hunger Games.” Plato displayed a constructed, wide smile and a more serious tone in his high-pitched voice. He stepped towards the female reaping bowl to his left, which had been covered by a black cloth draped over the hem to protect the slips from the rain. Plato tossed it aside, reaching his hand inside of the glass bowl to search for an envelope.

Dahlia’s anxiety was simmered down by the physical distraction of feeling like she was being constantly showered by buckets of ice, shivering terribly as she watched from towards the back of the relatively compact reaping crowd. She squeezed her silver eyes through the murky blur of the rain to witness as Plato withdrew an envelope from the top of the bowl and turned back toward the front of the stage. He’d left the glass bowl uncovered which had allowed the relentless rainfall to batter the remaining paper slips, reducing them to a soggy mush by the time he reached the microphone.

His bright umbrella hovered over his pink head as he struggled to carefully unwrap the damp paper slip, stretching it before him and quickly examining the name etched on the paper. He cleared his throat, his golden eyes piercing the camera frame as he declared the name: “Dahlia Helenium.”

Dahlia’s desperate chattering of her teeth was brought to a halt the moment she heard her name. Her freezing lips were pursed shut. She dropped her trembling hands to her sides, stepping out of the crowd and walking towards the stage. Every drop of rain that fell upon her small, frail body felt like a rock hammering into her skin. Her soaked blouse and skirt clung to her body, restricting her movement as she attempted to reach the stage.

“Mind your steps, sweetheart, it’s slippery!” Plato cautiously called out as Dahlia began to mount the steps. She was shaking violently with terror, her eyes wide and wretched as she stepped onto the stage and was briefly sheltered by Plato’s umbrella as he lead her towards the microphone. She hoped that the rain masked her vulnerability.

“We have ourselves a young but capable little lady, don’t we, Dahlia?” Plato chimed, as Dahlia froze at the red light of the camera shining directly on her. “Y-yes.” She stammered, grasping at her wrists to keep them from trembling. As she stared out at the forlorn faces of the district square before her, she was glad the splashing of the rainfall against the barren ground probably drowned out the sound of Greasy Sae’s wails on the other side of the ropes.

“Now, for the boys.” Plato said, stepping over to the other side of the stage. He gasped as he almost slipped from a puddle on his way, steadying himself and regaining his composure as he looked towards the camera. “Whoa! Hopefully the Reaping next year will be much drier.” He laughed awkwardly, approaching the male reaping bowl.

As Plato removed the black cloth from the hem, Salem stared unwaveringly at Plato’s hand which dug inside of the glass bowl. He crossed his arms, feeling the freezing pelts of rain trickle through his shirt and cleanse his body from the Hob’s stenches of smoke and raw meat. Plato’s hand circled amongst the cluster for several moments, the slips softening from the moisture around his arm which reminded Plato to finally make a decision as he immediately snatched a slip from the bottom of the pile. He stepped back to the microphone beside Dahlia, who remained frozen in place, as still and cold as the flawless ice sculptures Plato had admired at President Snow’s last winter gala in the Presidential Manor Gardens.

He fumbled to pry open the paper slip as it almost dissolved in his slick hands, the paper tearing apart but the handwriting still legible. Plato sighed in relief at the save, and exclaimed into the microphone, “And District Twelve’s male tribute- Salem Larkspur.”

Salem felt like throwing up. The contents of his last meal days before danced in his stomach and threatened to spill out of his throat. He had to hold his stomach and keep himself from leaning over and letting himself puke all over his own boots. Realising the cameras were bound to locate him any second, he straightened his spine and steadied his face. Salem stepped out into the central walkway and felt the eyes of his peers burn holes in his back, their gazes dripping with a pity that he despised.

The walk up the steps to the stage made Salem feel wheezy and he felt the acrid burn in his throat return, which he fought against successfully and stood beside Plato and Dahlia on the stage. The ends of his fringe leaked small streams of water down his shirt, cloaking his eyes which made it hard to see. Salem debated whether it was better or not to move his drenched locks of dark hair from his eyes, as he began to feel the gravity of the situation, and the gravity of his desperation sink in as his eyes began to tear up. He decided against it, shivering in the cold.

“And what a promising young man. Well, I sincerely hope these two will bring back victory to District Twelve.” Plato boasted hopefully, standing between the pair as he smirked back and forth the tributes, and took a step back as they reluctantly faced each other. “Of course, let’s applaud Dahlia Helenium and Salem Larkspur!” His voice loudly declared.

The crowd collectively brought three fingers to their lips, and raised them into the air as they exhaled three syllable tunes reminiscent of a birdsong. Although Dahlia and Salem didn’t have the strength to smile in gratitude, they joined their bony, shaking hands together under the supportive gazes of their district.

*****

The rain hammered against the window in Dahlia’s room in the Justice Building. Although she was far warmer and drier in the room which held sleek wooden desks and bookshelves and a velvet couch that contained such a softness Dahlia had never dreamed of; she was still shaking.

Greasy Sae sat beside her, smoothing her worn hand against Dahlia’s thin cuticles. Her other hand rested in Dahlia’s damp raven hair, as she softly stroked the locks and tried to keep from bursting into sobs as Dahlia trembled against her like a frightened puppy.

“At-least you’ll be the one given free soup now.” Dahlia finally said, after a while of no words had been exchanged. This caused Greasy Sae to laugh, chuckling hoarsely until tears spilled out of her eyes. Dahlia turned and stared at them; the fierce, warm blue of Greasy Sae’s eyes was tainted glossy and fragmented through the devastated tears that brimmed.

Watching that fire in Greasy Sae’s eyes be so dimmed broke Dahlia more than any emotion she felt since her name was called that day.

“Greasy Sae, sing me that song. I want to hear it, the one you sing the mockingjays.” Dahlia said, as Greasy Sae smiled sadly and embraced the frail girl, rocking her slightly as she begin to sing and grasp onto her hand tightly.

‘Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow….’

*****

Salem had finally purged of his anguished puke that he desperately suppressed in the Reaping.

He thought to release it all over the waxed, spotless floorboards for the Peacekeepers to deal with before he realised it would probably be one of the maid’s jobs, so he quickly found a bronze vase and hurled in it.

He immediately felt better, lighter. Like the weight of his fate was lessened somehow. Of course, those few moments of relief were brief before he had to confront the reality that he was now a tribute in the Hunger Games.

The door clicked open, and Burdock entered solemnly. Salem looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes, huddled against the window.

“Your grandfather and sister already come visit?” Burdock asked. Salem nodded, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Yeah. I… I don’t think they even knew what to say. I guess we all just hugged each other and cried, I guess.”

Burdock sighed sadly, his hands on his hips. Despite the miserable boy who lurked hopelessly in front of him, his face puffed read from tears, he had hope. He knew Salem, and he believed he a had a chance.

“Listen, Salem.” He said, stepping towards him and placing a firm hand on the devastated boy’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure your family is fed, they they’re safe. There’s more game out in the woods now more than any time of year. You leave them to me, but you’ve gotta focus on you, kid. You need to-”

Salem interrupted him, huffing, his breath etched with utter despair. “Listen, Burdock, I appreciate it but I don’t have a chance-“ This time Burdock cut him off. “No, Salem. You do. You go in there already crying for yourself you’re already dead. You’re a determined kid, a strong one. You know how to use a bow and arrow.”

Salem allowed his walls to lower as Burdock placed both hands on his shoulders and didn’t break eye contact. He concentrated and memorised as he was told about navigating the woods, finding game, and where to aim with a knife. He concentrated as he was told how to survive.

Chapter Text

The sleek, silver train hummed under Sapphire’s feet as it whizzed through the valleys and mountains which separated District One from the Capitol. She let herself rest against a plush velvet couch, tracing her fingers over the golden embroidery in the fabric as she took a moment to relax from the intensity of the day. She stared out of the window, watching the massive figures of the mountains by the tracks whizz by in blurs of browns.

“Not too shabby, is it?” Elixion grinned, stretching his feet on the polished coffee table in front of them as he sat on a couch opposite her. “Feels more like we’re being sent away to some luxury vacation.”

Sapphire huffed in agreement, scanning her eyes around the carriage as she found the reflection of her dark blue dress staring back at her through the walls lined with mirrors. Every silver surface and opulent piece of furniture was elegant and spotless, and she sighed pleasantly at the scent of lilies which wafted through the air. It was very luxurious indeed.

“We have to remember why we’re here, though.” Sapphire exclaimed, sitting up straight. “And we have to focus on victory.”

Elixion sighed, leaning his head back as he closed his eyes and relaxed his body over the couch and let the sunlight cast over his face. He enjoyed the exquisite setting he happened to be in, and the exciting future as a contender in the Hunger Games. He was ready. His demeanour oozed nonchalance. “Silver Peridot’s your brother, right?” He asked, as Sapphire replied with a casual “Yes.”

“He’s quite a legend in the academy, you know. Real shame he didn’t get chosen for the 58^th, he would have brought victory back home.” Elixion stated, as he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his white shirt to reveal his toned chest.

“That’s why I’m here. To prove the Peridot family’s honour in his place.” Sapphire assured confidently. Elixion chuckled, rising back up in a sitting position as he locked eyes with his counterpart. “Kudos to that, sister.” He smirked, extending his hand for a handshake towards Sapphire. She eyed him evenly and smiled, extending hers also as they conducted a firm handshake.

“I can tell we’re gonna be a good team, I’ve seen you at the academy you know. Real quick with those knives of yours.” Elixion said, as Sapphire shrugged modestly, the ends of her crimson hair catching in the sunlight as they cascaded over her shoulders.

“I know how to throw.” She exclaimed, cooly. “I’ve seen you around too, I think we’ve sparred before.”

Elixion furrowed his eyebrows, his gaze focusing on her face as he tried to place the memory. For a few moments his mind was totally blank, and then images of her red hair swirling through the air as she groaned loudly, collapsing to the floor sprung back to him. He burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained.

“That’s right! I smacked you down on your ass in like in a minute!” His laughs bellowed, as Sapphire crossed her arms over her chest and tried to plaster an amused smirk on her face. “It’s alright, you got a few good hits in. I’m just heavier than you anyways.”

Sapphire’s eye twitched, betraying her unaffected expression. She thought back to Silver’s comments on her weakness in close combat in the Training Academy earlier that morning, and the fact Elixion remembered her inadequacy in fighting terrified her. They’d barely even left District One and he was already aware her greatest weakness.

The carriage doors snapped open, as a pair walked in with concentrated faces and purposeful steps towards them. Elixion immediately stood up, walking over to the pair and eagerly shaking their hands. He recognized them to be Silico Lockmark and Pandora Triveldt; two of District One’s victors.

“Elixion James, proud volunteer, pleased to meet you!” He beamed, shaking their hands to which the pair accepted and looked him over from head to toe. Sapphire approached politely but confidently beside him, shaking their hands also. “I’m Sapphire Peridot, you may know my father.” She said, as Silico squeezed her slender hand.

“Peridot, yes. He’s quite influential in One.” Silico acknowledged, motioning for his tributes to sit back on the couch. Silico and Pandora sat opposite, eyeing the pair precisely. His dark almond eyes burned into Sapphire as she tried to mask her nervous gulping, whilst Elixion sat back and grinned.

“You’ve taught at the academy a bunch of times, sir. You were brilliant in your Games. Legendary.” Elixion flattered, hoping for a gesture of approval. He received only a shrug in return. Sapphire studied Silico, as his face rang a bell but she couldn’t quite place him. She’d heard his name before but the caramel-skinned man in his forties with a head of curly onyx locks and hands which seemed sturdy and battle-worn, sitting opposite her didn’t seem so familiar. She’d heard he was amongst the first to embody the Career tribute ethos, though.

“Speaking of the academy, what are your skills?” Pandora asked, twirling the olive in her martini which her sleek hands clasped around. Sapphire recognised her, as the latest District One victor. She was still young and very beautiful, in her mid-twenties, with a lean figure, high cheekbones, sandy-blonde hair and oakwood-coloured eyes which pierced Sapphire as they looked over at her.

“I specialise in all weaponry. Spear, knives, sword. You name it. My favourite would be a bow and arrow though, especially in long-range combat.” Elixion boasted, his sheer confidence gliding through the air like the scene of lilies. He earned a content nod of heads from his mentors.

“I can work with any weapon, too,” Sapphire said, shifting in her seat.

“Do you have a specialty?” Silico questioned flatly.

She chuckled nervously, her posture rigid and tense. “Of course, I’m best with throwing knives. My trainer said I’m like lightning. And I never miss.”

Pandora studied her, clasping her hands together. Her gaze was calculated and unbroken. “Well, words are cheap.” Pandora stated, her plush lips curling into a sly smile. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

*****

The thick rims of the polished glass windows of the train revealed an unseen world completely foreign to Cyprian. Hues of green and brown whizzed past in blurs. He saw dense trees, plants, greenery and vegetation. An unpolluted, fertile, natural earth. It wasn’t as though greenery was uncommon in District Six, as trees and bushes and patches of grass were dotted around the entire district. There were also lakes by the East, near the centre, which straddled the charming white picket houses of the Victors Village. But the abundance of the lush strands of green with the lack of measly industrial buildings was a pleasant juxtaposition to the scenery Cyprian was accustomed to his entire life. It was like a whole new planet.

He and Kia sat on a plush velvet couch in one of the central carriages on the train, waiting for their mentors in a strained silence. Kia seemed to have calmed down since the Reaping, yet her eyes remained puffy and her cheeks blushed. She hadn’t even looked around herself, oblivious to the opulently alien setting she was located in; as her gaze stayed concentrated on a spot of carpet by her feet.

"I'm Cyprian," Cyprian stated, turning towards her in effort to break the silence. Kia let out a weak smile with her reply, "Kia," she said, fiddling with her thin hands, "You'd probably recognise me from the pity performance up there."

Cyprian chuckled, "No it's ok, it's perfectly normal" in an attempt to reassure but she just shook her head, seeming as though she was ready to burst into another puddle of tears any minute now. She wanted to sink into the couch and never return.

"Anyway which part of Six are you from?" her more collected partner asked, "T-the Marshlands, up the proper north by the border. You?" She responded as he shrugged, "The North too, but closer towards the West, and-" as Cyprian’s response was cut short by the entering of two people into the carriage. Both tributes instantly whipped their heads around, facing their mentors who took seats facing opposite them.

"Idaho," A dark-haired man in his thirties stated as he took turns shaking their hands, followed by the gentle shake of a young woman just a few years older than the two tributes, her brunette hair dishevelled against her porcelain skin and doughy brown eyes. She didn’t need an introduction though. Everyone knew she was Meghan Hayes.

“We’re sorry you two have ended up in this position, nobody should have to be here.” Idaho exclaimed, his voice ladled with sympathy.

After a few minutes of pondering, Idaho Luther's familiar face finally rang a bell as the victor of the 45th Hunger Games in Cyprian’s mind. He was District Six's most popular one too, favoured and admired by the Capitol following his win, due to his unusual but unique strategy of camouflaging himself as a sloth to blend in with the animals in the arena. He killed a few tributes, only when he had to though, and every single one of them were caught off guard due to his brilliantly deceptive appearance. Apparently he was so popular that in the Capitol there was a sloth-themed fashion trend which emerged after his Games.

Kia recognised Meghan Hayes as she had won only a few years back. Well, barely. Her district partner slit his own throat for her to win when it came to the final showdown. He was her boyfriend's brother, who volunteered to save her in the arena. He did just that, but the Capitol saw his self-sacrifice as some treacherous rebellious act when he committed suicide and had his brother and parents executed on live TV as punishment. Therefore, following Meghan's 'cheated' victory she was deemed unworthy of her title, and her boyfriend was executed and their baby was taken away. Rumours swirled he was adopted by a couple in the Capitol.

Nevertheless, Kia couldn’t help but understand the painful reason why Meghan had the same strained pale skin and rugged eyes similar to her mother, the zombie morphlings of District Six. The drugs to ease the pain.

"Right so first and foremost," Idaho stated, leaning forward, "You have to work for a great first impression. Attention and popularity may not seem like much when you're in a fight to the death- but oh boy do they make a mile's difference." He exclaimed, clutching a frothy green cocktail from a tray handed to him by an Avox.

"Why? What's it matter?" Cyprian asked, Idaho chuckled. "Cypion, is it?" He replied, "Cyprian." The tense boy corrected him. "Right, sorry," He gulped, "Well, when you're in struggle you're a whole lot more likely to get sponsors if you're likeable. The Capitol may find you impressive, or sexy, or funny, or scary- anything that makes an interesting impression will get attention drawn to you."

"And attention draws sponsors, and ultimately your survival." Meghan finished, eyeing the tributes with a cautious tone etched into her voice. Cyprian couldn’t shake how she was practically his age but her worn appearance, her worn energy preceded her years.

"I'm sorry, I need a minute-" Kia proclaimed in short gasps, feeling her stomach lurch into her throat as she sped off into the next carriage whilst covering her mouth. "Poor thing probably has motion sickness." Meghan stated, wincing as she watched the girl disappear hastily through the carriage door.

"No she's just terrified. The girl last year was screaming through the first hour of the train ride when Hix and I mentored." Idaho replied, slurping his drink. "You got any skills?" He asked Cyprian, the only remaining tribute on the couch.

Cyprian sighed, feeling pathetic before the answer even left his mouth. "I can paint? But that's pretty useless-" He began before being cut off by his impatient mentor.

"No no no, don't doubt yourself. Just because your specialty isn't knowing your way around a spear or knocking somebody to the ground cold doesn't mean your skill is useless. I won my Games by painting." Idaho explained, his tone assuring and urgent. Meghan shrugged, "It's true. I survived most of my Games through camouflage."

“It’s about the little things.”

*****

The train’s dining carriage was the District Twelve tributes’ new best friend.

The varnished mahogany dining table was adorned with an array of mouthwatering dishes: delicate noodles tossed in a vibrant green sauce, succulent roasted duck, golden potatoes shimmering in garlic butter, steamed vegetables glistening with freshness, and soft, pillowy bread rolls. Dahlia and Salem didn’t hesitate for a second to feast, stuffing the meal into their mouths fruitlessly. Their hands and lips were sloshed dirtily in sauce.

Plato sat watching them at the table, aghast. His appetite was gone.

“You’re supposed to use a fork for those!” He cried in shock, watching as Salem grabbed a handful of the noodles and shoved them in large bites into his mouth. He only mumbled something unintelligible in return, his eyes almost rolling back into his head as the rumbling in his stomach was pleasantly filled. He’d never dreamed of such explosions of flavour.

“I’m going to need a drink. Make it strong.” Plato muttered to an Avox standing silently near the table, of whom nodded and departed to the next carriage which held the bar. He watched in disbelief as Dahlia swallowed a whole fillet of roasted duck ravenously in a matter of seconds, burping loudly once she was done. She picked up a few carrots with her hands and crunched on them, every sense of her being seemed to be focused on eating.

The Avox returned a few minutes later with a clear glass containing an amber liquid, which Plato sipped generously and winced at the acrid burn which hissed at the back of his throat. Every year without fail the District Twelve tributes would hone in on the meals like wild animals.

“So when’s our mentor going to be here?” Salem asked, tearing a bread roll apart messily and throwing it down his throat.

“That’s a very good question.” Plato replied, shooting an annoyed glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s been over three hours now since we set off and I’ve already called for him. I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.”

“Isn’t he supposed to teach us how to survive these Games? How to get sponsors?” Salem asked in mumbles, his mouth full with bread. Plato grimaced, his golden eyes looking back over at his drink which seemed more appealing now than ever. “Well, you start by learning some basic table manners! You’re eating like savages.” He huffed.

The tributes looked at each other for a moment, then went back to greedily stuffing their faces.

Unexpectedly, the door to the dining carriage slid open with a click. In walked, or rather, in stumbled- a man in his late twenties. He was dressed in a dishevelled and creased suit, with his long dark hair messed across his head and his silver eyes drooping. “Good evening!” He smiled, his words slurred as he plopped at the end of the table and pierced a roasted potato with his fork, biting into it hungrily.

Dahlia wondered if he was one of the Hob drunkards, who’d somehow sneaked onto the train from Twelve.

“It is not a good evening, Haymitch! You’re three hours late!” Plato ranted, crossing his arms angrily over his salmon-pink suit. Haymitch addressed him with a spinning vision, standing up and leaning over the table. “My favourite.” He chuckled, snatching Plato’s drink and downing it in one large gulp as he sighed pleasantly.

Plato’s mouth hung open in shock, as he turned back towards the tributes and sighed angrily. “And you’re drunk too. Perfect.” He muttered, his head in his hands.

“You’re… our mentor?” Salem’s tone of voice almost matched the disbelief on Plato’s face. Haymitch waved the Avox to fetch him a bottle from the bar carriage and turned to face Salem. “What, do I not meet your expectations?” He taunted, laughing to himself and biting into a bread roll.

Dahlia and Salem looked at each other again, unsure what to even think.

Dahlia finished swallowing the last of her duck, wiping the mess off of her face as she began to speak. Plato sighed in relief, grateful she had at least some table manners in her.

“So how do we start? What do we do?” She asked, leaning forward and readying herself to listen intently. Salem possessed the strength to put his handful of noodles down onto his plate, his ears open also.

Haymitch chuckled. “Well, sweetheart. I’d say what you do is find it in yourself that you are totally and utterly screwed. What you do is make peace with the fact that you’ll be dead next week.” His words tugged harshly at Dahlia’s heart, wrenching it slightly. Her lips pursed in anguish. She hadn’t expected to already be shot down by her mentor.

Salem placed an assuring hand on her shoulder, scrunching his face at Haymitch in anger and disgust. “What sort of shit mentor are you?” He spat. Plato buried his powdered face in his hands and grunted, as Haymitch shrugged nonchalantly. He looked over at the doors to the next carriage, tapping his foot on the carpet impatiently.

“What’s taking you so long? I want my bottle of whiskey!” He moaned, his words slurred. He sprang up, his chair clattering noisily behind him, and he stumbled into the bar carriage in search of a strong drink. Plato sprang up after him, his shrill voice fading into muffled reprimands as the door slid shut.

Dahlia wept, wiping her tear away quickly with her hand.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a drunken bastard. We’ve got this, we just have to learn.” Salem said, his hand wrapped around Dahlia’s shoulders caringly. She nodded and smiled tenderly, taking a glance outside of the train window. The world outside hurried by in an unclear, gloomy grey.

“You work at the meat stall in the Hob, right?” She asked, Salem smiled.

“Yeah, with my grandfather. And you’re Greasy Sae’s soup girl?” Dahlia nodded in return.

“We know how to survive better than any of those kids,” Salem declared with quiet conviction. “We can do this.”

Dahlia sighed, her expression softening slightly and hopefully. Yet, despite Salem’s reassuring words, hope felt distant—fragile and fleeting, like a flicker of light in the inevitably dark shadows of the Games ahead.

*****

Tildessa’s eyes were focused on the view outside of the window as soon as the train rumbled and began rolling across the tracks from District Two. She watched as the rugged mountain terrain of her home blurred into the distance, the quarries and mines shrinking into specks on the horizon. She sipped some water slowly, feeling her fingers press against the cool glass.

She turned her head to see Ajax sat impatiently at the dining table, spinning a steak knife on his finger.

“You know there’s no food yet, right?” She exclaimed, furrowing her brows.

“I’m not waiting for food.” He replied bluntly, squinting his eyes as he stared at a silent Avox at the end of the room. He motioned his knife towards the Avox, gesturing a preparation to throw.

“It’s a shame we can’t get any practice before the Games.” He said, disappointed. “Can dream though.” He sent the steak knife hurling through the air, striking a wooden panel directly by the Avox’s ear and missing his head by a mere inch. The Avox jumped in shock, his eyes wide with terror, as he hurried quickly into an adjacent carriage as Ajax laughed triumphantly.

Tildessa’s hand tensed around her glass.

“Well, aren’t you reckless and impatient.” She scoffed, staring at him unwaveringly. Ajax returned her gaze, only it was colder and unsettling.

“Feeling sorry for the poor little Avox, are you?” He grinned, “Weaklings don’t last long in the Games.”

Tildessa shot him a glare. “I’m not weak.” She received an icy and mocking stare in return to her statement. Her jaw tightened and she clenched her fists, but she refused to humour him. She could save the proof for the Games. He would see. She turned back to face the window, calming herself down and improving her view from the one across the carriage.

The two sat in a tense silence.

“Aren’t you two an image for camaraderie.” A voice huffed sarcastically. The tributes whipped around to catch their two mentors stride into the carriage. The voice belonged to whom they both knew as Lyme Duldam; a short-haired and broad-shouldered young woman whom eyed them with piercing intensity. The sunlight streaming through the window caught the edges of her pale skin, accentuating the firm, no-nonsense expression etched on her face. Tildessa recalled that she’d won less than a decade back, and straightened her posture as Lyme watched them with attentive, serious eyes.

“What have we got this year?” The man beside her chimed. He was ghastly tall, his bald head almost level with the ceiling. His bulky figure was riddled with large muscles that protruded through his black shirt, as his sharp eyes scanned the tributes over. Ajax recognised him as Brutus Gunn- and he knew everything about him. Victor of the 49^th Games. Highest kill count of the Games yet. A brutal, fierce, Career legend. His role model.

He lifted himself off of his dining chair, approaching the imposing mentor respectfully. “Mr. Gunn, I’m Ajax Howard and honoured to participate in these Games. And honoured to meet you.” He held his hand out for a shake towards Brutus, practically ignoring Lyme.

Brutus gave him a moment of his attention by surveying Ajax’s figure and then looked past him at the steak knife embedded in the wooden panel across the room. “Why is there a knife in the wall?” He asked incredulously.

Ajax didn’t stammer. “Knife practice.”

Brutus chuckled.

“Tildessa Slate, pleasure to meet you.” Tildessa exclaimed, shaking Lyme’s hand firmly and making sure to respectfully introduce herself to both mentors. She received only a moment of eye contact from Brutus until he sat down at the dining table, joined by Lyme beside him. Tildessa and Ajax took the chairs opposite them.

“You.” Brutus said, looking over at Tildessa. “Why are you here?”

Tildessa spoke without hesitation. “I’ve trained for these Games half of my life, sir. At the Academy almost every day. I’m here because I had the strength and willpower to pass the trials and because I want to make my family proud. To bring pride and honour to District Two.” She responded sincerely, without skipping a beat. Tildessa sat up straight and poised in her chair, her chin held up high and her eyes static.

Brutus considered her for a moment, exchanging a glance with Lyme. He turned to look at Ajax. “You?”

“My reason is simple.” Ajax said, stone-faced. “I could sit here and go on about district honour too. But my main reason is I want to show everyone what I’m capable of. That I’m a winner. And I have what it takes.”

Brutus listened, his hand resting against his chin as he leaned back in his chair slightly. “Ok. And why should I, or anyone, the Capitol, believe you?”

Ajax scoffed. “They’ll believe me when they see what I can do in the arena.” He shot a sly look over at Tildessa, whom glared back at him.

Brutus and Lyme watched their tributes for a few moments, before exchanging another glance. “Well, you’re both qualified. You wouldn’t have made it through if you weren’t.” Lyme stated, her blue eyes unblinking. “Tildessa, I heard you fought heard in the last trial. Broke a girl’s nose and fractured another girl’s wrist. Won in the last battle against your own friend nonetheless, that’s impressive.” She acknowledged, her gaze concentrated on Tildessa with awe.

Tildessa bowed her head courteously. “Thank you.”

“And Ajax, you took out almost half of the competition in the final trial. And didn’t lose any of your bracelets. I’ve gotta hand it to you, that’s something.” Brutus exclaimed, nodding slightly as a gesture of his impression.

Ajax hardly reacted, as if the praise was obvious and expected.

Lyme’s tone sharpened. “Cut the tension,” she commanded, her gaze darting between the two. “You’re a team. A strong one, at that. Our first advice is to be smart and strategic. You’ve got strength covered better than anyone else, but the Games aren’t just about brute force. Brains and tactics win just as many fights as swords. Work together.”

Ajax huffed, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll play nice. For now.”

Tildessa’s nails dug into her palm beneath the table, her patience wearing thin.

*****

“Don’t look so gloomy!” Soren Snapp’s high-pitched voice rang through the air.

Glitch and Mac sat with their heads down and eyes averted on two separate lounging chairs opposite the cheerful Capitol escort. Glitch was scratching at her hands desperately as a means of distraction, trying to ignore the vibration of the train as every hum brought them closer to the Capitol and closer to the arena. Mac had his hand pressed against his cheek, utterly dazed, as thoughts of his grandmother clung in his mind.

“Look at the bright side, children- look around at this very train you’re in right now!” Soren beamed, as Glitch reluctantly obliged whereas Mac shot a dirty look in Soren’s direction and focused his gaze outside of the window. Glitch marvelled at the pristine wood-panelled interior of the carriage, the shining chandeliers, the soft fabric of the lounging chair which made her feel delightfully sleepy. “I mean, isn’t this a luxury. And you get to see the glorious Capitol!”

Glitch’s breath hitched at Soren’s last sentence. The Capitol.

“But that’s the bad thing. We’re being taken there to die.” She cried. Soren rolled her eyes, waving her manicured hand dismissively. ““Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re not being taken there to die; you’re being taken there for glory! For the honour of the Hunger Games. Your sacrifice is greatly needed and appreciated.” She replied, her marmalade lips stretching into a wide smile, “But if you play your cards right, Glitch, the Odds may be ever in your favour!”

Mac snarled at her, wishing to take a swing at Soren’s insufferably gleaming face. “You’re all vile.” He muttered, gripping the armchair tightly to contain his anger. He felt like bursting into tears.

Soren didn’t catch Mac’s remark, as she was too absorbed in reapplying her apricot lipstick and didn’t seem to hear him. The glint of her compact mirror reflected her wide, vapid smile as she admired her handiwork.

Glitch wiped at her hazel eyes which brimmed with tears, her pale skin now ghostly white as it was strained with a burning anxiety. She would do anything to be back in the box she called home.

The door to the carriage flicked open, much to the tributes’ attention, as the familiar faces of Beetee Latier and Lumen Goldstein perked their interests. The presence of the two Victors, of whom were extremely looked up to in District Three, somewhat soothed Glitch’s unrest and brought a glimmer of relief within Mac’s misery.

The two mentors introduced themselves with graceful nods towards the tributes, which were received in return. They both sat calmly alongside Soren on the couch, enveloping the tributes in their gaze. Beetee’s wiry frame and spectacles were as familiar to the tributes as the stories of his brilliant arena strategies, which had inspired and intrigued Mac the many times he’d heard of them. Originating from a district with few Victors, Lumen was no stranger to Glitch and Mac either. Her chestnut-brown hair fell in neat, straight lines to her shoulders, but it was her burn-scarred hand that caught Glitch’s attention. Though altered and masked by plastic surgery, the marks of her Games remained still etched on her skin, mirroring the deeper scars behind her monolid eyes.

“Welcome,” Beetee addressed his tributes politely, and although he didn’t smile his demeanour managed to slightly relax the two, as Glitch felt her hands stop trembling and Mac released the grip from his armchair.

“My sincere apologies and condolences for your positions in this situation, and although it is essential you take some time to process your emotions, we must start preparing you immediately.” He exclaimed, his hands on his lap.

“Get them some water please.” Lumen asked of the Avox, of whom bowed and trotted through the doors in fetch of the request. “Try to keep calm and steady, panic is your worst enemy in these Games.” She stated, her eyes focusing importantly on the two.

“Especially you,” She said, locking eyes with Glitch. “I will admit your fainting at the Reaping wasn’t the best first impression for sponsors.” Glitch tensed in return, biting her lip in shame. “I would agree certainly not!” Soren huffed loudly, snapping her compact mirror and rolling her eyes.

“It was shock, though. That’s perfectly understandable.” Lumen assured her, leaning over and placing her scarred hand over Glitch’s one, which had begun to tremble again at her side. Glitch exhaled a shaky breath, relaxing at the touching gesture from her mentor.

“I- it just happened, I couldn’t control it. Am I completely screwed now?” Glitch stammered.

“It certainly hasn’t helped your image,” Beetee commented bluntly and thruthfully, “But it’s only the Reaping. This could actually work in your favour, if you exceed in the training and in your interview. The audience could see how you grow and excel from your weakness. It could attract sponsors.” Beetee’s final statement left Glitch to nod in relief and a shimmer of hope, although it conflicted with the pressure to prove herself now.

“What’s your edge?” Lumen inquired, taking the tray from the Avox whom had returned and handing a cold glass of water each to the tributes. Mac gulped the water down thirstily, wiping at the corners of his mouth, but Glitch felt to queasy to even move and held the glass over her lap, watching as the water vibrated slightly in rhythm with the movement of the train.

“I’m good in school, and I know how to work things. Wires, electronics, stuff like that.” Glitch replied, as Mac carried off of her. “Same. I can also rig things, and I guess I could say I’m street smart. I know how to bargain, and manipulate.” He stated, feeling a spark of confidence flare in his chest, especially at the impressed nods from both mentors.

Beetee stepped in, his tone encouraging. “Both of your skills are useful, and a good start. But what’s important for you to master in these Games is strategy. Planning. The art of deduction.” He explained to them rather quickly, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.

Soren clapped her hands together, interrupting the moment. “And don’t forget charm! You’ll need to dazzle the Capitol- excite and impress them, if you want sponsors!” Her eyes sparkled gleefully and her face exuded an expression of joy and elation about the event. It stood out like her vibrant orange figure and clashed with the sombre energy in the carriage. Mac suppressed a chuckle as he watched Lumen’s glare pierce the oblivious Capitol escort.

Beetee cleared his throat as an interruption once Soren opened her mouth again in an attempt to further her chatter.

“It’s best not to overwhelm you for now, take some time to gather your thoughts. But don’t forget what I said. Strategy, planning, deduction.” His voice was calm but measured, his gaze pressing.

Glitch and Mac exchanged a reluctant and wary glance, their shared unease palpable. Their fates were inevitable, and they both knew they had to do the smart thing of wiring their path to survival.

*****

At the dinner table, Calypso felt anything but hungry.

His stomach felt lurched with a sharp heaviness, his throat closed up. He’d been in a daze ever since his wrecked parents were dragged from his room in the Justice Building. His mind swarmed on the thought of his sobbing mother, of the sight of seeing his father cry for the first time in his life. Of the thought of his best friend, and what was left of him after he was whisked away from the coasts of District Four he called home, on this same very train.

Before him, the dining table was laden with extravagant dishes. A large, succulent salmon sat as the centrepiece, glazed with roasted tangerines and encrusted with a medley of herbs. Surrounding it were bowls of grilled shrimp, steamed rice, fresh, glistening salads, and butter-drenched cobs of corn. The combined aromas wafted through the room, tantalizing the senses of everyone at the table.

Calypso’s senses stayed unaffected.

He stared at the salmon in disgust, its Capitol-styled presentation alien and unappetizing. It tasted nothing like the fish he knew from home. It was overly decorated, saturated with a pretentious and overpowering blend of flavours that suited the Capitol palette. He supposed the seafood-themed meal was meant to connect with him, to make him feel at ease. Yet he yearned for nothing but the homey comfort of his mother’s fresh fish soup.

Seraphina swallowed a juicy piece of the salmon in delight, licking her plush lips and spearing her fork in the flesh for another chunk. She looked over at Calypso beside her, at the end of the table. His plate was hardly touched, and his eyes were drifted to a corner of the room, as he seemed to be stuck in the same trance since when she saw him again boarding the train. The Capitol escort regarded him with a sense of concern, guilt spiking at her throat.

“Calypso, you should eat. The salmon is delicious.” She exclaimed joyfully, as he faced her briefly with an indecipherable expression and shrugged.

“I’m fine.” He mumbled, turning away coldly. Her shoulders shrunk, a sour taste in her mouth. She looked back at the extra piece of salmon she had served herself, and she no longer wanted it.

Marina groaned, holding her temple as her head pounded. Her eyes were heavy and cheeks puffed, as she tried to hide her obvious hungover state. She tried to look at the sunset casting over the whizzing horizon through the carriage window, but the blurs and speed made her feel dizzy. She picked at the shrimp on her plate, biting into it delicately as to not overwhelm her mouth and then feel the need to puke.

“You’re hungover.” Isla stated disappointedly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as she stared at Marina. The mentor was not impressed.

Marina huffed, throwing her hands into the air in surrender. “Ok, I’m hungover! I was drunk at the Reaping! What’s done is done.”

Atlantis laughed, shaking his head as he took a sip of his wine. He motioned his glass towards Marina. “You sure you don’t want any?” He teased, as Isla smacked his hand away and shot him a reprimanding glance.

“This isn’t a joke. You best hope the cameras didn’t catch it, otherwise the audience will think you’re unserious, and who will want to sponsor somebody who attends important ceremonies inebriated?” Isla scolded, as Marina sighed in defeat and twirled a piece of salad around her fork and took a lazy bite.

She’d only formally met Isla Green earlier that afternoon: the beautiful, courageous Victor whom stole the hearts of her Capitol admirers. Marina gathered that this dreamy, giddy persona on TV of her mentor was only an act as she stirred under the seriousness of Isla’s words, and her hard gaze.

“Well, Isla- in Marina’s defence, some Capitol viewers and certainly a younger demographic, may find Marina’s intoxication at the Reaping funny and relatable. That’s potential for sponsors.” Seraphina chimed lightly, immediately shut down by Isla’s unconvinced expression.

“Humour doesn’t earn you survival.” Isla snapped.

“You’re already underestimating me.” Marina declared, annoyed. Isla’s scolds made her head pound harder. “I’m resourceful, I can catch fish with my eyes closed and make a fishing net or hook out of anything. I’m in the training program too, so I know how to fight and defend myself. Can we just get over the Reaping already, it was a mistake.”

A brief smile tugged at Calypso’s lips, surprising even him. He hadn’t thought he’d feel that on his face ever again.

“Well,” Atlantis’s voice cut through the tension on the dinner table in rhythm with the piercing of his shrimp on his plate. “I’d say it’ll make a stellar point in your interview. The audience will be cackling. Seraphina’s right, the humour if paired with you demonstrating your skills- could win sponsors over.” Marina smiled gratefully and shot a playful glance at Isla.

Atlantis shifted his attention to Calypso, who sat brooding at the far end of the table. Calypso was well acquainted with the Victor’s reputation, having heard about Atlantis’s respected role in District Four’s training program from Thames. That knowledge had once stung—a reminder of the opportunities Calypso’s family could never afford. Atlantis’s brown eyes lingered over Calypso’s green ones for a moment, as he watched Atlantis Dorado’s bisque skin bathe in the warm pink of the fleeting sunset through the train window. He wondered if Atlantis would be the lifeline he’d count on in the arena.

“Your partner has told us her strengths. What’s yours? What can we work with to help you in the Games?” Atlantis inquired, genuinely curious. The whole table listened, waiting for his response.

Calypso crossed his arms, sighing. “I can fish well too. My dad’s a fisherman.”

“Ok, but that’s standard for Four. Anything to make you stand out to the viewers?” Atlantis asked, taking a sip of his wine.

“I’m strong.” Calypso pointed, his voice firm. Seraphina’s eyes flitted to his biceps, which were clearly defined beneath his shirt as evidence of his leanly athletic figure. Her lips curled into a subtle, intrigued smile.

“I’m in the wrestling club, out by Jose Town. They say I’m not bad.”

Atlantis and Isla regarded him with approving expressions. “So you both know how to fish and you both know how to fight. That’s great.”

“Those skills will need to be elevated though,” Isla’s voice interjected; her taupe eyes piercing through her tributes as her cedar-brown face displayed determination. “And, it’s important we figure how you present yourselves. Brave, lone warriors or two strong united fighters?”

Calypso and Marina looked at each other properly, their minds turning for a few moments.

“Alliances sell. They provide a great advantage, and unity can sometimes be crucial for survival.” Atlantis explained, as Isla nodded and carried off of his point, pouring herself a glass of wine from the table. “If the viewers love you, and believe you’ll be strong or at least interesting together, sponsors will follow. Ultimately, the choice is up to you.” She declared, observing the statures of her tributes.

Marina glanced at Calypso’s square jaw, the way his handsome face stared back at her and his ivy eyes dazzled under the light in the carriage, softening the brooding edge of his expression. Even as he sat quietly, his rugged features carried an undeniable appeal. “I have no objections.” She answered with a suppressed grin, twirling her hair as her eyes moved briefly to Calypso’s protruding bicep which flexed as he adjusted his arm. She decided she certainly wouldn’t mind snuggling up to him in the arena.

All eyes were again on Calypso. His mind raced with questions of trust and that concept seemed imperceivable now, but as he looked at Marina he thought of how well their combined skills would bring them and the thought of being alone in whatever arena the Gamemakers would decide to throw them in, sent a chill down his spine.

“I’m in for an alliance.” He decided.

Seraphina clapped her hands, and Atlantis raised his wine glass for a toast. “To unity.” He said simply, an encouraging smile on his face.

“To unity.” Isla nodded, raising her glass in the air too as she eyed her tributes with an edge of optimism as Seraphina followed suit, her smile wide and genuine. Marina picked up her water glass and clinked it with Atlantis’s, her uncertainty impenetrable but she couldn’t deny the assurance that she had a fighting chance with somebody by her side.

Calypso raised his water glass, his anguished mindset somewhat shifted. “To unity.” He said, but the words lingered in his mouth like the unpleasant taste of the salmon. He supposed he’d give Marina, and himself, a shot.

Chapter Text

Birch had decided she’d leave her tears behind in District Seven. She wailed like a banshee once her parents were dragged away from her in the Justice Building and her eyes were puffed red, cheeks blushed, on the car ride to the train station. But the moment she stepped foot on the train to the Capitol she felt light, light as a feather. Like she took up no space, like she was invisible. As if she could be whisked away with the thunderous breeze of the speed of the train hurtling through the dense wilderness of Panem. She found herself struggling to register what was even happening in her brain, her mind drifting to the blurs in the darkness outside of the carriage window. She tried to summon the fear, the outrage she had felt at the Reaping and in the Justice Building. But only a strange calm pressed over her.

Birch’s dissociated, blank look was softer on Oaklan’s eyes than Rory’s livid scowl. His fist was clenched rigidly on his lap, his knuckles strained white. He had been practically mute since Oaklan and Blight had greeted the tributes, shooting them only his uncooperative, angry gaze in return and muffling short answers to their questions. Rory didn’t care that his mentors were there to help him, he didn’t care about the tender steaks and glistening roasted vegetables that tantalised his senses during dinner service, and he didn’t care as they studied the reaping ceremonies. He didn’t care about whatever was going to be twittered in his ear, he wasn’t going to co-operate to any part of the Games even if it meant stunting his own favour. “May the Odds be ever in your favour.” He recalled, scoffing. He didn’t want any of their darned odds. He wasn’t playing their game. Not the mentors’, and certainly not the Capitol’s.

Blight waved his half-empty glass of clear liquor towards his tributes, huffing drunkenly.

“You want some?” He asked, leaning back in his chair. “It’s better than that shoddy beer they brew in the mills back home. Gives you a real kick.”

His question was met with a dead-eyed scowl from Rory. Birch furrowed her eyebrows, intrigued, and nodded. “I’ll try some” she declared, shrugging her shoulders. Blight chuckled, sloppily handing the glass to her as she pressed it to her lips, taking a cautious sip. At first she slightly recoiled, coughed but then took another. “It’s not bad.” She shrugged.

“Hey, get her what I’m having!” Blight ordered, as the Avox in the carriage nodded and departed through the mechanical doors. Oaklan sighed, shooting his partner a disapproving glance. “We need to prepare her, Blight. Not get her drunk.”

Blight waved him away, making a face, his vision spinning. “Let the girl enjoy life whilst she still can.”

“Well, I’m not exactly in an optimistic mood right now.” Birch rebuffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “And neither is he.” She said sourly, side-eyeing Rory. He ignored her.

Oaklan sighed again, leaning over the table towards them with his fingers steepled, his pale face clenched in a serious manner. “As obviously understood. But quit sulking, the pair of you. You need to focus now, and you need to have your whole angle prepared by the second this train touches down in the Capitol.”

Birch noticed the large L-shaped scar etched onto the left side of his jaw, that snaked down his neck and was illuminated by the soft glow of the table lamp. She reckoned his scar showed fight in him, survival. It looked like proof. If there was anybody to listen to now, it was Oaklan. So she obeyed.

“An angle?” Birch inquired, confused. Blight threw the remainder of his booze down his throat, slamming the glass shut on the waxed mahogany of the table and releasing a pleasured sigh. As the Avox approached Birch with her drink, he motioned for another for himself. “Yes, an angle. You gotta kiss the Capitol’s asses so they might consider not voting for you to be ripped apart on their screens.” Blight chuckled, shaking his head, “Cosy up to them real nice.”

Rory scoffed, his jaw tightening. “I’m not kissing no Capitol ass.” he growled, voice low and rough like bark stripped from a tree. The very idea twisted something inside him, another coil of fury winding tighter in his gut. His fists balled on the table again, white-knuckled.

Oaklan turned sharply to Blight, his expression darkening. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath. Blight only raised his eyebrows innocently, as if to say what?

With a sigh, Oaklan leaned in toward the tributes, holding his hands up in bargain. “You don’t need to kiss any ass, okay, we’re not expecting you to get on your knees and worship them.” He said, eyeing the pair of perplexed teenagers in front of him. “You need an angle. Whether they fear you or love you, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to… excite them. Stand out amongst all your competition and convince them, why should they bet on you?”

“Bet on us, like we’re some stupid runts in those dog fights.” Rory spat, his throat choking with disdain as the words left his mouth. He thought how every month the lumberjacks would gather by the timber plots in the West after dark and bring their dogs, dragging those half-starved mutts behind them on leashes made of rope and chain. They’d jeer and goad the animals into frenzy, then release them into makeshift pits. The dogs would lunge and claw, howling and tearing each other apart to the roar of laughter and the jingle of coin. Blood always stained the dirt. And when it was over, the loser limped or bled out while the winner licked its wounds beside the man who’d made a profit off its pain, the bets morphed into coins to sag in his pocket.

Rory’s stomach twisted. The Games weren’t any different, just a shinier cage. A bigger crowd. And they wouldn’t receive the same mercy as even the dogs who got to limp away.

“Well, that’s exactly what you are, my friend.” Blight shrugged, gleefully snatching his refilled drink from the Avox and taking a large, enthusiastic gulp. Birch felt his words like a sourness in her throat, a sting in her head. If the Hunger Games were a dog fight, she reckoned she was a frail puppy against the bloodthirsty mutts.

“I’m not dancing around for them. No way.” Rory shook his head, his leg twitching. Birch watched her three peers, her eyes pragmatic. She took a sip of her drink, wincing at the acrid burn. She met Oaklan’s honest eyes.

“You think anyone thrown in these Games has wanted to dance around for them?” she rebuffed, turning towards Rory. “Maybe… maybe we just give them something to see, we choose what they see. We can’t fall behind as nobodies, or we’ll be the first out.”

Oaklan nodded, “Exactly.” He crossed his thin arms, glancing at the clock and then at Birch’s emerald green eyes, which were tired and worn from a day polluted with tears and stress, and Rory’s cedar brown ones. They were shackled by a fatigue of anger that preceded long before this day. “Look, I can see you’re both exhausted. It’s been a long day. Get some sleep, get a clear mind for tomorrow. But you need to think, how are you going to make them remember you?”

The pair raised from the table, heading over to the adjacent carriage. Birch offered her mentors a polite nod whilst Rory charged forwards. Blight raised his glass in the air, “Sweet dreams kids!” he cheered, gulping the alcohol thirstily and smacking his glass down on the table with a thud, “Hopefully they’ll be better than mine.”

The two tributes crossed down the hallway that led to their respective bedrooms, which seemed to be parallel to each other. They felt the slight rumble of the train as lights quickly blurred through the windows, jumping from the cloak of darkness outside. Rory pushed his door open, briefly stopped in his tracks from Birch’s voice, realising this was the first time they properly spoke to each other, alone.

“Why don’t you cut them a break, and stop making this so difficult for yourself too.” She said, watching him sternly in the dimly lit hallway, the jolts of the carriage swaying her. “They’re trying to help us.”

Rory listened for a moment. “I’ve made it this far all alone. I don’t need their help.” He muttered, slamming the door shut behind him.

Birch huffed, entering her own bedroom and clicking the door shut behind her. She leaned up against it, as if to steady herself, exhaling a deep sigh as she tried to compose herself. The rumbling of the tracks beneath her feet, every bump, was like a countdown. She stared at Aspen’s engagement ring on her finger, kissing it to her plush lips in a long, mournful sigh. Her other hand held the glass of liquor Blight had ushered to her, and she threw the drink hastily down her throat.

*****

The dining carriage of the train was illuminated with dimmed yellow glows of the lamplights which flickered in the corners. The overwhelming, alien grandeur of the opulent furniture and spotless walls was subdued in the darkness as night fell over the new world ahead of the windows. Zea relaxed for the first time the entire day, feeling like finally she could breathe. The honey-glazed pork tenderloins glistened under the lamplight, the steamed herb-tossed rice tantalising her nostrils. The food on the dining table was too big, too alluring. It felt like bait. However, Zea’s unease was overwon by her hunger, she took a ravenous bite into the tenderloin. She had never seen so much food on one table. She stuffed the meat down her mouth, shifting as Mags watched her. It felt strange to have a mentor whom was a Victor of another district, but she herself had heard the rumours of the only other living male Victor from District Nine, Jerico Westleen, having been mysteriously “absent”. Nobody knew where he was the entire year. She decided that she didn’t mind the unfamiliar gaze and apparent mentor status of the District Four woman, as it seemed as though nothing but warmth and hope radiated from her sea-blue eyes.

Clearfell, on the other hand, didn’t care that he was more gullible to the bait. He dug into his meal as soon as the plate was set in front of him, swallowing large spoonful’s of the rice and digging into the pork. The meal was decorated in front of him like a piece of art, delicate and intricate and beautiful in a way he would never even think to imagine food. He smirked, savouring the fact that he was ruining the immaculate construction by destroying it with his hungry stabs of his fork, messing the plate. He couldn’t help but sob the second he was thrown onto the train, choking on the brick in his chest that poked at his lungs at the thought of his family, but now nothing else burned in his eyes but a sense of defiance.

Slylva chuckled as she watched her tributes, cutting into her own piece of pork. “Yeah I know, it’s crazy.” She remarked, as Zea’s eyes widened in shock as a pair of Avoxes added two silver racks of dessert on the dining table: one containing an array of moist cake slices and another of shiny fresh fruit. “I remember I almost fainted from over eating my year in the Games.”

Mags sighed, shaking her head. “Well, appreciate it. It’s manipulation but it’s dressed up in a bow of delight.” She exclaimed, plucking a ripe strawberry from the silver rack and taking a bite. “My year, they didn’t give one toss about feeding us. We were practically dumped in a prison. The kids barely fought during the bloodbath from exhaustion. Although, I’ll admit, we had it better than the first ten Games where they’d be shipped off in cattle wagons and thrown in a zoo. I still remember those.”

Clearfell took a strained swallow of his pork piece, his face aghast. “They really did that? As if you were animals?” Mags sighed sadly, her gaze drifting to the night sky through the train window. “That’s what they saw us as.” She exclaimed, as Slylva furrowed her eyebrows and took a gulp of her wine as she rebuffed, “Can’t say that’s changed much.” Menodora sat at edge of the dining table and pursed her lips, watching the district folk in front of her. The sympathetic Capitol escort found it hard to swallow her spoon of rice, sighing in discomfort. “You’re not animals.” She stated, frustrated. Mags reached over and clasped her powdered hand.

“We didn’t mean you, of course, Menodora. But with your folk… you know it’s true.” Mags said, as Menodora hung her head down in shame. “That’s what you’ll battle against when you’re in the Capitol. You’ll show everyone you’re just like everybody else, you’ll win them over. I’m sure of it.” Menodora proclaimed enthusiastically, met with a scorned scoff from Clearfell.

“We have to prove that we’re human? Do you know how utterly insane that sounds?” He grimaced, deciding he didn’t want the manicured Capitol’s “gift” as he pushed his plate away and rubbed his mouth with a napkin. Slylva huffed, locking him in eye-contact. “We all know how insidious that sounds,” She said, “But unfortunately it’s what you’ll have to do, it’s what you’ll have to prove. You liken yourself, flesh yourself out, and the audience will root for you.”

Zea considered her mentor’s words, her eyebrows furrowed in an anxious manner. “We have to make them like us? That’s how we stand a chance?” She reckoned that in District Nine, yes she was popular and yes she had many friends; but that it was no secret that district teenagers were different to win over compared to bloodthirsty Capitol adults.

“As much as the Hunger Games are a competition for survival, it’s also a social game. It’s not just about swords and fights.” Mags stated. “You have to know your enemy.”

Slylva picked up her wine glass and motioned for the group to follow, heading over to the lounging carriage. Zea and Clearfell exchanged confused glances with each other as they obliged, led by Mags and Menodora to the two large, plush sofas that faced a big, seamless TV in the carriage. It zapped open at the command of Slylva’s hand on the remote, as the pristine white buildings and excited cheers of District One filled the screen. “This is how you know your enemy.” She exclaimed, as the two tributes took their seats on the couch reluctantly beside her.

Clearfell watched as the two proud volunteers shook each other’s hands on the stage, showered in applause. Their toned bodies, eager smiles and threatening demeanours caused what felt like a collapse in his stomach. The pair were annoyingly attractive: the girl had flowing red hair and flawless ivory skin, the boy sported a chiselled jaw and sculpted muscles. Beautiful, strong, and eager- Clearfell reckoned that his enemy were sure to “liken and flesh themselves out” far better to sponsors than he was. Zea  gasped in fright as District Two’s Reaping footage followed, the girl was stern but her firm body and calculated demeanour proved her strength.  The boy stood like an unstoppable tank, seriously tall and riddled with muscles. His snaky grin bounced on his lips, he was ready and he was out for blood.

“This isn’t really making me feel any better.” Zea politely but uncomfortably exclaimed, her hand clutching at the belt over her beige dress. Clearfell rolled his eyes at the proud expressions of the Careers, shuffling in this seat, inputting his unease. “I agree. Any one of them look like they can crush my head like one of those pieces of cake.”

“They’re intimidating, and yes we in the Capitol greatly favour them,” Menodora chimed in, “But don’t overestimate them. Their arrogance is probably their greatest weakness.”

Zea fiddled with her hands nervously, unconvinced. “But don’t they win, pretty much almost every year?” Her question was waved away by Mags, whom re-entered the carriage and brought a chilled pitcher of water which she set down on the coffee table in front of them. “No, dear. They do win disproportionately, yes, but they’re not as successful as you may think. All that training gets into their heads and like Menodora mentioned, weakens them. They become too confident.” Clearfell sighed, pouring himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher as though it would wash away his choking trepidation. “I need you study each tribute, analyse what you believe to be their strengths and weaknesses. Definitely keep to this when you see them in training, remember what makes them tick, what they fall short on. It’s ammunition.” Slylva explained, carefully teaching her tributes.

The following Reapings played by in a blur, as by Slylva’s command, the tributes watched their competition intently to gather their first impressions from the Reaping footage. The girl from District Three fainted as her name was called, the boy from Five had a stump in place of his left hand, the girl from District Six wailed in hysterics on the stage and the boy had a blank look plastered on his face. Clearfell watched him, a pang of guilt and curiosity swirling in his chest. It was as though the boy had already accepted his fate. In a strange and unexplainable way, Clearfell didn’t want to judge him, or assess him; not like he did the others.

Zea winced, intimidated, watching the boy from Seven fly into a rage and engage in altercation with the Peacekeepers on his way to the Reaping stage. He had fight in him and those fists certainly held weight. Her heart dropped to her chest as her own face filled the screen, she watched on in bewilderment as she moved through the crowd towards Menodora on the stage- but she was proud that she didn’t look she was going to burst into tears, that she didn’t look entirely pathetic despite the mess that consumed her head in the moment. Clearfell had to look away, his hand clutched onto his chin tightly, as if to steady himself, as he heard Parel’s shouts and frantic protests through the screen. He summoned the strength to turn back just in time to see the closing image of their Reaping: shaking hands in front of Menodora’s mint green figure, both looking solemn yet undefeated. The camera zoomed away to an aerial shot of the district, the lush green expanse and golden hue of the wheat and sunflower fields brought a tear to Zea’s eye and a mournful quiver to Clearfell’s lip.

Both of the tributes knew that was probably the last they’d be seeing of their earthy, spirited home. Home was now tucked away in the spotless box of the TV screen, entire worlds away. Their families, their loves ones, reduced now to nothing but a memory.

*****

The rear of the train provided an escape from the claustrophobic other carriages, each interior assembled in excessively extravagant taste, the air pumped with artificially sweet scents that stung at Fauna’s nostrils and made her feel sick. Here, the walls and ceiling opened up to a sleek transparent glass dome which was, although essentially a glass cage, one that expanded into the earth outside. Nightfall had canvased the sky into a deep velvet blue, and Fauna watched the blue blur of trees briefly illuminated by the fluorescent lights of the train which sped past them. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Her palm stuck against the glass, slick with a frightened sweat, feeling the cold of the glass and the slight vibration of the train. She took another deep breath, then exhaled.

“I thought I’d find you in here.” A familiar voice sounded, as Seeder entered through the door that slid shut behind her, taking a slow seat on the purple couch that was embedded in a semi-circle shape in accordance to the carriage beside Fauna. “It’s not a bad place to hide away in, huh?” She smiled.

Fauna shrugged, looking down at the train tracks that zoomed under. “Yeah, I just don’t wanna be trapped in there. It feels like they’ve already got me squeezed in the arena.” She replied, her oak-coloured eyes glazed. They met Seeder’s golden-brown eyes, as her lip quivered. “What am I going to do, Auntie?” She leant over and began to cry, her mouth spluttering.

Seeder pulled her into a tender embrace, resting her niece’s head against her chest as she gently patted her head. “You’re going to get through this, is what you’re going to do, my sweet.” She held Fauna tight, as her tears dripped profusely down her cheeks. “I made a promise to your daddy that I would help protect your mother and you girls no matter what. And I ain’t intend to break it. You hear me?” Seeder persevered, her voice strong and determined. “I am going to fight tooth and nail to keep you alive in that hellhole but you gotta help yourself, Fauna. You hear? You gotta be strong and adapt to whatever it is they’ll throw at you.”

Fauna wiped her profuse stream of tears, snivelling and laying on her aunt’s shoulder. Her bony hand slid into her pocket, caressing Liana’s little stone doll that was still perched inside. The bristle of the dry leaf pricked against her finger, as her lips pursed in sorrow. “I don’t have no other choice, do I?” Fauna stated, as Seeder shook her head sadly in response. She soothed her fingers through Fauna’s thick onyx box braids.

“It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry, sweet.” Seeder cried, tears welling in her eyes. Fauna’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, she moved backwards and turned to look her aunt in the face. It was twisted with an expression of guilt.

“What do you mean? How could it be your fault?” Fauna asked, perplexed. Seeder rubbed her temple and released a withdrawn sigh. She turned to look Fauna in the eyes, took a pause, and replied with an unfiltered honesty and sincerity: “President Snow… may have found out things I’ve done, thing I’ve been part of. Things he certainly wouldn’t like.”

Fauna’s eyes widened with shock. “The food? He’s punishing me because you secretly shared your food around with Eleven?” Seeder shook her head, biting her lip as she stared out at the glass wall, the blue blurs of darkness whizzing by. “No, sweet. He wouldn’t like that but he wouldn’t punish so harshly for it, wouldn’t care enough.” Fauna, both dumbfounded and rising in impatience, wasted no time in her questioning. “So why?” She desperately asked.

Seeder cautiously surveyed the carriage, glancing at random spots as her voice lowered to a whisper. Her golden-brown eyes glistened in a grave seriousness under the dimmed white light in the rear conservatory carriage. “I can’t talk about it, not now and not here. But I’m in trouble, he must have discovered us.” Her voice was low and grave, shaking slightly with fear.

Fauna’s face fell in accordance with her ribs, which were lodged in her chest in an indecipherable simmer of emotion. She was thrown into these Games for whatever secrecies her aunt was stuck in, she thought, was the feeling in her chest a rising burst of anger or panic?

“You reaped, it…. it can’t have been a coincidence.” Seeder continued, softly setting her hands on Fauna’s shaking shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Fauna, my sweet. I will do anything to-“ but her guilty pleas were instantly cut off by her niece whom sharply stood to her feet, holding her hand towards Seeder as she turned away.

“I- I can’t be in here r-right now.” Is all she stuttered as she clutched her chest, bolting through the doors as short and croaked gasps escaped her mouth. She sped through the carriages until it led to her assigned bedroom, despite the unsteady jolts of the train on her path which twisted the churn in her stomach even further.

Huck turned absentmindedly in Fauna’s direction as she staggered past him in the lounging carriage, impatiently pushing the door to the sleeping quarters open and her cry was silenced by the slick shut of the door behind her. He raised an eyebrow, confused, then shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the TV.

He chuckled as he rolled a blue pill from his jacket pocket between his fingers, popping it into his mouth. After a few moments, his eyes rolled backwards and his body relaxed as he laid back on the couch. The noise from the TV, Caesar Flickerman’s and Claudius Templesmith’s intrigued commentary on the Reaping footage recaps, drowned and distorted in his ears and felt like a bubble gliding his body. He smirked, content.

The blissful high was interrupted soon enough by an incredulous voice beside him. Huck turned, his vision swayed, as the figure of his mentor stood with his arms sternly crossed. Huck laughed. Chaff was bewildered at the sight of the inebriated tribute, “I don’t usually see them happy most years.” He remarked, studying Huck’s expression. Soon enough, he registered the large dilation of his tribute’s pupil and then the small bottle of blue pills clutched in his hand. Swiftly, he grabbed it out of Huck’s reach.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Huck yelled, sitting up and reaching at Chaff whom pulled the bottle away. “Oh hell no, boy. You’re not poisoning yourself with whatever this crap is.” Huck leaned backwards on the couch, his head lolled backwards, releasing a low grunt of laughter.

Chaff pulled a face at him, bewildered. “You think this is funny?”

Huck shrugged, chuckling to himself. He turned to his mentor and cocked his head sideways, amused. “Poisoning myself? As if that would make any difference to where I’m goin’. Hell, some poison would probably just about let me go with mercy.” Huck kissed his teeth, blinking slowly at the twinkling sensation in his head and the spin of his vision. He pointed back at the bottle of blue pills. “And that’s not no poison, alright? If anything it’s peace to those folks. Makes you forget about needing food for a day or two, makes you feel good.” He declared, turning to face Chaff, “And if you don’t mind I think I need me some peace.” He snatched the bottle from Chaff’s hand, whom lowered his head and considered the point.

“It’ll be taken off you the second you touch down in the Capitol tomorrow morning. But you gotta focus, this isn’t a game. You can’t be plying yourself with drugs, you need to get serious if you wanna survive.”

Huck chuckled again, shaking his head. He shrugged, absolutely unfazed. “Survive? Come on now. I know you made it, and props to you cuz that must have been real hard. The scar shows, and I respect that.” He exclaimed, his speech slightly slurred, as he pointed to the gnarly scar that etched onto the coffee skin of Chaff’s cheek, a brutal daily reminder of his Games decades prior.

“But, come on now,” Huck continued, “There’s twenty-four of us goin’ in and only one of us who comes out. Now I know I can be pretty scary around the settlements and all- I cut a dumb fella who tried to stiff me once- but I ain’t counting on that lucky bastard all victorious and all being me.”

Chaff crossed his arms over his chest again, inching closer towards Huck whom nonchalantly kissed his teeth and slouched back down over the couch. “That attitude sure isn’t gonna help you in the arena, I’ll tell you that.” Chaff said, stern and serious. Huck paid him no mind.

“Listen, I ain’t know how much time I have left but I intend to enjoy it rather than waste my time training for a death sentence. Ok?” Huck huffed, popping open the bottle and sliding another blue pill down his throat. He moaned in bitter delight.

*****

Volta’s entire world felt like it was clawing onto her lungs, her brain, her legs, and compressing into them, weighing them down; squashing them. Her body was on fire. Her mouth was sandpaper-dry, her hands jittering by her sides, and her head was clouded in a searing pain. She tried to swallow large gulps of water but all they did was relieve the acrid burn in her throat for a second before she’d cry in anguish again.

Ion watched her in concern, his sharp, dark monolid eyes concentrated on the gnarly purple bruise peeking underneath the tear of her dress sleeve. He knew it must have been from the needle, and the ugly yellow tint to Volta’s bloodshot eyes, the layer of sweat on her pasty skin. He’d heard of the fraction of plant workers in the Eastern Quarter whom would shoot their veins up with morphling to heal the pain off their injuries acquired at work, which the supervisors didn’t gave a damn about. He’d even heard some kids at school scoring the small yellow vials just to take the edge off. It never ended well, his aunt Mrs. Suzuki would say, they’d always turn into desperate zombies. Eos had considered morphling earlier, Ion recalled, to ease his back pain and his depression. Ion slapped some sense into him.

The sentiment proved not too far from the truth, as he watched Volta’s figure seemingly drained of life at the dinner table. Her skin was drained of colour, her energy sunken, as she slouched on her chair, gripping her glass of water. She looked as though she was about to collapse.

“Are you ok?” He inquired, leaning towards her, his thick eyebrows knotted in concern. Volta hardly responded, practically grunting in response. She turned to see the sun setting through the train window over the horizon over the opulent and mighty Capitol skyline, having reached the otherworldly city in only about four hours from District Five’s station, but cried out and shut her eyes as the pink hue of light burned at her face.

“That’s an extremely valid question, I must say.” The shrill voice of Damocles Euterpe announced, as he fiddled with an olive in his martini glass. He glanced over to Volta, his podgy face grimaced in disgust. “She’s not contagious, is she? With some sort of disease?” He gasped, shuffling his chair further away from the pained tribute, as though she were a rabid animal whom could lash out and bite him without warning.

“No, she’s just experiencing morphling withdrawal. It’s more of a District Six thing but drugs must be a plenty over Panem. I guess they find their ways around, somehow.” Porter stated, her hazel eyes hovering over Volta’s trembling hands. Although she could very limitedly move her head in the metal brace secured over her head and shoulders, her gaze on the tribute was still precise. “Is there anything we can do for her? She looks horrible.” Ion questioned, passing over his glass of water over to Volta as hers was gulped dry.

“Yes,” Volta groaned, “I need a hit. Please, I won’t get through without one. Just one hit.” Her croaky voice pleased. Damocles winced in disapproval, wriggling the alcohol in his martini glass. Volta’s bloodshot eyes peered at her two mentors across the dining table in front of her. Porter watched her in a stern yet sympathetic gaze, but Hydron didn’t extend the tribute the same courtesy. Despite having been mostly silent the entire train ride thus far, he finally spoke up.

“You’re pathetic.” He spat. Ion eyed him with an expression of shock with was followed by Porter’s reprimanding eyes. Even Damocles gasped in surprise, then giggled in approval.

“You show up to the Capitol, to the crowds, looking like a malnourished junkie begging for a fix- don’t even bother putting up a fight in the arena. They’ll write you off and you may as well be dead before the gong rings.” His words stung like venom in Volta’s ears, who could have cried at the cruelty his voice inflicted if she wasn’t too desperate and too drained for a hit of morphling. She shuddered, taking a large swig of Ion’s glass of water.

“How can you say that?” Ion cried, slamming his fist on the table. “You’re supposed to help us, not bring us down. You’re the same as him!” His angry eyes darted to Damocles’s direction, whom wasn’t even paying attention, waving over to an Avox to demand the dinner service to be hurried.

Hydron chuckled, scoffing. He learnt forwards towards Ion condescendingly, his elbows on the table. “And what is it you want to hear from me, huh? You want to be buttered up and wrapped in a little blanket and cuddled whilst I tell you it’ll all be fine?” Hydron jeered, locking eyes with Ion whom shook his head. “No. Look at you, you have one arm for God’s sake. You are both at the bottom of the barrel, chalked up as early and easy outs. No potential.”

Ion’s eyes widened in shock, and a pang of hurt. He didn’t expect to be torn down by his mentor so quickly. He opened his mouth to protest, to swear, to say anything; but he looked at the stump on his left arm and swallowed his tongue, anguished. Porter raised her voice, her eyes squeezed towards her partner. “That’s enough!” She yelled, twisting her head just enough to display her outraged glare. Damocles hissed, clanging his empty martini glass on the table and sizing up the tributes with his dyed purple eyes. “I agree. I can’t say they’re very marketable as contenders at all, best case scenario they’d get sympathy votes.” He said flatly.

Volta, despite feeling as though she was going to collapse in a puddle of her own intestines, summoned the strength to send Damocles a death stare. Her bloodshot eyes could scorch holes in his paper-white face, and he ignored her.

“Look, I think everyone knows it’s no secret that you both are at a disadvantage.” Porter explained, calm and collected to subdue the tension in the carriage. “But that doesn’t guarantee any failure, not at all. You’d be amazed what the human body can do on adrenaline. If it thinks smart.” She made direct and unblinking eye contact with both of her tributes, certain to not let their spirits be beat down. She turned and shot a scrutinising face in Hydron’s direction. He muttered to himself, then caved in.

“I took it too far when I said you have no potential- everyone does.” Hydron admitted, adjusting his rimmed glasses and slouching slightly. “But I’m still right,” He said, unflinching, “But you’re let off the train tomorrow morning and flaunted to the Capitol public. If you let them see as only a junkie and a cripple then that’s all they’ll see you as. Think about that.” Ion, although stubborn and wounded from Hydron’s insults earlier, nodded in agreement. He exhaled a shaky breath.

“Ok, so what do I do? Hide my stump?” Ion asked. He grew utterly tired of his disability being his defining feature, the first thing people saw of him. He was a damn good worker on the power lines, climbing flawlessly on the towers and just as good as his peers whom had two sets of hands. Ion straightened his spine against his chair. “I’m capable, this doesn’t slow me down as much as you’d think.”

Porter smirked, setting her hands on the table in Ion’s direction despite the stiff difficulty it provided in moving her neck, her brace slightly creaking. “Good. That’s exactly the attitude you need, that’s what you need to portray to potential sponsors, to the audience,” she declared, her cinnamon skin glistening slightly in the deep orange hue of the sunset, her face firm and instructive. “You have a disadvantage that’s holding you back, but you’re strong and you will not be underestimated.”

Ion smiled hopefully, clenching his jaw. His heart warmed slightly at the assurance of Porter’s belief in him, and at the thought he still stood a chance. He turned to Volta whom was clutching her head, her fingers matted in her greasy hair, as she groaned for a hit of morphling.

Selfishly and regrettably, he considered how her horrific image and downward spiral could leverage the odds higher in his favour.

“You too,” Hyrdon exclaimed, his voice weighed with an angry seriousness, as he adjusted his glasses as he stared at Volta. She blinked harshly, slouching limply against her chair, gathering the strength to listen. “Fix yourself up. Do not let them underestimate you.”

*****

Lilah jolted awake, gasping breathlessly, her biscay-blue eyes stretched wide with terror as her curly amber locks of hair were matted in a cold sweat. She glanced at her surroundings, her face falling in sheer disappointment. The humming rhythm of the train, the unusually soft and crispy clean bedding, and the pungent nauseating scent of fake lilies cemented the fact that yesterday had not been only a mere nightmare, a horrible dream. Lilah sighed sadly, registering the fact that she was indeed a tribute in the Hunger Games.

She rose from the bed, slicking and adjusting her morning hair, and stepped down out into the hallway. Lilah patted down the tussled and creased state of her reaping dress, which she had slept in. The thought of stripping away her material semblance of home, and squeezing herself into the creaseless, smooth, soulless garments provided to her in the glass-panelled wardrobe repulsed her. She clutched a handful of the blue cotton of her dress as she uncertainly crossed into the dining carriage, the streaming sunlight shooting through the windows.

Oxford sat at the mahogany dining table, slowly sipping from a mug of steaming coffee, the aroma wafting around the carriage, and delicately biting into a golden rash of bacon. His eyes were concentrated on a cluster of papers clasped in his hand, his doughy brown eyes concentrated on them intensely. He greeted Lilah with a short nod, his gaze uninterested, and diverted back to the papers.

“Good, you’re awake! We’ll be arriving at the Capitol any minute now!” Velvet smiled brightly, waving Lilah over to the breakfast spread. It sheer quantity and mouthwatering allure stunned the tribute, whom could hardly even fathom the opulence and variety of dinner service the evening before. The table was laden with plates stacked high with fluffy golden pancakes and sugary syrup, bowls of crispy sizzling bacon and charred sausages, an array of multi-coloured yogurts, a basket of fresh bread embroidered with seeds, a silver stack studded with fresh fruit. Lilah turned her shocked gaze over to Lysander, as the Capitol escort nonchalantly piled her plate high with sausages, bread and pancakes and took small, casual bites. As if it were routine.

“You have this much for breakfast too?” Lilah asked incredulously. Laverne chewed on a sausage and shrugged, confused, “Of course. In my house we also have a machine that can whip up omelettes, although usually my husband and I go too excessive and end up throwing half away. But fun for mixing up the choices!” The two tributes and the mentor whipped their heads in Laverne’s direction, deadpanned and blank-faced.

Velvet’s grey eyes washed over the tributes, she took a generous swallow of her coffee and she surveyed the pair brought to her this year. She watched Oxford, whom would hardly turn his gaze away from the papers in his hand, occasionally flattening them down on the table as he scribbled with his pen, and Lilah whom hungrily filled her plate with heaps of pancakes and bread slices; peering out of the nearest window uneasily. “So,” she began, softly and hopefully, “Are you guys feeling any better this morning? I know you both were understandably pretty distraught yesterday.”

Oxford shrugged, distracted, pushing his half-eaten plate of bacon and sausages away as he scribbled further. “I have a clearer head, I suppose,” He exclaimed, briefly tilting his head upwards in ponder before examining his writings, “And I took in your advice. Best to approach this all calmly and pragmatically.”

Velvet nodded, satisfied, she tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and turned to Lilah, asking thoroughly, “And you?”. Lilah pulled herself away from a big bite of her pancake, pausing for a few moments nervously, before she answered.

“Well, I’m still terrified and sort of in shock, to be honest. But I just want to get this all over with. I think I’ll be able to handle whatever they throw at me today.” Lilah sighed reluctantly but confidently in her response, her slender but strong hands gripped onto her fork like a knife.

“Ok, good. Like I said, your best way to get through this is not to panic, be rational. I know that’s what got me through my Games. Now, it’s going to be an intense and difficult week ahead, but you have got to push through it and develop your strengths. You’re two resilient kids, I can already tell.” The warmth of Velvet Lerot’s cloudy-grey eyes, her soft smile, and encouraging words were enough to unravel the stress hitched in Oxford’s throat and terror torn in Lilah’s chest, even just a little. The mentor knew being only minutes away from docking at the Capitol, that they’d need to be in high spirits. She knew the second they stepped out onto that platform their strength would be tested.

The door to the carriage slid open, as Cecilia strode in. Her auburn hair was tucked into a neat bun, her face calm and casual, her clothes straight and tidy over her taupe skin as she greeted the group at the dining table. Oxford observed the fresh victor, the way she reassuringly smiled in her tributes’ direction, the way she slowly poured herself a mug of coffee. Everything about her seemed normal: her appearance, her mannerisms- but Oxford had surveyed the tints of red in her eyes, the way they weren’t fully focused. She had barely slept. He made a quick note with his pen, a hasty reminder to find a moment with Cecilia alone when he had the chance, coax out her secrets. He remembered how he’d predicted her survival despite all odds, and he was adamant to find out what about her had miraculously proved his bet right.

“What’s all that you’re noting down? Quite a stack you’ve got there.” Cecilia wondered as she took a seat at the table, clasping her hands over a mug, as she gestured towards the papers before him.

Oxford shrugged, huffing, shuffling them between his hands and briefly pointed his notes towards her. “It’s just some rough notations, really. I watched all of the Reaping recaps last night, and Flickerman’s commentary. Observed some first impressions, guessed what the Capitol odds already would be. Snuffed out who we’re competing against.”

“That’s pretty smart of you Oxford.” Cecilia nodded in response, as Velvet reached across the breakfast spread and picked up one of the papers and skimmed through it, “You’re going to need to get familiar with the other tributes. And certainly pay attention to the odds.” She declared, as Lilah peered over beside him to take a look at them also.

“So, what are the first impressions? What do you think the odds are?” Lilah questioned, rather impatiently. She recalled sitting with him last night as she twitched on the edge of her seat, the petrified and miserable faces of her counterparts flooding the screen. The whole viewing had whipped past her in a blur, her mind racing with thoughts of Lucet. How must he have been feeling right now? Had their father spared him a drunken beating considering the circumstances? Had any of the neighbours taken any heart to bring him a little extra food, extra clothes? Matches? What would he do without her? Clearly, her district partner had not been so distracted.

Oxford sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. “Well, the Careers are pretty favourable, as usual. Stood out as strong and eager at the Reapings, got the statures to prove it. They’ll definitely have high odds. At the bottom I’d guess the girls from Three and Six, and the boy from Five. Both from Twelve aren’t really resonating with Capitol opinion, either.” He explained, running a hand through his raven hair and smoothing it down in an orderly fashion. He took a measured breath, “Everyone is apparently already raving about the boy from Two. He beats all of us in height and physique, not to mention he looks like he’s already itching for the arena. My best guess is he’s the top contender.”

Cecilia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she took a short sip of her coffee. “Yeah, you can tell he thinks he’s Panem’s gift. I would steer clear of him, if I were you. The Careers are ruthless.” Lilah recalled his large, firm muscles and his snaky grin. She shuddered, the sickeningly sweet syrup in her mouth had suddenly tasted sour. She pulled a page from the pile, pointing to their names scribbled in the black ink, “And us? How are we?” She asked cautiously.

The train shook, jolting quickly, enveloped in the vast darkness of the tunnel inching closer through the snow-tipped mountains towards the grand city of their inevitable fates. Oxford took a pause, hesitating, then answered flatly. “Let’s just say we’ll really need to impress them to stand a chance.”

*****

Bronco’s stomach tensed with every passing minute that inched the train closer towards the Capitol.

Xerxes had triumphantly and relievedly announced they were just moments away from arriving, where they’d be shrouded in curious crowds and flashing cameras. The Capitol escort sat at the end of the table, his aged face composed with a disturbing serenity. He was no longer squinting- now safely away from the beaming sun and the stench of manure and livestock of District Ten, his eyes gleamed with that peculiar Capitol clarity: cold, amused, untouched by grief. He calmly stirred a small spoon in his sleek china teacup, a callous gaze pinned over the two tributes.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” He grinned, taking a measured sip of his hot rose tea. Bronco didn’t answer at first, he glanced out of the window where the huge mountains gave way to the high ridges of unnatural stone, carved by machines, the border of the Capitol. The trees had grown sparser, their trunks too symmetrical, the vegetation too precise. Even the grass was trimmed to a flat, subdued carpet of green against the manipulated terrain. It all looked artificial. Bronco’s voice was low and hollow, “These mornings look different.”

Xerxes chuckled mockingly, wiping his fingers against the crimson handkerchief in his blazer breast pocket. “That’s because you haven’t seen a proper morning. What is it you see back in Ten- cows and barns and dirt? No, this is the sunrise of a civilisation.”

Lleyn didn’t even look at him. She sat upright, poised like a coiled trap, her eyes glassy with a heavy tiredness but ablaze with fury that simmered just beneath her surface. Her head swirled to the thoughts of the earthy smell of manure, the abundant green pastures, the sound of animal life. She would do anything to be back in the “dirt” back home than in the polished, decorate cage of the train.

A low, dry chuckle permeated from Magneva, whom shot the Capitol escort a defiant glare. “Well, you can’t beat a good morning in the hills with the sheep gathered by you and a good dandelion tea in your hand. I find these Capitol days awfully… polluted.” The mentor remarked, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, at-least the air back home is fresh,” Dallas, the other mentor, sneered. He coughed slightly, “None of that hustle and bustle, and that deafening noise. It’s all too much.”

Xerxes raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His calmness was undisturbed. He set the teacup down with a click. What did it matter to him, what these savages thought?

“What we talked about yesterday, guys,” Magneva exclaimed, rubbing her pregnant belly through her dress as she leaned towards her tributes, “You’re a strong, unbreakable pair. You walk past those crowds with your heads held high and your honour and dignity so bright it blinds ‘em.”

“It’s only a few minutes out there but it’s the image that’ll kickstart everything. You’re district, and you’re not ashamed,” Dallas continued, intonating his words seriously, “You’re getting through this with some fire in you both, alright?”

Bronco nodded, his constructed mask of confidence hardening over the sheer anxiety that grated at his stomach. He glanced over to Lleyn, whom listened blankly, the red rings on her eyes speaking for themselves. “Yeah, sure.” She muttered, standing up and stomping through the doors to the adjacent carriage. They hissed behind her, as Bronco leaped from the table and chased after her. He hurried into the next carriage, slowly and cautiously approaching his best friend whom stood rigid and tense like one of the crystal ornaments perched in the carriage, her thin, tanned arms clenched over chest and her lips pursed tight in a restless hunch. Her brown eyes were sunk into the view of the mountains outside of the window, but her mind was thousands of miles away back in District Ten.

Lleyn huffed, her breaths hot and angry, as she felt Bronco stand beside her. “I can’t stop thinking about Rex, seeing his little face,” She said, her hands balling into fists. “I just want my son. They can’t just rip me away from him like this.”

Bronco sighed sadly, his mouth twitching mournfully as he set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s monstrous that they’ve still taken you from him, it’s despicable. But your Ma will take good care of him, you know that, Lee. Before you come home.” His words meant well but Lleyn only scoffed, slapping back a puzzled and angry expression towards him. “You know I don’t like sappy bullshit like that, Bronco.” She spat, stepping away from him as her body tensed so hard he reckoned she’d explode. “I’m not going back anywhere. I’m not seeing my Ma again, or my son. So let’s drop the act.”

Bronco swallowed the lump in his throat, his jaw clenching as Lleyn turned her back on him. Her last words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre, thick and clinging. The polished silence of the train carriage seemed to amplify the grief she refused to cry, the fear she refused to name. He didn’t answer her straight away. He just looked at her. At the way her shoulder blades jutted through the cheap black fabric of her dress, at the trembling stillness of her limbs, at the wild defiance etched into the side of her face as she stared through the glass. She looked like she was about to shatter.

He took a breath, slow and heavy. “Maybe not,” He admitted quietly, “But I still need to believe it. One of us has to.” His face was hardened and tensed with a palatable fear, but even Lleyn; despite her fury, could see the edges softened by hope and loyalty. “Why did you volunteer, Bronco?” She asked, the venom in her voice faded.

“You know why,” He replied, stepping closer towards her again, “To protect you.”

Lleyn suspired, exasperated, fussing her hand towards his face. “I didn’t want you to volunteer. It was reckless, stupid!” She cried, her voice raised again. “You’re going to get yourself killed. You didn’t have to drag yourself into this mess.”

“I have nothing left without you! Nothing!” He cried, his voice croaking. Lleyn pursed her lips, her eyes saddened as they locked onto his. “What have I got back in Ten, Lleyn? The damn slaughterhouse? My dad is dead. You’re all I have left!” Bronco’s words were loud and scarred with desperation but if Lleyn knew anything, she knew they were sincere.

Bronco grabbed her shoulders, his hands trembling. “And if by volunteering, if I even get one chance to protect you, even if I only last a minute in there- then I’ll take it. Gladly. Over whatever miserable, empty life I’d have back home.” Lleyn’s walls lowered, and lost for words, she locked her best friend in an unwaveringly grateful and heartfelt embrace. She pulled her arms over his sides, burying her face in his sturdy, muscled chest. She finally found her voice, her anger and disbelief simmered into gratitude. “Thank you.”

Then the intercom crackled, sharp and officious. Xerxes’s voice, laced with Capitol shrill, rang through the speakers. “Tributes, mentors, we’ll be arriving in five minutes. Please prepare for visual presentation.”

The tributes, through glassy eyes, peered out of the window. The train was squeezed under a stretch of darkness within a long tunnel until it burst back out into the bright sunlight. The train slowed on the tracks, penetrating the Capitol border. A massive, flowing dam was straddled by polished streets and glittering buildings. Colossal glass towers gleamed in intricate and utterly impressive patterns, morphed into a firm image of the grandeur and imposing power of the city’s immaculate skyline which completed against the backdrop of the enormous snow-tipped mountains. The train rumbled further, revealing a closer view into the city: enormous metal pylons adorned with eagle emblems, banners of iridescent silk that danced in the windless breeze, ridiculously manicured fountains jetting streams of water into the air. Sleek, beautiful houses were adorned with pops of colour, amongst pockets of greenery which was slimmed and carved into a resemblance of more so art than nature. It was a world of display, of spectacle.

Lleyn and Bronco watched as they were wheeled past the unfathomably striking, artificial setting. Their mouths were parted open in shock, eyes glued to the view. They were transfixed, frozen in a strange intermingled trance of awe, disdain, and horror.

The carriage door hastily slid open as the two mentors hurriedly stepped inside, followed by Xerxes whom calmly loomed behind them. Magneva glanced up at the ceiling, her voice softly urgent. “Where the hell are those stylists? They better be ready. I swear, if they paint that girl like a porcelain doll, I’ll raise hell.”

Xerxes chuckled quietly, sipping his tea again. “Trust the process, Magneva. Capitol hands know what they’re doing. We always make you shine.”

“Spare me,” Dallas muttered. “You don’t polish mud. You bury it. That’s what they’re planning.”

The train halted to a low screech, chiming at a stop as the brakes pulled. They had arrived. Bronco bit on his lip hard, in an attempt to the stop the jittering of his jaw as his leg nervously twitched also. Lleyn grabbed hold of his hand, her face sour but prepared. “Hey, we can do this. This is the easy part.” She exclaimed, as Bronco released a shaky breath and nodded.

“Remember, you’re a strong team. Keep your heads held high.” Magneva called out to them, just as the door in front of the tributes popped open as the pair stepped out onto the platform. The train station was a large glass canopy, reflecting a blur of the garish colours of the excited crowd gathered around. A loud sea of voices: cheers, hoots, jeers was indistinguishable to the waves of imposing faces that flooded around Lleyn and Bronco.

The two were marched forwards by a squad of Peacekeepers, bright flashes flooded their faces. Lleyn’s eyes stung from the mess of brightness slaughtering her eyes. Blurs of neon yellow, sickly snot green, popping pink. Her eyes widened in sheer shock, and then revulsion as she spotted some of the citizens in outrageous outfits: feathers, sequins, transparent plastics, grotesque accessories shaped like livestock hooves and cattle horns. A woman wore a headpiece styled like a bull’s skull, except it glittered with diamonds. Another sported a velvet dress patterned with hoofprints. She figured this was some deranged sense of support or aesthetics for District Ten. It made her feel sick. Bronco could swear his ears could be defeaned from the holler of the eager crowd, their thrilled voices brimmed with sheer intrigue as they yelled his name, as some voices chattered loud and invasive questions in his ear as he crossed past. He wanted nothing but to take a swing at any one of the gaudy, smiling faces that jumped out towards him.

But Lleyn and Bronco did as they had been advised. Their kept their heads held high, strode forwards through the chaos on the path of the red carpet towards their awaiting car with their faces undefeated. They were drowned in a sickening roar of celebrity, viewed as nothing more but fresh meat. But they pressed on forward, even though they knew only another cage awaited them.

Chapter Text

When Spart had declared to Cyprian that he’d just be “tidied up”, his impression of her phrase had been wildly underestimated. He laid raw and shivering on a cold glass plank, enveloped in the fluorescent light of the prep room. He felt skinned and stripped like a naked mole, after what must have been several hours of his entire body groomed like a prized pig. His figure was reduced to something smooth and unnatural.

He felt like a science experiment- peeled, polished, and prodded until the image of who he had been was bleached away. Cyprian had been scrubbed, shaved, hosed, plucked, waxed, creamed. He figured that every inch of his skin had been torn apart in layers and twisted into a brand new body suit that met the standards of the strange prep team, whom looked down at him as though he were a bug to be squashed.

Or more accurately, a bug to be transformed into one they could pass off as décor.

The door to the unnaturally bright, sterile room groaned open, as Cyprian sat up and straightened instinctively, tightening the damp robe over his torso. A woman strolled into the room. “I’m Asidiarla Dawne,” she announced, her voice was loud and sparking with confidence, “Your stylist.”

Cyprian was unable to waver his eyes away from her. Unlike the utterly gaudy and sickly, outlandish appearances of Capitol citizens he’d seen on screen and at the train station, and the nonsensically vivid and peculiar-looking prep team; Asidiarla seemed somewhat normal. She’d still adhered to the abstract style of her peers but her eccentricity was subdued, refined. Her flawless sienna-brown skin gleamed like reflective glass under the fluorescent light, her pearl-blonde hair sliced into a blunt shoulder-length cut that strung down in a precise symmetry. Her eyelids shimmered with a glittering purple shadow that matched the bold lipstick coating her full, plush lips. Her lashes flared at the corners like bird wings, sparkling, elegant rather than grotesque. A fitted gold dress patterned in smooth squeezed swirls her figure, accentuating her narrow waist and long legs, its sequins catching the light as she walked with a catlike grace.

“Delighted to meet you, Cyprian,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand with surprising warmth. Cyprian almost jumped, shocked that any Capitol citizen wanted to touch him for any other purpose than to poke and prod. Asidiarla’s chocolate-brown eyes, feline-like and dusted with violet liner, flicked across him with the trained precision of a sculptor inspecting marble.

“You’re here to make me look good? For the audience?” Cyprian asked, as she smiled and nodded. “Precisely,” she replied, taking a seat on a small couch and igniting a rectangular device in her hand. “I’d like to see what my prep team has done with you. Robe off, please.”

He hesitated, taking a pause and shyly doing as he was instructed, letting the robe slip off of his foreign and exposed body as he revealed the results of the hours of styling he was subjected to. He felt like he had shed all of his previous skin. Asidiarla observed for a few moments, her eyes darting all across. Finally, she titled her head and grinned. “They’ve finally done a good job, I’m impressed. You’ve got a good face structure, shoulders like marble. And look at the sharpness of that waist, those magnetic eyes! You’re great.”

Gaining his stylist’s approval, Cyprian threw his robe back over his body and took an uneasy seat back on the glass plank. “Thanks,” he shyly muttered, inspecting his trimmed fingernails and bare, polished skin.

“At last, I’ve been given a pretty one.” Asidiarla chuckled in triumph, her fingers dotting over the screen of the device in her hand, “And pretty will get you far here. So fear not, Cyprian, you’re already off to a promising start.”

“So what now? It’s the parade next, isn’t it, my outfit?” He wondered, his hands tingling with worry at the thought he’d have to relive the overwhelming atmosphere of being marched past a Capitol crowd. “Yes, your costume for the chariot parade. You’re in good hands with that, I don’t do distasteful gimmicks or cheap presentations. No.” Asidiarla replied, setting the device on her lap and tapping it until a hologram projected into the air, in full view for Cyprian to see.

“You’re going to look grounded, enticing, powerful. You will look simple but beautiful, unforgettable.” She explained, flicking through the hologram to demonstrate her tribute the designs. “I’ve thrown you the rope here, Cyprian,” Asidiarla’s voice declared seriously, “It’s up to you now to make sure they don’t forget you. You want to be remembered, don’t you?”

Cyprian pinched at the hem of his robe, straightening himself. “Yes, I want to remembered.”

*****

In all of Sapphire’s years of thinking about the Hunger Games: viewing them, training for them, yearning for them, the last aspect of the event that crossed her mind was being pampered and processed like a piece of rock for refinement. There were machines back in District One that could turn graphite into diamonds, which would then be shipped off in bulks to the Capitol. Laying on a glass plank, involuntarily still, her body enveloped by the workings of the precise tools and thick lotions gripped in the prep team’s hands; that’s exactly how Sapphire felt. A dirty rock to be transformed into a beautiful crystal.

She yelped loudly, as a woman with pink stripes tattooed over her face, pinched hair from Sapphire’s eyebrows with a small pair of tweezers. The woman reached the tweezers towards Sapphire again, whom this time angrily smacked them out of her grasp in retaliation. “What are you trying to do, take off all my eyebrows? I am not going to end up looking like him!” Sapphire spat, pointing to the man whom was rubbing a frothy cream over her legs. In place of his eyebrows and beard, small chrome spikes poked out of his skin.

“You must let me fix them,” The woman with the pink-striped face insisted, “Every part of you is to look perfect. I won’t take them off, just tidy them up.” She made another attempt but before the tweezers made their way to their aim- Sapphire grabbed hold of them again, pushing them away from her.

The woman scowled. “I will send somebody to restrain you if I must.”

“That won’t be necessary, Aspasia.” A voice called out from behind the prep team huddled over Sapphire. A tall, slender woman entered the sterile prep room, her presence spooking the team as they regarded her with a superior authority, straightening their backs and smiling eagerly towards her. “The tribute will co-operate. Won’t you, Sapphire?”

Sapphire had to blink her eyes past the thick layer of glittering gold eyeliner smothered over her lashes to get a good look at the woman asking the question- well, the rhetorical question. Her eyes were large and a bright, icy blue; accentuated with extremely long jet-black lashes that stuck out almost like spider legs. Her hair was a seemingly natural platinum blonde colour that was curled into twirls and pulled back in a severe bun, with bright silver highlights lined within. The woman’s alabaster skin was unblemished, as if it had been replicated from a carved statue and it left the dark, cherry-red rouge of the lipstick on her thin lips particularly striking. Like paint on marble. An elegant black dress hung down her tall figure, with puffy lace white trims and a gleaming golden belt hitched on the waistline, the hem dragged across the floor in tempo with her clicking stiletto heels as she approached Sapphire.

“My name is Pompeia Vantine, I have been District One’s stylist for several years now.” She announced, her icy eyes scanning over Sapphire’s near naked body and the process of her styling. Pompeia released a content sigh from her lips. She then stepped close to Sapphire, whom was now sitting upright and staring her down. “I can assure you, Sapphire, you are safe in the hands of my prep team. We want nothing but to send you out in that chariot looking your very best- you eyebrows intact.” Pompeia stated flatly, snaking a handful of the tribute’s fiery red hair for inspection. “Don’t you want to appeal to the audience, to sponsors? To look utterly insatiable for all of the nation to see?”

Sapphire gathered from the serious tone of the stylist’s voice, and the pause that followed, that this time the question wasn’t rhetorical. She pursed her lips, nodding, “Yes, I do.” She admitted, glancing over at the wall opposite her which was lined high with mirrors. Staring back at the reflection, she reluctantly laid back down on the glass plank.

“I want them to love me, root for me.” Sapphire declared, gritting her teeth but staying still as the pink-striped woman resumed to plucking her eyebrows. Wasn’t that what she had wanted, she thought? What her family wanted, to be represented with pride and appeal to all?

Pompeia chuckled, picking up a hairbrush and gliding it through Sapphire’s freshly washed and pressed strands. “Of course they will, you’re a good-looking girl you don’t require much maintenance. But we’ll shape you up to Capitol tastes.”

Sapphire huffed, wincing at the hot wax ripped over her armpits. “Whatever will make me worthy.”                                                                                                                                                   

*****

Ion was nothing but transfixed by the procedure he was receiving.

He laid back, both perplexed yet amazed at the prosthetic metal hand being fitted over his left stump. His arm was numbed from anaesthesia, limp by his side as the doctor precisely glued the metal limb over his skin. He watched as a circle of red blood was cut open on the higher part of his stump, hot glue layered over the line in accordance with the waxy rim of the prosthetic.

“So what’s going to happen? Is it just going to be a prop?” He asked, curious and weary, turning over to his stylist whom was sitting on a chair beside Ion, watching the procedure closely.

“No, the hand is going to be connected to your nerve lines which are linked to your brain waves,” Nyx Quintus answered, pointing his powdered finger towards the pocket of exposed flesh on Ion’s stump, “You will be able to move the metal hand as if it were your own. Think of it as a phantom limb.”

Ion’s dark, slanted eyes widened with astonishment. “So it’ll be like a working hand? A moving hand?” His voice sung with a high note of excitement. He watched the methodical expression of the doctor, the careful movements of his gloved hands as he slid the metal hand onto Ion’s stump. The rim of the bottom slightly jutted over the skin, a small sharp pierce underneath the glove gluing into his flesh.

“Yes, boy. You will be as able-bodied and capable as the other tributes during the parade, and training. This prosthetic, under my command, aims to illustrate you as unique. Strong. You persevere.” The optimistic stylist explained, his dyed marmalade-yellow eyes fixating on the finishing touches of the prosthetic fitting over his tribute’s stump. Nyx’s rosy face beamed in the fluorescent light of the room, his comically plumped lips moving stiffly as he talked. His lavender-purple hair, parted in stiff curtains over his heart-shaped head, perked up in N-shaped spayed strands. Ion stared at his lemon suit, fixed and creaseless over Nyx’s firm frame. It hurt his eyes, stinging his irises with its vibrant quality; but the last thing he was going to complain about was his stylist’s garish Capitol style. After all, it was to Nyx’s doing that Ion was squirming at the promise of a working limb.

“All done.” The doctor flatly announced, rising from his seat and swiftly packing his surgical tools into his briefcase, “The anaesthesia should wear off in approximately an hour or two. Then, he will be free to use the prosthetic.” Ion’s face lit up in sheer wonder, moving himself slowly upwards and taking a concentrated look on his new hand.

It was a hand, alright, thick and composed of a flexible and wiry metal. It still rested motionless like the rest of his numbed arm, but the sight was nothing short of extraordinary for Ion. He stared at it in disbelief. Never in a million years would he have dreamed he’d be able to have an alternative, a fix, to the stump that defined his identity. Tears welled in his eyes.

Nyx thanked the doctor profusely, whom merely nodded and exited the room in a hurry, leaving the stylist and the tribute in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. “How’d you like it? It’s pretty cool, right?” His plumped lips lifted towards Ion.

“I….. I love it.” Ion responded in a whisper, his voice shrouded with disbelief. “Nobody will see me as some weak invalid.”

Nyx grinned, patting his hand on Ion’s shoulder triumphantly. “Precisely, boy, precisely! You can do this as well as anyone else. It’s preposterous you’ve been left to wander around with a stump. How ludicrous!”

The passion of the stylist’s statement almost made Ion chuckle. He figured it wasn’t worth the bother to explain that nobody in District Five had the luxury of healthcare- of doctors and prosthetic limbs that moved. Eos had just about the miracle of barely affording pain meds for his back.

Unable to take his gaze off of the new addition to his body, Ion’s eyes lit up in hope. “Would I be able to use this in the Games? It’s only fair, right?” The thrilled boy’s question was met with a disappointed sigh from Nyx, whom fiddled with the titanium witch on his wrist. “I’m afraid not, boy. The prosthetic would be regarded as an unfair weapon in the arena. But you have the rest of your stay to enjoy it!”

Ion’s optimism dropped from his face down into the pit of his stomach. “Oh.” He glanced at the metal hand glued on his arm, which he had deemed so life-changing. It was, after all, only for show.

*****

Dahlia’s small frame was trapped on the glass plank she was subdued on, the prep team surrounding her like a pack of wolves. They were a mess and drab of neon colours, ghastly piercings, and demeaning expressions; scrubbing and plucking her body to perfection.

She shuddered as a man with slicked green hair and dainty piercings dotted all over his mouthline and pinched over every inch of his ears, abruptly ripped wax off of her legs. She jolted, waving her legs away. “Please there must be another way, it hurts!” She protested, drawing herself away from him. The man tutted, grabbing hold of both of her legs and pushing them back down, placing a firm grip on a remaining wax strip. “Hold your damned dirty legs down, and shut it.” He muttered rudely, sharply ripping them again as she cried out.

A thin sheet of liquid had been smothered all over Dahlia’s face, which pinched her skin as it hardened. It was painful, stinging burns on her face as a woman with a bald head ignored the girl’s yelps of anguish as she slowly tore chunks away. Dahlia attempted to distract herself by staring at the bright murals painted on the woman’s head, trying to decipher the various patterns and shapes. The distraction eventually failed as she screamed at the whirring machine inched her way.

“For God’s sake, calm down!” A man yelled, the twittering white feathers attached to his earlobes jolting as he raised his voice. It was a small rectangular metal machine gripped in his hand, with blunt whirring spikes at the tips. He neared it towards Dahlia’s abdomen, as she threw herself off of the plank, backing frantically into the mirrored wall. “Don’t cut me open, please!” She cried, weeping. The prep team laughed loudly, mockingly. The pierced man and bald woman strutted towards her, each grasping a gloved hand on her bony arms and pulled her back onto the glass plank.

Dahlia gasped, writhing. “I don’t want that near me, please! Don’t cut me!” She was practically slammed back down on the glass. “You need to relax, never heard of a trimmer?“ The woman scoffed, grabbing a pair of scissors and stretching Dahlia’s dark hair out towards her. The man with the feathered earrings snaked the whirring machine back to Dahlia’s abdomen, placing his other arm on her shoulder to force her down as the pierced man pinned down her legs. Dahlia began to sob.

The hiss of the door of the prep room sounded, followed by a loud gasp. The prep team whipped around to face the stylist. “Dear almighty, what are you doing?” Effie Trinket hollered, her long glinting candy-pink nails pointing over to the commotion. Her warm blue eyes had frozen cold, glaring at her employees. “Why is the poor girl crying? Why is she being held down?” She questioned, stepping over towards Dahlia as the team backed away, placing her porcelain hand softly on Dahlia’s shoulder.

“She wouldn’t hold still. Shrieked over an electric trimmer, how ridiculous!” The bald woman scoffed, crossing her arms. Effie’s jaw tightened, she huffed exasperatedly, her voice dripping with critique, “That’s because they don’t have trimmers in District Twelve, Crispina. Poor thing probably thought you were about to hack her hips off!”

The pierced man rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand through a waxy strand of his snot-green hair, grimacing at the view of the tribute. “Well exactly, Effie. These daft savages won’t even thank you for fixing their horrid state. Have to make it more difficult for us all.”

The word savages struck Dahlia as painful as the wax strips torn from her legs. Her head dropped down to her stomach in shame. But the word had clearly struck Effie too, whose glittering mouth had popped open in shock. Her eyes narrowed.

“Out!” She ordered, pointing at the door. “Every single one of you, out! Now!” The prep team exchanged frustrated glances but obliged, stomping out of the room as the door slammed shut behind them.

Effie soothed a hand through Dahlia’s, helping her sit up. She frowned emphatically, picking up the trimmer and chucking it to the side. “I’m so sorry, darling, you look so shaken up. The trimmer only shaves off some hair it’s completely harmless.” Dahlia cringed in embarrassment, sinking her shoulders. “Oh, I- I’m sorry. They didn’t tell me, I thought… they were going to cut me.”

The stylist tutted, picking up a small glass bottle filled with a black liquid from across the next counter. “That’s because they’re brainless bullies, dear. Incompetent they are. I’m sorry they handled you so roughly that is unacceptable.” She opened up the small bottle, which released a pleasantly sharp smell that winced at Dahlia’s nostrils. “As usual, my idea for District Twelve is to go all black. But what is your favourite colour? Any shade you find the prettiest?”

The question, proposed by the genuine tone of Effie’s voice, caught Dahlia by surprise. She hadn’t expected to be asked such an innocent, personal question by anybody Capitol. The prep team had done nothing but ignore and disregard her. Dahlia smiled, thinking about her mockingjays and her favourite, Cheeko. The faint glint of a dark sea-blue in his small black eyes. “Blue. That’s my favourite. Like my bird’s eyes.” She replied, picturing Cheeko and his siblings fluttering around her room, perching on her shoulder.

Effie smiled, gently applying the coal-black nail varnish over Dahlia’s freshly trimmed fingernails. “Very well,” she exclaimed, “And what a marvellous choice! Blue is a beautiful colour, like the sky or my sister’s eyes.”

Dahlia chuckled, her small body which had been tensed so rigid was now finally relaxed, at ease. She held out her hand for her stylist’s manicure enthusiastically, sighing. She watched slowly and shyly as Effie chattered, at her short golden-hued hair mossed delicately in waves up and over her head. At the smooth strawberry shade of pink of her silk dress, the real and preserved tulips sewn throughout. The delicate gesture of her sleek hands, which held Dahlia’s with consideration. Her colours were softer, face lighter, touch kinder than the menacing prep team.

Maybe, just maybe- there was an ally in this city after all.

*****

Birch felt like a doll. A living, breathing doll.

She stood in the prep room, staring back at her reflection in the tall, gleaming mirror. She had always known she was beautiful, had been praised for it her entire life. But her reflection presented back a polished version of the girl before. Tidied, manicured, prettied up so she met the ridiculously perfect Capitol standards. Birch’s champagne blonde hair glossed under the light, richer and softer than she had ever cared to imagine it. Her ivory skin was flawless, almost radiant, shinnied up with the scrubs and lotions and creams drowned over her body by the prep team. Her emerald eyes dazzled back at her bewildered expression, even they seemed somehow more elevated.

“We did an excellent job, right?” Ambrosius grinned, his eyes scanning all over the tribute. His gaze lingered greedily over every curve, every contour he had ‘elevated’, thrilled at the result of his handiwork- like she was some sort of prized ornament he had created. “Frankly, I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you. You’re going to strike hearts left, right, and centre. You will make my career! Zelenus will be ecstatic when he sees you.” He laughed excitedly, taking an eager sip of a bubbly yellow cocktail clasped in his hand. When the rest of the prep team had sauntered away for the lunch break, Ambrosius had insisted on staying behind with Birch. And now, wrapped in his hungry gaze, she could guess why. 

Birch crossed her arms over her chest, biting her lip. She wasn’t sure what to say, what to feel. “Isn’t it a bit over the top?” She exclaimed, tensing as she felt wrong in her new, manicured skin. Her appearance wasn’t even a presentation, it was a performance, a piece of art rendered for exhibition. “I look great but it’s just… I don’t know, I feel strange. I look almost strange.”

The prep team member laughed again, shaking his head. His mouth was thin and wide, stretching over his taupe face peculiarly in the motion of his chuckles. The gelled curls of his dark hair bounced as he rose up from the coach, stepping towards Birch, his beard trimmed into sharp geometry, a perfect crescent beneath his cheekbones against his leering smirk. Ambrosius himself looked like he had morphed himself, elevated himself, designed himself; to look beautiful. Like he had mapped a sense of perfection onto his own being. But it didn’t quite stick.

“You can calm it down with the dysphoria darling, we haven’t put you through plastic surgery just yet. We’re not allowed to!” Ambrosius chuckled, retrieving a small hairbrush as he approached Birch. “And don’t take this for granted.” He remarked, his hand rubbing over her shoulder as he gestured with a finger to her face, then to her body. She pressed her robe tighter over herself.

He dangled his hand through Birch’s luscious blonde locks, slightly caressing her neck as he combed through her hair as his eyes lingered over her figure. “You are wasted in the districts, a rare beauty. It’s a pity.” He stated, his words scraping at her ears. Birch watched herself in the mirror, her eyes enveloped in her appearance. She thought, long and hard. Maybe this “rare beauty” impression was something she could wield to her advantage. Like a shield.

“What am I supposed to do when we’re out on the chariot?” She asked, fiddling with the sleeve of her robe, “Just wave at everybody?”

Ambrosius chuckled again, the deep and grating sound burled from his chest. “This is more your stylist, Zelenus’s, angle. But I’d say a wave would be good. The parade is theatre, it’s pageantry,” He explained, finally retracting the hairbrush then picking up a tube of sparkly lip gloss, dabbing the finishing touches slightly over her plush lips. “And you, darling, are a show stopper. Won’t take much for you to gain attention, I can guarantee that. On the chariot I advise you to bat those pretty eyes and pucker those lips, alright?”

Ambrosius’s thumb held onto her chin, his hand grazing her neck again. She swore he was even taking a hungry whiff of her, smelling her. Birch froze, a fist balling by her side. She thought about how Aspen would break his jaw if he saw as much as how the stylist even looked at her.

Birch sighed, wincing at the shrill chatter of the rest of the prep team whom had re-entered the room with her parade outfit unveiled. She stared back at her alien reflection as she removed her robe, surrendering herself to be pampered and dressed up. Like a doll.

She really was a doll now, and she just hoped she wouldn’t be one that would easily shatter.

*****

Ajax hated being touched. Being consumed by unwavering eyes and methodical hands. The prep team all looked like sickening caricatures from the Capitol advertisements, their strong perfumes and blended into one suffocating, bitter aroma that clenched at his nose. It took every breath of restraint from Ajax to not shove them away from him. He was always the one in charge; towering over, exerting his strength. Despite all of his muscle, he was virtually helpless on the glass plank.

He gritted his teeth as a pair of hands rubbed lotion over his shoulders, over his chest. Another pricked at his hair. He felt like one of the limp dummies back home, in the Training Academy, being wiped clean and twisted back together. His already thin patience was on broken ice.

“How much longer?” Ajax snarled, glaring with hardened eyes at his stylist whom was twisting moist cotton balls in Ajax’s ears. “Why am I even being given some stupid manicure? Don’t you want me to fight?”

Ondine Roscoe chuckled, digging the cottons balls slightly further into Ajax’s ears which caused his jaw to tighten so hard in frustration, he reckoned it may break. “Aren’t you Careers supposed to be experts on the Games?” She huffed, her dyed crimson eyes squinting in concentration on her task, “You are presented in the parade first, then the interviews. So we can get a sense of you, form impressions. We need to send you out on the chariot looking absolutely exquisite tonight. So you can be deemed worthy to sponsors.”

Ajax heard his stylist’s explanation but he didn’t care. He glared at Ondine’s narrow face, her ebony skin which was stretched and pulled so it would hide her wrinkles, her straightened black hair which was tussled with a bioluminescent array of pastel to mask the grey. Even the long popping red of her sequined gown brimmed with large ruffles, which he reckoned, was to trick some image of youth or brightness to her aged body. He quickly realised it was all about façade with her.

But he didn’t need a façade, a deceptive mask to hide behind. No, Ajax thought, he thought the menacing stature of his toned body and the snarling smirk of his face was authentic, and it was  enough to prove himself as a winner.

“I don’t need sponsors, or anyone to gawk at me,” Ajax muttered, rolling his neck slowly, “I care about enemies.” His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall, a tedious sigh escaping his lips as he realised he’d likely not exit the torture of the prep room for a while.

“Your enemy, dear boy, would be a lack of sponsors. I assure you.” Ondine exclaimed, plucking a file from the table and scraping it against the tribute’s fingernails. He clenched his teeth in sheer impatience, taking to pass the time as imagining the members of the prep team as practice, merely dummies, to get him geared for the arena.

A girl with several twisted spheres of her brunette hair on her head, and streaks of neon yellow eyeliner, almost jumped and screeched at the gesture of Ajax’s hand swiping across her neck as she attempted to trim his chin. She leaned over to Ondine, whispering, “I don’t think we need to try very hard to get that intimidating look you were going for.” Ondine chuckled in response, and Ajax shrugged indifferently.

Ondine circled Ajax, her rouge lips twisting in amusement and fascination. “I adore the determination to bloodlust, I’m confident it will boast you through in the arena. It’s what makes you Careers so special.” She declared, retrieving a rectangular device which she prodded buttons on, focusing on her designs on the screen. But her gaze moved back to Ajax. “But do try to remember that tonight isn’t a bloodbath, it’s a parade. That means posture, charisma. Glamour. Keep the menace but dear boy, appease yourself also.”

Ajax tutted, rolling his eyes and bracing himself for the clock to tick by faster. He would tolerate the spectacle, the performance, but he wasn’t going to throw on any façade. He wanted fear. He wanted to own the tributes, own the Capitol, own the Games.

That’s exactly what he planned to do.

*****

“Get off, don’t touch me!” Rory’s loud, angry voice slammed against the sterile, reflective walls of the prep room. He stood rigidly against the counter, his hands raised into tight fists towards his incessant prep team. They were trying to start cleaning and spraying him, yet they hadn’t even managed to take off his clothes.

A woman with fireflies perched all around her monochrome spayed hair, pursed her orange-smeared lips in annoyance. “You will still be decent, we provide you with undergarments and a robe.” She proclaimed, holding out a pair of tight white boxers towards the resistant tribute, “Just put them on.”

The boy didn’t budge. “I’m not putting any of your prancy clothes on. And sure as hell none of you are touching me.” He hissed, his fists unmoved and his scowl glued to his pale, hardened face. His eyes flickered to the tools laid out on the counter: small, sharp, and precise. Like medical instruments prepped for surgery. His stomach turned. There was no way in hell, Rory thought, that they were going to tweak a hair on his head any way they pleased.

“At-least let me begin to fix those ghastly nails.” A man with frizzy white-wisped hair and a shaped, greased goatee beard drooping down to his chest in spiked shapes, insisted. He swooped a pair of small dainty scissors towards Rory’s browned finger tips, grabbing hold of his wrist. Rory’s face boiled with fury, he shoved the man away so hard he almost toppled over, and the scissors flew across the floor.

“You barbaric shrew, how dare you!” The man yelled, face aghast. Rory snarled, his jaw clenched as he stepped towards the man and glared at him angrily. “I said, don’t touch me.” He spat, snatching the scissors from the floor and holding them out towards the prep team in defence as they attempted to step towards him. Shocked gasps rang in the room.

The firefly spayed-haired woman stomped towards the door, huffing. “I’m going to call for Peacekeepers to restrain him, we cannot work under these conditions.” She muttered bitterly, almost bumping into Zelenus Zadon as he entered through the door. Her face twisted in relief at the sight of him. “Finally, Zelenus!” She cried, throwing her hands at the stylist, “The tribute won’t comply. We haven’t even managed to undress him and now he’s assaulted and threatened us! We must bring security!”

Zelenus peered over to Rory whom was backed into a corner across the room, catching a glimpse of his defiant face and the scissors gripped in his hand. He sighed. “Alright, you lot go take a break out to cool down and I’ll call you in later. Let me handle this.” He declared, as the team took grateful tuts and scurried out of the room. Rory’s cautious, furious stare now had its full attention focused onto his stylist.

“I ain’t letting any of you touch me, dress me up like some pin-up doll. And don’t even think about putting any of those ugly tools towards me. No way.” Rory shook his head, still stretching his hand outwards. Zelenus lifted his gem-specked eyebrows, crossing his arms as he took slow steps towards the tribute. He took a measured pause before he spoke. “Listen, you’re going to be styled and that’s inevitable fact.” He exclaimed, picking up the robe from the table, “We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Let us do our jobs and get this over with, or we can call in Peacekeepers to pin you down and force you.”

Rory’s cedar eyes faltered for a moment, twitching in hatred. His brows scrunched over his face even further. “No.” He spat, throwing himself further into the corner if it was even possible. “Don’t you dare bring any damned Peacekeepers in here.” His hand which was clutching the scissors, began to twitch.

“And I don’t have to, if you co-operate. This prep and styling is for your benefit, believe me. Just let me do what I need to do.” Zelenus’s calm and arguably fair words stirred Rory to hesitantly lower the scissors and then his fists. The stylist’s greying hair was slicked back over his head, his lightly-skinned face was rested in a firm, chiselled structure as seemed to be the rest of his angular frame; which was cloaked in a navy velvet tuxedo which brimmed with the same shimmering gems as with his eyebrows, a pastel pink pin pressed in his tie. A strange combination of respectable slickness and ridiculous glamour graced Zelenus’s image, yet his calm and considerate voice reasoned with Rory. “All you have to do is undress and lie back, wait this out as we polish you up.”

Rory’s hands, still held tensely by his sides, somewhat relaxed. He figured Zelenus had a point: he had no choice but to tolerate the styling, and he sure didn’t want the force of Peacekeepers to be thrown upon him. “Okay,” he sighed, tossing the scissors on the counter with a clatter, “But you’re gonna have a tough time dollying me up well.”

Zelenus’s brows furrowed in intrigue. “Why’s that?”

The stylist’s question was answered with a loud, unrestrained gasp as Rory threw his shirt off and turned around. His sturdy back revealed a series of purple, knotted lash marks that snaked across his pale skin and tainted it with their ugly, scabbed cuts. Zelenus rushed towards Rory, his hands held over the marks, hovering over them tensely. His grey eyes were wide with panic.

“How old are they?” He asked, lip bit with worry. “About a few weeks. It still hurts to lay on my back and I bet they still show pretty bad, right?” Rory answered, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he realised even if now he was complying; he was facing the Capitol with a challenge.

Zelenus chuckled hoarsely, sarcastically, throwing his hand to his forehead. “Yes, they show! Very prominently.” He examined each lash, tracing his finger over the blotched purple. “A rascal back in Seven, are you? No, judging from the severity of these- you must be a rebel.” His teeth gritted in alarm, his finger tapping against his clean-shaven, pointy chin.

“I did say you’d have a tough time with me.” Rory shrugged indifferently.

The stylist paced around the room, darting his eyes over the products and tools placed on the counters and table. “Okay, okay. We can fix this.” Zelenus cried in hope, scrambling past a large box of lotions and creams on the counter. “There’s no way anyone out there can see you with lashes. You’ll automatically be written off as a rebel- at the very best a criminal, and you’ll be the first to go.” He exclaimed, digging through the box hastily. He chuckled in relief as he found what he was looking for: a small green tin of ointment at the bottom of the box.

“I will apply some wound-healing ointment to your lashes, keep still.” Zelenus announced, screwing the lid open and lathering a generous layer of dark ointment on his fingers. He smeared it across Rory’s back, whom yelped in response and gripped onto the table.

“You keep your back covered and you play nice during the parade, alright?” Zelenus ordered in a stern voice, smothering Rory’s gashing wounds thoroughly with the ointment, “For your own good as well as my reputation’s.”

Rory bit his tongue as he winced against the stinging contact, yet smugness still pulsed from his lips. “Yeah, sure.”

He had no intention of playing by their rules.

Chapter Text

“Welcome, beloved viewers of Panem, to the glorious event of the chariot parade for the 61^st Hunger Games!” Caesar Flickerman roared to a recording camera, his eccentric frame captured by the beeping red light. His voice burst and popped with excitement, his immaculate smile gleaming wide and proud on his face which was coated with pure white make-up. “Some of you are lucky enough to join us within the absolutely electric atmosphere here at the Avenue of Tributes tonight,” He pointed with a manicured hand behind him to the large amphitheatre constructed on parallel sides of the long polished stretch of path from the Remake Centre to the Presidential Manor. It was packed with people, not a single seat left empty. A series of closer camera shots displayed various Capitol citizens impatiently seated, their decorated faces buzzing with anticipation and intrigue.

Caesar and Claudius Templesmith sat perched on two red cushioned seats on the balcony of a glittering, colossal building near the Presidential Manor; placed within a perfect view of the Avenue and the amphitheatre. The warm, navy night sky hung overhead.

The pair grinned at the camera which divided them from a concentrated camera crew scurrying behind it quietly, ensuring positions. The television hosts clutched their binoculars in their hands. Caesar’s voice boomed loudly: “Whether you’ve got a special look down at the amphitheatre or if you’re cosied up at home- I hope you’re all ready to see this year’s promising tributes in what I’m sure will be another bedazzling, eye-catching display of Panem’s vital District industries elevated into a brilliant show by our talented Capitol stylists!”

“Oh, I know I sure am, Caesar!” Claudius chuckled, wiping a drooping spayed curl from his shiny forehead, “The chariot parade remains amongst my favourite events- before the arena, of course – nothing can beat the arena!” Their laughs bellowed within the balcony, ringing through every TV screen in the country.

“Why, we all know the Games are the most exciting part of course. But who do we think will steal the show in the parade tonight? What are your bets, Claudius?” He tilted the brass microphone towards his counterpart, Caesar’s waxed violet hair was immune to the slight breeze that brushed past the balcony.

Claudius tutted his head, “Well, District One never disappoints, how can they? A district specialising in luxury is sure to make a glamorous display.” He smiled as he tugged on his pastel blue tie. Caesar nodded his head, adjusting the lapel of his traditionally-worn ceremonial suit, a midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkled like stars. It only blended to the array of flashing lights and vibrant colours swimming through the City Circle.

“Indeed, who could possibly be underwhelmed by jewels and gold?” Caesar released his usual roaring, infectious laugh. “But our newcomer stylist Asidiarla Dawne never disappoints in the few years she’s jumped from district to district- glamming them up with her signature shine!” He declared, “I hear a rumour she has styled District Six’s tributes this year.”

“I’m sure we’ll spot Asidiarla’s magnificent work from miles away, whichever lucky tributes have been blessed by it!” Claudius Templesmith beamed, “Regardless, I suppose we’ll have to wait and see who pops out to us tonight, Caesar. As we know, Vera Prince also always springs some sort of surprise on us from under her sleeve!”

Caesar’s laugh swallowed the microphone again. “Indeed, Claudius, and-“ His sentence was interrupted by the sound of the National Anthem, which erupted across the City Circle; announcing the official start of the ceremony. Both Caesar’s and Claudius’s eyes widened in elation, captured by the recording camera, as they turned around to face the Avenue.

Caesar straightened himself in concentration in his seat. He raised his loud voice even higher, pressing his mic closer to his gleaming mouth, amongst the increasing rise of voices. “Brace yourselves, dear Panem, the chariots will roll out any minute now!”

The cameras slowly panned to the large golden doors at the beginning of the Avenue, as they creaked open with a hiss, the gears whining as they rolled open.

The 61^st Hunger Games were now on full display.

                                                                                                                                                         *****

District One’s chariot soared out of the doors, bursting with a measured pace of the snow-white horses whom moved down the ground with a precise synchronicity. The chariot was a gorgeous, shiny gold; holding the two Career tributes whom stood proud and confident for all of the City Circle to see. They were both clad in long, flowing white garments that only covered their shoulders and modesty, and sprang out in elegant waves in the soaring air behind them. Only a cluster of golden chains covered Sapphire’s chest, leaving Elixion’s entirely exposed and enticingly slathered in lotion to showcase his toned pecs. The hems of their white garments and exposed arms and midriffs were studded with an array of glistening jewels, as golden glitter glimmered throughout their luscious hair.

The explosion of noise that burst from the amphitheatre was deafening. A tidal wave of shouts and cheers pulsed through the air as the pair were rolled forward. Elixion held his muscled hand outwards, waving, sporting an elated and charming smirk that instantly struck several audience members and increased their thrilled yells. Sapphire waved out to the crowd eagerly, plastering a gracious smile that paired with her free red hair that flew in the wind of the chariot; sent a lineage of hollers her way.

“This is fucking legendary,” Elixion grinned, pushing his chest out and flashing flirtatious winks to either side of the amphitheatre, which was captured by several cameras and broadcasted on several screens. “We’re legendary.” He remarked, as he grinned so wide he felt as though it would stretch out of the confines of his chiselled jaw. Elixion basked in the attention and the glory that was rampaged towards him, he knew he looked amazing. He ran a hand through his golden hair, flexing his bicep. His body vibrated with pride, with confidence. Amongst the blur of screaming faces of the enamoured Capitol audience, he imagined Gem’s proud one as she must have been watching him back home, as he pictured her boasting “That’s my man, right there! He’s mine!”

Sapphire didn’t reject the attention either. “We’re like Gods.” She chuckled, feeling the wind blow against her manicured frame as the chariot rolled onwards. She puckered her bright smile, her chivalrous wave towards the ecstatic audience. The long white garment flowed behind her waist as did countless pairs of enamoured eyes with it. She allowed herself to be swallowed in the insatiable dimension of applause. Sapphire kept her spine poised upright, her smile unaltered. She, too, thought of how happy her family, how happy Silver- must have been watching her bathe in the praise of the Capitol.

The Career tribute pair’s assured smirks were as bold as their shimmering jewels and high statuses. Sponsors must have been fighting each other for a turn. Sapphire and Elixion were unforgettable, and had no doubt the same cheer would follow as they'd receive the crown.

District Two’s imposing tributes weren’t far to follow behind. Their sturdy black chariot, adorned with sleek chunks of obsidian, mounted forwards into the roaring mouth of the Capitol. Tildessa and Ajax’s faces were both stern and firm, as hardened as the tough stone of their district. Unlike the extravagant, glimmering figures of their Career counterparts in front of them, no smiles could be found on their faces. Their sharp demeanours could be reflected by the thick blades worn on their bodies, which were knotted together imitating armour pieces; shielding them from their necks to their calves. At the belt, these blades jutted in sharp, curved spikes outwards, poking towards anyone who dared to get too close. They weren’t to be messed with. Identical crimson capes draped in perfect folds behind them, displaying imprints of crossed hammers and a stone mountain- signals of their district.

The Career pair looked like they had been plucked from a propaganda poster. Glossed, hardened, manufactured.

Ajax’s expression was monotone, he was a mighty warrior who was unfazed by the excited crescendo of yells that spilled out towards him. His blade-sheared armour was as tough as his brawny muscles, his caramel skin glistened under the illuminative lights and his veins popped like iron cables. is hair- short, raven-black, freshly styled -gleamed with pomade and precision. His dark eyes whizzed by the wild Capitol audience, whom threw their arms out towards him past the barricades. They were cool and ruthless, staring at back at the lingering faces with boredom.

Tildessa kept her back rigid, her frame staged robotically. At the eventual thumping of the chariot as it wheeled down the Avenue, this grounded stance faltered as she quickly clutched on the side to steady herself, slightly clawing her black leather boots into the corner for support. But her gaze was calculated, cold, unamused. She looked out into the crowd, unsmiling. Eventually, she raised her arm out into the air, bowing her head in courteous nods towards garish, grinning faces. Her polished mocha skin shone like wax under the brightness of the lights, her jet-black hair fixed into a sculpted bun. Tildessa’s eyes were threatening, her gaze glaring into captured cameras, but they brimmed with determination.

After a few minutes, the cheers hurled Ajax’s way died down in their passion. Tildessa turned to her district partner, raising an eyebrow. “You look bored.” She stated flatly.

“I am.” His response was as drab as the expression on his face, “I came here to fight not to play dress-up.”

Tildessa huffed in agreement, “As did I. But they’re getting underwhelmed on your side,” she gestured to the parallel side of the auditorium with a slight nod of her head. “And don’t you dare make Two look underwhelming.”

The sentiment recalled to Ondine’s words back in the prep room: “Tonight isn’t a bloodbath, it’s a parade. That means posture, charisma. Glamour. Keep the menace but dear boy, appease yourself also.” They were both right. If Ajax wanted to own the Capitol, assert himself as a figure of fear, he had to win them over first. He glanced at Tildessa’s outstretched arm, her occasional nods towards the audience. Reluctantly, he raised his hand in the air and sent a dead-eyed stare at any blur of faces that rushed by. The cheers rose up again.

The pair were nothing short of a representation of the merciless, menacing ethos of two worthy Career tributes.

*****

Within the incessant clamour and bustle of the Avenue of Tributes, Glitch was gripped with a pressing anxiety as District Three’s chariot strode forward. The colossal bellow of voices gnawed at her eyes, the wide beaming eyes hardly waiting to snatch her and eat her up. She clutched a hand to her stomach and held onto the side of the chariot, which was a plain copper marked with small holographic screens glued all throughout it. Glitch almost jumped at the glowing white projection of District Three’s marking symbol which sprung to life, striking her in the eyes.

Mac stood absently beside her, trying not to move as he felt he was restricted within his ridiculous costume and if he so much as budged out of line it would strangle him. Although, admittedly, he didn’t know exactly whether the tightening in his throat was from the narrow collar or from the sea of amused, gawking eyes washing over him. His entire body felt like it was twisted and compressed under the unbearable weight of their eyes. He thought about ripping off his costume and seeing how hard they’d hoot then.

The two were clad in identical dark green bodysuits that stretched from neck to toe, constructed out of a rigid copper mesh that pushed heavily down onto their skinny frames. They were laden with long golden wires that jolted with faint electrical sparks and crisscrossed to small rectangular, blinking LED circuits that were dotted all across the bodysuits. Their faces were left exposed and powdered a shiny copper tint, Mac’s brown hair was gelled and flattened over his head as Glitch’s brunette locks were hung down but slicked thoroughly, still and inanimate against the breeze. They were both barefoot, fidgeting their feet against the cold floor of the chariot.

“Don’t pass out again.” Mac exclaimed into Glitch’s ear. The humiliating yet life-threatening memory, summoned Glitch the strength to spring from hunching over back up with her head raised, as she pushed herself away from the side of the chariot. She looked back out into the Avenue, deciding to distract herself from the head-splitting noise that drilled into her brain and the thrilled faces that burned her eyes by focusing on the way District Two’s Careers’ crimson capes hovered in the breeze in front of them.

“What a stupid look anyway,” He spat, clawing at the sleeve. He didn’t even think about how it would look to the countless watching eyes, to the cameras. He though back to their stylist Vera’s gleaming yellow-smeared smile. “Vera said something about a twist with these. What the hell that would that be? I can’t even turn around with this.”

His question was answered as if on command, as the chariot reached halfway down the path before both of the tributes’ mouths yelped in surprise. Suddenly, the small LED circuits on their bodysuits ignited in bright yellow sparks, shooting out of the suit and evoking a bright beacon of light around Glitch and Mac. The light crackled across their bodies delicately but sizzled beautifully, basking them with a hard copper skin of a hissing bright electricity. The pair looked as though they were draped in an array of fireworks.

Immediately, a loud consensus of applause washed over the amphitheatre. Glitch turned to see several spectators in their seats standing up and cheering, throwing their hands forwards and clapping. She was paralysed with fear, her mouth gaped open, figuring she’d suddenly caught on for a moment but relaxed at the crackling of the sparks which were harmless. Mac smirked, not only because he felt like he was soaring through the air in a powerful beam but because he saw at the quarter of Careers in front of him. Both pairs had whipped around tO watch the sparking surprise behind them from their chariots, their faces scrunched with disdain as District Three were stealing the spotlight. Several roses were thrown Glitch and Mac’s way, one flinging its way onto Glitch’s shoulder and another bouncing off of the flickers on Mac’s chest.

Despite their unease, the pair crackled with an uplifting confidence. They weren’t to be ignored, brushed under the rug. After all, they were the star of the show that the Capitol seemed to prize so dearly.

*****

Marina and Calypso were engulfed by the tsunami of leering eyes of the electrified audience as their chariot rolled past the polished path. Marina was stunned, her eyes wide at the sheer magnitude of not only the imposing City Circle but the amounts of the city’s citizens gathered to have a look at the tributes. She waved to faces that blended into a blur: some cheered with excitement, whilst others frowned with contempt. She had to resist to urge to laugh, as the occasional faces which were twisted in jeers were ornamented with garish colours or abstract designs or accessories that made them look to Marina, like some sort of clowns.

Calypso had reminded himself of the conversation with his mentors on the train to the Capitol, of himself and his district partner as ‘strong, unified fighters’, and as much as he wanted to flip his middle finger towards the crowd he knew that would only send a target to his back. So he looked out to the crowd, waving his hand and managing a grin alike Marina’s. They were united, they were strong, and they would try appease themselves to the audience if it yielded them a chance of survival.

And appease themselves to the audience, at least through initial appearance; the District Four tributes certainly did. Their chariot which raced onward was a pearly white, draped with seaweed. Both Marina and Calypso were adorned in a suit and a dress respectively, both of which were a rich, dark sea-blue velvet. The material was glimmering in sequins imitating reflective sunshine fragments, the brims of their costumes were traced with a soft, puffy white. Marina’s dress twisted around her slender frame and cascaded down and behind her in pronounced waves, as Calypso’s suit followed the same effect albeit it was his blazer sides that blew around him; which had been left deliberately open to reveal his bare, lightly toned torso. Both of the tributes had an assortment of large pearl necklaces strung around their necks which hung down their throats and chests, their feet stood firm on the chariot in twisted brown sandals.

The horses’ hooves trotted against the ground in uniform, wheeling the chariot across so every soul in the amphitheatre could gawk. Marina leaned towards Calypso. “I know I can be quite an attention whore but this is a little much.” She remarked, feeling as though she was being scooped up and drowning in applause and eye contact. This cracked the performative smirk on his face as he released a loud laugh. His green eyes fluttered to the countless ones that washed over him, as if they wanted to pick him right up and stuff him into their pockets. “Can’t say I blame them, we’re a sight to see.” He chuckled to Marina, then turning and waving his hand reluctantly to a trio of teenage girls at the barricade whom held out a homemade blue banner in support of District 4 and one of them, eyelashes stretched halfway to her nose and lips powdered neon pink, yelled “When you win Calypso, I’ll be waiting for you!”

Marina couldn’t help but burst into a short and unrestrained spout of laughter, playfully smacking Calypso’s arm. “Go on I bet you can’t wait to put a ring on her finger, surely it’s your top aspiration after the Games.” She sneered, as he turned his face towards her and chuckled again as then he bit down on his lip, hard. His entire body was trembling with terror, with rage, towards every face in the crowd that wanted nothing but to either watch him entertain them or to watch him die. Despite feeling like goods being exhibited for sale, Calypso found Marina’s light-hearted and comical approach to the situation like a live vest to grip onto. It reminded him of being caught in a current on the coast when swimming out too far at the wrong place and the wrong time, and reminding himself to stay calm so he wouldn’t be pulled under.

It was to difficult to keep afloat though, as both of the tributes were swept into the deep end of the amphitheatre’s booming cheers and shouts, drowning in the storm of their thirst.

*****

The deafening, overwhelming environment of the chariot parade was certainly no help to Volta’s torturous morphling withdrawal state. She not only felt like she was worming under an alien, pampered skin but she wanted to crawl out of her rigid costume and away from the Avenue to the nearest place that could bless her with a fix. She peered out at the bellowing crowd members, wondering desperately. Surely one of them had something? They lived a life of excess after all.

Volta whipped a hand to her throat, flinching at a slight jolt of the chariot, retching. She felt like she was going to vomit. Her ghastly pale skin matted with sweat despite the lotions and gels that had been slathered over her body, her head pounded harder with pain with every raised voice in the Avenue. She began to twitch, grasping onto the side of the chariot, trying to keep herself held together. She reckoned she couldn’t look any more pathetic if she tried.

“Volta, hold it,” Ion quietly exclaimed into her ear, “You can’t vomit. You can’t. Just push through, you can do it.” His heart twitched with fear as he saw her try to contain another retch into her mouth, exhaling shakily. She groaned, raising her head back out towards the audience. She nodded, gasping in anguish. “I think I’m good for now.” She said. Ion breathed a half-convinced sigh of relief. He turned back to his side of the amphitheatre, peering his eyes out and waving his metal prosthetic hand out into the air.

Despite feeling utterly small and insignificant in the chariot, as though any of the spectators above could squash him with their thumb, he smiled at the indistinguishable cheers that sounded. It must have been the new hand, he thought. It added to his wiry frame with a promising, eye-catching quality. He certainly stood out. Nyx may have been right: Ion looked unique, like he persevered. He thought to how his aunt and Eos were watching him at their tiny box of a screen at home, thinking that now maybe he held some promise, some weight. He let the metallic hand glide him by the breeze.

It wasn’t as though the pair needed any searching to be found among the twelve chariots gliding down the path. District Five’s chariot, a wire-meshed structure, twinkled with several light bulbs that patched over the chariot like vines. The tributes were dressed in identical bulky, transparent bodysuits that were tinted white and pressed over them from head to toe, with only their arms and faces exposed. The bodysuits twinkled with small, faint monochrome wires strewn throughout that led to a large, flickering light that pulsed over the heads: Volta and Ion, essentially, stuck out and looked like giant lightbulbs to the screaming audience.

Some met this with intrigue and others with ridicule, with Volta falling victim to the latter. A man at the front row of the barricade on her side roared with a mocking laughter and flung his drink out to the chariot, the liquid managing to splash over Volta’s arm and drip over the side of her bodysuit- leaving an ugly puddle of brown on the white over her ribs. She shuddered, her mouth parting with disgust, as tears welled in her eyes. Her head was ringing with a searing agony, her body felt like it was about to melt on the spot. It was a miracle she managed to restrain herself from giving into the urge of pulling herself to the side and puking onto a gawking audience member.

Ion ignored the splash that struck his district partner, smiling and waving towards his side that was overrun with curious ‘ooos’ as he stretched out his prosthetic hand their way. He thought about scrunching it into a fist- and to his shock, the metal fingers folded into a ball. He gasped, eyes wide, flopping the hand about. A rush of laughter hollered around him. A young boy of about six near the front raised his own little hand and giggled, imitating the metal fist also. “Like a superhero!” Ion thought he heard the little boy shout.

The chariot jolted ahead, as Ion chuckled softly under his breath, the first real smile he’d managed since the Reaping. For a brief second, as the boy beamed back at him and Volta clutched the rails beside herself with quivering hands, her knees bucking beneath her, it almost felt like they were something more than prey on parade.

Almost.

A ripple of hoots flowed from the audience as District Six’s chariot raced onwards down the parade.

It was composed of a sleek silver, the wheels especially exaggerated with thick rubber tyres. Both Kia and Cyprian were fitted in stripes of a shiny silver metal which stretched over their bare skin, twisting around their waists and forming a dense mesh to cover their modesties. Whilst Kia’s stripes of metal were bigger and shielded more of her figure; the metal outstretching into a rectangle over her thighs and striking the structure of a spiky skirt. Cyprian, however, was left feeling more naked. The stripes slivered over his arms, his torso, his legs- yet large parts of his bare body, slick with a shiny lotion, remained exposed. A glistening platinum crown rested on their heads, their hair was brushed and parted back in a similarly tight manner.

Kia’s murky blue eyes were painted with small, deep grey train track marks and dotted with a white glitter. Cyprian’s basil-green ones were smeared with a subtle black eyeliner in a smooth brush of wings, slightly studded with silver sparkles.

Cyprian bit his glossy lips in order to stop himself from shivering, the breeze of the rushing chariot bit against his bare skin. He’d hoped Asidiarla’s stylistic intention had been fulfilled, as he certainly wasn’t going to forget being rolled out to Panem looking almost naked, almost devoid of an outfit itself.

Asidiarla’s vision didn’t miss the crowds. It was certainly fulfilled, if not exceeded. Cheers bellowed, the thumping of countless claps were thrown their way as screens replayed close-ups of smooth lathered skin adorned by belts of gleaming silver. A woman with a feathered neon blue headpiece shrieked in excitement, practically squealing. A man with a sculpted beard hollered, making lewd gestures towards Cyprian whose performative smile faltered at the sight. His hand clung to a metal strip on his thigh, as he sucked in a heap of breath and exhaled slowly to steady himself. He extended his other hand outwards, the smile slowly working its way over his shiny face beat by beat which ignited a further volume of hoots.

Kia felt as though she could be snatched and torn by the mess of leering, gaudy faces any moment now. The noise in the amphitheatre was deafening, the entire City Circle seemed to be pulsing with energy, full to the brim of thrill. The loud noises, yelling faces, blinding colours all stirred into one colossal burst of sensory overload. Kia’s brain was screaming, involuntary tears welled at her eyes as she clung onto the side of the carriage as her mouth twisted. She tried to go back to standing still and watching but her whole mind was being attacked by her surroundings. Jeers began to be pelted her way, as cameras zoomed into her slumped position and scrunched face.

Cyprian turned to his partner, clenching his jaw in worry. Kia seemed to be on the verge of another panic attack, a replay of the Reaping seemed to be looming in sight. His eyes widened. She could not afford another display of weakness right now, not for his sake as well as her own. Cyprian gently grabbed her arm.

She turned to him in slightly sputtering breaths. “I-I’m trying.” Kia explained in quiet, choked gasps over his shoulder. Her eye make-up, the grey train track marks, were smudged by her strained tears. The white glitter was now mostly worn down to a smear on her eyelids.

“Take a deep breath, steady yourself.” Cyprian instructed, shielding his shoulder as much over Kia’s face as he could. “You need to sort it out Kia. Take deep breaths and and tune it all out.”

Kia, feeling as though her head was being crushed by the platinum crown on her pressed head of hair, did as she was told. She gulped in air, letting it pump through her lungs and over a matter of rounds, filter her panic away. Cyprian clasped his hand over her shoulder, pulling her next to him. The gesture inadvertently sent a blast of coos and cheers from the Capitol audience.

“Relax, tune it out and breathe. You can’t let them see you like this.” Cyprian’s words quietly fuelled Kia’s strength to pull herself together. Her frail hand clenched into a fest over her hard skirt. She straightened her glossy frame and her head, although feeling weightless, allowed her to somewhat mirror Cyprian’s manner. He pulled the crowd with him, stringing their attention along like kites.

Cyprian thought of his father, imagining him curled up on their dusty coach with his bloodshot eyes watching him on their grainy TV. Probably a needle clutched in his hand. He had to give his father a reason not to poke the needle into his skin. He had to show his father, and himself, and especially the Capitol: that he was fine. That he had what it took. And show he did, flashing bright smiles and stretching his manicured body. Letting his hand soar towards the crowds in honour through the moving breeze.

Cyprian was met with a rupture of applause, pinned as a product of intrigue. He let the jolting of the chariot carry him, unable to suppress a proud smile. He told his stylist he wanted to be remembered, and to his disbelief; he certainly wasn’t falling under the radar.

It wasn’t only his magnetic appearance that sucked them in, his piercing eyes and soft body, which was slim but carved like stone and nothing short of alluring despite his clear lack of weight or muscle. It surged the whistles and hollers erupting around him, but that wasn’t all. Kia noticed how he smiled at every passing face, invited every soul that watched him, in a sense that made him seem as bright as the flashing lights slicing into Kia’s smudged eyes.

How was she to compare? By having a panic attack on the chariot parade and yet again, outing herself as a weakling? Kia’s body tensed. She held her cowering head up in an effort to seem more bold, more assured. Even a feasible smile flickered towards the faces that whizzed by. But Kia wasn’t as good of an actor as her partner, and she didn’t have the beauty to push as leverage either. Her smudged eyeliner, and quivering lip betrayed her attempt of strength, of composure. She was met with laughter.

She knew she wasn’t fooling anybody.





                                                                                                                                                 ******




District Seven’s chariot was pulled down the path, composed of a firm mahogany varnished wood clung with small artificial trees with bright green leaves that poked at the sides and over the front and rear ends of the chariot. Rory watched as the plastic wisps of snot-green fluttered in the breeze, as every movement seemed to prolong itself. It was never ending.

He sulked angrily. Rory was draped in a suit of tight, curling branches that wrapped around his entire figure, leaving only his face and arms exposed. They were thick and sturdy and resembled a rough, textured bark that he was more than familiar with at home. But the earthy smell and spiky feel that reminded him of home and his time in the forests of District Seven were moulded into a manicured and altered state of the wood that dressed his body. A cloak of ivy and velvety green leaves studded the body suit of wood, identically as fake as the ones perched over the chariot. A particularly dense bed of bristling mint-green ivy concealed his back, a deliberate last-minute addition on his stylist’s command to cover the lashes.

Rory huffed a strained breath. His symbol of defiance was prettied up with leaves as fake as the pastel wigs on the yelling Capitolites within the amphitheater. His scowl was also softened by dramatic, large brushes of dark brown eyeliner and a glittering pea lipgloss pouted on his lips.

Being shoved up close, Rory never thought his disdain could boil any hotter. They saw him in the flesh, not through their TV screens, only feet away from them. He was real and he was tangible. Yet still, their powdered mouths flew open in laughter. Their pruned fingers pointed and clapped as if he were a show monkey. Their dyed, intent eyes watched him with scrutiny.

He began to shake, tremble. His body jittered with fury, his fists clenched so tight he could hear his own heartbeat. Every face that peered at him he practically hissed at, shooting a glance so red with hate he’d imagined it cutting through their yelling throats.

But Rory’s aggression was no deterrent. The crowd roared with excitement. Several gasps and chatters of intrigue permeated throughout the audience as District Seven’s chariot glided past them. Some even stood up and clapped, cheering towards him.

His anger, his refusal to bow and kiss up to them didn’t repel them, or offend them. It interested them.

Birch, standing beside her brooding district partner, kept the interested pinned on the mahogany chariot also. Her natural beauty wasn’t hard to miss, captivating anyone who even peered at her direction instantly. Her blonde hair soared behind her elegantly, caught in the breeze of the chariot. Her ivory skin glistened under the assembly of lights, likening to the shimmering of sequins within the audience, illustrating Birch almost like she were made of wax. There wasn’t much to dissect of her costume, as there wasn’t terribly much of a costume on her at all.

Birch’s lean figure was embellished with a tight, provocative dress that poked into her body, made entirely of preserved flowers, that tapered only from her torso down to her upper thighs. The flowers were small, dainty, and fluttered slightly in the wind with their multitude of delicate petals of a creamy white and pastel pink. A few oversized blooms were perched rigidly behind her ear also, yet otherwise the rest of her glossed body was left exposed to the breeze and the eyes of several enamoured men.

She had asked Zelenus what these flowers had to do with her district’s industry, as she didn’t recognise them as any of the ones that grew wild and resilient in the woods of District Seven. Bluebells, daisies, buttercups, petunias- were abundant, veiling the foliage without apology and forming their own beautiful, colourful world that crept into the garden of her house.

Zelenus had shot her a puzzled look at her question, as if she was supposed to know of the small alien flowers as if they grew on the back of her hand. They were from cherry blossom trees, he said. Birch had never heard of such a tree, and didn’t know that cherries apparently grew on trees.

It didn’t matter, anyways. The Capitol didn’t care for authenticity or truth. Aesthetic was everything.

A man in a pristine navy suit from the front row blew Birch a wet kiss. Yet his eyes, bursting with lust, were not the only ones she saw beaming her way. Yells, cackles, and wolf-whistles moulded into a weight that seemed to tug to the pit of her stomach, leveraged by the matching crescendo of staring eyes. Her arm which was outstretched into a shy wave fell down to her side, her face fallen, dropping a step backwards in the chariot.

Rory broke from his livid trance, turning away and whipping his head to the side to face Birch. It didn’t take him long to realise why she had sunk in fear. His scowl, if it were even possible, seemed to envelop his entire face.

“Don’t let those freaks slob over you like that.” He yelled, voice loud and uncaring. It melted within the chaos of noise all around them, but Birch still heard. She pursed her lips, gripping onto the rear of the chariot as the prickly plastic branches of the fake trees jabbed into her back. She thought of the weightless, light feeling that washed over her during the train ride, praying for it to return. That she could be swept away by the wind. She was so bare, yet she the feeling was gone. She was heavy and grounded, pinned onto the chariot and under the gaze of the Capitol.

She took a breath, perhaps too hastily, but still stepped forward back besides Rory. “I don’t really have a choice.” She said, blinking at the blinding flashes of cameras and the crude gestures which flooded her. Birch knew she had to be smart. She thought back to her conversation with Oaklan and Blight on the train, about preparation and image. About how they have to just give them something to see, or choose what they see.

So, Birch remembered she was no stranger to acting. She was supposed to be the lead of her school play, after all. Rory’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then shock.

Birch stepped right towards the front of the chariot, propping herself with the candy-pink stiletto heels on her feet. She pretended to lean over and “get a closer look” at District Six’s chariot ahead, lowering her frame down and thus, offering a clearer view of her cleavage which wasn’t exactly hidden by her costume. The whistles multiplied, the eyes grew hungrier.

She giggled, smirking, batting her emerald eyes. A rosy blush warmed over her cheeks, as she placed a manicured finger in her hair, twirling it as she laughed at passing hollers. A mirage of roses were thrown her way by desperate suitors, their gifts tainted with desire, as Birch caught a deep red one and held it out. A boastful smile bloomed over her face, followed by a soft kiss of her lips to the petals. The crowd went wild.

Rory’s gaze, which had boiled in anger but now simmered down in disbelief, didn’t leave his partner. “What are you doing?” He cried in an incredulous voice.

“They’ve already decided what they want to see.” Birch gripped the rose in one hand, blowing a kiss juicy with flirtation, to the audience with  the other. The crushing weight, this way, she could at least try to lift. “So, this is my angle.”

*****

At first, Lilah was glad District Eight’s chariot was lost in the frenzy and could somewhat blend with the others, not entirely soaked up by all the spotlight. But soon enough, with the roar in the City Circle dropping in its electric wavelength around her and Oxford, she realised this was something she should not want.

Their stylist wasn’t exactly of much help either, considering their costumes.

Ruffles of differently coloured and textured materials and fabrics were strewn together, compiling an embroidered mess of textiles which represented District Eight’s industry. Oxford was practically buried in a puffy, baggy gown of a mishmash of blues, greens, blacks, purples, and whites- each colour belonged to a large ruffle of varying fabrics of denim, silk, cotton, satin, polyester which blurred into a ghastly display of a combination of materials. He pursed his lips, his eye twitching at the unapologetic cackles of laughter that followed their chariot. Oxford even managed to hear as a voice loudly declared: “He looks like a clown!” amongst the amphitheatre.

He gripped onto a piece of green denim by his thigh, twisting it for support as his mind turned its cogs. The rude spectator wasn’t even wrong, they did look like clowns, Oxford had to admit to himself. There was no sense of applaudable style in their hideous gowns. Despite the hours of prep in the Remake Centre, even their own bodies remained largely plain. Oxford’s raven hair was simply brushed in a side part, a simple touch of foundation powdered on both he and Lilah’s faces and that was all. He decided to take on the role of their lazy stylist. As the chariot, a basic transparent plastic, zoomed down the Avenue, Oxford vowed to mark District Eight as more than a laughing stock before they reached the Presidential Manor. His father would not be humiliated any further.

Lilah was identically frustrated with her costume, feeling as though somebody had picked up a heap of fabrics by her desk at work in the textile mill back in Tack Town and thrown them onto her. A similar garish, ugly gown sagged over her body. More feminine colours of pinks, purples, oranges, yellows and reds formed into a mess of fabrics likewise to Oxford’s; with a large ribbon made out of violet leather poked out of her back. Whilst her face was also plain, her wild amber curls were studded with bobbins that hung like ornaments on her locks. She exhaled a sigh of despair, watching the competition.

Flowing white garments, golden jewellery, bodysuits sparking with fireworks, pastel flowers, stripes of gleaming silver and glittering eyeliner- she huffed. They couldn’t compare. Lilah thought to Lucet huddled by the boxy TV, his knees to his chin, watching his elder sister be degraded even further in some ugly mess of clothing as the Capitol pointed and snickered. She gritted her teeth. She could not let herself fall behind.

“We’ve been handed a losing deck by that brainless peacock.” Lilah growled, her face scrunched in anger, “What is it they even do here? You’d think that Vermeer fool would at-least make a half-decent outfit if they’re parading us for this nightmare.”

Oxford nodded in agreement, flinching at an empty champagne glass flung his way from the audience, crashing against the bars of the plastic chariot. His mouth straightened. “Our stylist is incompetent. But like Velvet and Cecilia said, we play the hand we’re dealt.” His fingers tapped against his chin, he tapped his foot which was squeezed into a leather boot, the Manor looming closer than ever. They were already more than halfway down the Avenue. Something had to be done. “We have to stand out.”

A bellow of mocking laughter erupted from the front row of the amphitheatre beside Lilah, as a woman with a diamond necklace bigger than her own head shrieked in scorn and hurled her cocktail at the tribute. The glass missed Lilah’s arm by a few inches, but the frothy green cocktail that was inside splashed across her face. The laughter raised in volume, in alignment with her anger as she gasped in shock.

“I think we’re standing out like absolute fools, alright.” She spat, wiping the liquid off of her face and patting down the dampness at her neck. She scowled, grasping at a wet ruffle of hot pink chiffon by her neck. Lilah’s terror, her anxiety- grasped at the Reaping, trapped on the train, prodded at the Remake Centre -was cleansed by a sheet of fury. Her brother was not to see her treated this way.

The force of Lilah’s grip ripped the ruffle of pink chiffon from her neck, the fabric scrunched into a ball by her fist. She threw it out of the chariot, watching it be swept by the breeze towards the audience. A little girl by the barricade squealed in excitement, reaching out to grab it. Immediately, the sight sparked an idea in her head.

“Hey, I have an idea. Try this.” She exclaimed. Lilah grabbed a ruffle of orange linen by her hip and pulled hard, tearing a whole chunk from her outfit and throwing it out towards the crowd. Oxford widened his eyes in bewilderment, but saw the surprisingly positive reaction from a teenager whom reached out and grabbed the stray fabric.

“It’s certainly risky,” Oxford stated, hesitating as he tugged onto a strip of green nylon on his arm, “But it may make our mark.” The cogs in his mind stopped turning as he let it rip, a flow of gasps sounding around him, and he flung the torn fabric outwards.

Over the next few minutes, the pair yanked their costumes apart, destroying the embroidery and flinging the disassembled gown out like confetti towards the audience. The fabrics littered the paths like petals and were swept up by the wheels of the following chariots, swaying some in the breeze towards excited audience members whom reached out to catch a fistful. The mockery had spiked to coos.

“Do you think we’ve made our mark now? Stood out?” Lilah grinned towards Oxford, as she pulled on the leather bow on her back and sent a large patch of the gown peeling off of her body. He tore a chunk of black silk from his chest, for once allowing a slight smirk to soften the constantly serious look on his face.

“Perhaps, yes.”

The Parade was no short ordeal, as the city marvelled as the styled teenagers were wheeled down the impressively long Avenue of Tributes. If anything, the city wanted to hit a slow motion button on the ceremony, take in their prey closer, dissect them further: as the chariots neared the Presidential Manor.

It indeed felt like a slow motion button had been activated for Zea and Clearfell. Whilst their chariot of a pale pine embellished with amber accents strode forwards in synchronised tempo with all of the others, it seemed like the thick wooden wheels were whirring painfully slow.

The pair were clad in similar silk cascades of a sunflower-yellow, embroidered with precise weaves of wheat at the hems and through the sharp, straight lines that were woven throughout the material. For Zea, the grain-woven silk flowed around her narrow figure in an an elaborate dress that circled around her. It covered mostly the bottom half of her body, thinning at the top and leaving her chest upwards exposed. Her glossed brunette hair was tweaked with a headband of large, fluffy wheat stems of a rigid gold.

Clearfell’s yellow silk draped him in a tunic form, with a long shirt and trousers that hung over him. The sleeves deliberately squeezed tighter over his arms to accentuate them, a chain of gleaming golden scythe blades poking from his waist and necklines. His chestnut hair was glossed in delicate waves over his head, his lips shining under the city circle.

The jeering crowd hurried past, yet Zea felt as though she was being examined by every pair of eyes in the amphitheatre. The anthem blasted in her ears, sending shockwaves throughout her entire body. The duration of the ceremony seemed to stretch on for an eternity, the polished Avenue was hardly getting any shorter. She huffed, exhaling a deep breath.

But if Zea knew how to do anything, it was to smile. Very other little expressions would paint the ivory skin of her face, it was what she was known for by everyone. Teachers, friends, her mother, even the folk that sent her the deliveries from the flour mill would say it was her cheerful, magnetic smile that would light up every room she walked into. Why would it be any different in the Capitol?

Zea flashed a warm smile, sparse in authenticity amidst the bright flashes and holler of the city’s drunk residents. White teeth poked out at any camera that caught a shot, as she gleefully waved both hands outwards. She tried to catch as many eyes, stare at them hard, as she could.

She was certainly not happy to be in the Capitol, but all that mattered was that they just had to think she was. Appeal to as many as possible, charm them away with her supposed gratitude.

Clearfell, on the other hand, had trouble appealing himself to the shrieking, feral audience.

He thought it would be simple enough, it was their stylist whom had done all the work. They had just had to wear their attire, stand on a chariot, and simply smile and wave - as Menodora had said. They didn’t really have to do very much at all, this was the easy part. But then why was Clearfell finding it so hard?

Every scorning shout, every blare of sickly neon satin or glimmering diamond, every beat of the National Anthem, every thud of the horse’s feet on the smooth path- reminded him he was just a pawn in the Hunger Games. A piece of entertainment. It reminded him there was nothing to smile about, even if he was pretending. His lips would stretch across his tanned face, but constantly keep falling back down with every attempt.

Every face that poked out towards him would be a face that would watch in fascination as his blood would be filled on screen. Every face that poked out was a reminder that he may never see his family ever again. Smiling was like trying to pull a chain that was bolted to the floor, it just wouldn’t lift.

“Hey, don’t look so gloomy over there.” Zea softly exclaimed, whispering in her partner’s ear. “You look great, Clearfell. You should bank on that.”

Clearfell chuckled sadly. “I feel anything but, but thanks. You’re forming a good impression, at-least.” He said, watching audience members point and practically coo over Zea as she leaped an enthusiastic wave towards them, as if she saw a close friend cheering her on in the crowd.

“You can too, you know. Don’t fall behind.” Zea replied, nudging his arm encouragingly. He sighed, bracing his jaw. Zea was right. Standing there on that chariot like a deer in headlights certainly wasn’t going to do him any good, so he had to atleast try. And he remembered the same petrified expression that tainted Zea on the train, the similar sobs that muffled through the walls in her room in the sleeping quarters. She was scared too, but now she was being strong. He had to join in.

A grin plastered over his face, as his arm motioned in slow, sultry waves towards his audience. More cameras shifted to him now, catching his apparently gleeful expression and presenting it for the city to see.

Zea wrapped her arm around Clearfell’s, nodding her head gently in approval. If they were going to deliver a staged display of joy, they would cling onto each other as their hearts trembled.




                                                                                                                                                   *****



The noise was unbearable.

Ear-splitting, head-crushing level of unbearable. Bronco felt it stab through his head and shake his brain. So much excitement, so much cheer, so much thrill for kids they’d watch die next week. It baffled him more than it did anger or scare him.

“This is what Xerxes calls a civilisation?” Lleyn spat, cringing at the decorated faces that curled their mouths in gleeful applause, “A bunch of brainless monsters.” She crossed her arms over her chest, thinking it wise to hide her balled fists.

District Ten’s tributes were dressed in costumes that felt far more Capitol than of their home. Lleyn was swept in a large, soft fur coat that cloaked practically her entire body. It was a creamy, flawless white with patches of brown in a cow skin pattern, leaving her neck and chest exposed to glittering crimson traces imitating silhouettes of meat cuts. Her dark hair was parted back in a slick singular braid, with a bronze crown resting on her head. It stuck out with dainty spikes of sharp teeth along the edges. Her brown eyes were caked in a heavy black eyeshadow that stretched across almost half of her face, somewhat succeeding in hiding the sheer hate in her gaze.

Bronco had received a similar outfit, with a large and puffy dark brown coat of fur hugging his tall frame yet leaving the brawny muscles of his arm and chest unconcealed, left to feel the warm breeze. An ensemble of dark red blood splatters were splashed across the taupe skin his arms and torso, yet Bronco was relieved for it to be fake as it didn’t linger with that metallic smell. His short black hair was neatly brushed and made way for the hefty bronze crown that rested on his head, accentuated with exaggerated bull horns.

Bronco reckoned that he looked far more like the supposedly supportive crowd at the train station than he did of anything reminiscent of back home. He didn’t know one person that was fortunate enough to own a fur coat in Ten.

He had thought the group at the train station was overwhelming, yet stood on the chariot, he couldn’t have wished for anything else. The City Circle multiplied the noise and the sickly attire and the humiliation countlessly.

The sickening roar of celebrity was poisonous. The lurching feeling in Bronco’s throat wasn’t soothed by the venom that hissed within jeering voices that would sound their way occasionally.

Lleyn clutched at a handful of her coat by her side, the white fur itching her wrist. She thought about picking up her crown off of her head, launching at it the audience. She wondered if those spiky bronze teeth would hold their purpose and pierce flesh.

No, she thought. No. That wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Lleyn couldn’t even comprehend what sense of justice or what sense of revenge could be executed to fill the gaping void of the absence of her son. She stuck to gripping her coat.

Bronco sighed, gently placing a hand on Lleyn’s back. Even amongst the deafening clamour, Lleyn could hear her best friend’s voice. “You remember what Magneva said. Keep our heads held high.” His words were intended to be encouraging but they evaporated against the furious barricade of Lleyn’s expression.

She turned away, holding a hot tear that threatened to spill at her eyes and smudge her make-up. She knew that her mentor, and her best friend, had a point. If she wanted to ever see her Rex again, Lleyn had to keep fighting.

“Okay,” she said, steadying her leather boots over the dark-brown chariot that rattled against the breeze. They squashed the bed of hay that had been placed all over, leaving her feet indented. Lleyn faced forwards, clenching her jaw. She wasn’t to look down, or look away, not towards the monsters that yelled at her.

Bronco joined, keeping his face poised forwards and his expression locked tight. And so they soared forward, their heads held high.

                                                                                                                                              *****





Seeder’s quiet confession was branded in Fauna’s mind.

It scrambled her brain, gnawed at her ribs. It had been so quick, so ambiguous, so devoid of real answers. Was something her aunt did the reason why Fauna was being paraded like a mannequin? The reason she was now a tribute in the Games?

The Avenue of Tributes clouded her fragmented, stressed line of thought. Unlike in the Remake Centre where she could distract herself with the burning questions and the perplexed anger, Fauna was now on show and had no time to think. The crowd yelled, clapped, mocked. An ocean of colour  and expectant bodies danced before her eyes. The end of the long path was nearing closer. Fauna didn’t have time, she had to be present.

Huck chuckled beside his partner. Unlike Fauna, whom would be frozen with nervous gulps and frantic eyes darting in-between her shy waves and unconvincingly awkward smiles- he thrived.

The otherworldly atmosphere of the amphitheater, the crescendo of what seemed like an eternity of voices and energetic flames, egged him on. Left him buzzing energy. He almost jumped up and down on the chariot, which was a thin pea-green wood flittered with thick synthetic leaves, until it wobbled. He clapped back, pointing towards a laughing face and hooting loudly.

Huck caught to Fauna’s face etched with a sense of despair no matter how hard she tried to sport a winning smile. It absolutely paled to his, which bounced wide on his face. He waved widely to either side of the amphitheatre, raising his fist arrogantly into the air.

District Eleven’s Parade Outfit was no eye-catcher this year, but Huck’s bursting persona sure was. His entertained shouts caused lingers of intrigue, giggles of humour. It shone through his simple spring-green denim overalls, that were latched with an embroidery of fake limes and lemons that popped with their garishly bright colours enough the shine of the plastic on the outfit. His head was perched with a tall brown hat smothered with fake leaves and a sprouts of seeds that were patterned in swirls, of which Huck picked up and bowed with as he gestured towards a girl with bobs of dyed blue hair by the barricade.

Fauna’s costume was identical to Huck’s, as the plain green overalls sagged over her bony body that shivered despite the warm breeze of the inner city. An assortment of bright red plastic apples pinned onto the green denim also, matching the basket-type headpiece glued onto her had which held a load of apples. She supposed it wasn’t too far off the truth of her life in District Eleven, to be fair to their shrill stylist.

“Huck,” Fauna moved closer towards her partner, squinting in confusion at a piece of white chiffon that flew into the chariot, “How are you so happy? They’re loving it.”

“What else am I gonna do? Mope?” He answered, shrugging, swiftly catching a large piece of black polyester, kicked up in the wind from District Eight’s chariot, in his hand- and waving it towards the crowd with a cheerful smirk. “They’re giving us all this attention, eh? So why not have a bit of fun with it.”

Fauna’s eyebrows furrowed. How on earth could she even dream of even the idea of fun right now?

“Take notes, girl. You don’t seem too steady and that ain’t a good look.” Huck exclaimed, shooting her a knowing glance before jumping again on the chariot and pointing with a loud laugh towards a random audience member.

Fauna’s body tensed, but she forced herself to relax. No, she must not have been looking good. Whatever it was that landed her in this chariot, she had to move on now. Fauna pushed a mask of appreciation toward. She stretched out her arms and portrayed her lipstick-lathered lips into a firm smile.

The chariot raced on. Hopefully, whatever they managed was enough.





                                                                                                                                                                      *****




District Twelve’s chariot wheeled across the concrete at the end of the line, following behind all of the others in the Avenue of Tributes.

The district’s reputation as the afterthought of Panem was solidified as the jaded midnight-black chariot sauntered behind, all of the applause and cheer hurled at their competition. Only the occasional insult was thrown their way, unlike the roses that showered previous chariots.

However, as the chariot raced further down the Avenue and closer camera shots zapped on the humongous screens, Effie Trinket’s work was not to waste.

Dahlia was adorned in an elegant coal-black dress, with ribbons of delicate lace strung over the torso and the hems of the dress. The long dark skirt was drooping down to her ankles, studded with an accentuation of shiny coals stitched throughout the velvet material. Her feet were fitted into sleek black heels that she wobbled on, barely standing, with a dazzling layer of glimmering black eyeliner. Every inch of her olive skin was sparkling. Her raven hair was meticulously sorted into a bun, with curled bangs hanging down the side of her face. Perched at her neck and down to Dahlia’s chest was a sea-blue necklace of stones, the shade of Cheeko’s, just as Effie had promised.

Salem looked equally as refined. He struck as nothing short of strapping in a fine velvet black suit, the buttons and linings stitched with reflective coals. A shimmer of bigger, smoother coals coated by the blazing lights of the City Circle lined the back of his blazer, the ends ignited in a deep orange to symbol ignition. Salem’s hair was slicked over his head, olive skin also sparkling, as a sunshine-yellow beaded bracelet rested over his wrist; courtesy of his favourite colour incorporated into his costume.

A volume of curiosity and satisfaction flowed throughout the crowd, as more eyes darted towards the last chariot in the line-up. The pair didn’t fall behind and be swept forgotten in coal miner’s outfits, this time.

The approving coos and light layer of clapping that followed District Twelve’s chariot took both Dahlia and Salem by surprise. They had expected to fall behind into the shadows like they’d seen happen most years, despite the blinding lights that shone over the City Circle like stars which had zoomed in closer. But TV Screens stared back at them with their own reflections, hoots hurled their way. Salem froze, entirely like a deer in headlights, unsure how to respond. Dahlia grabbed onto the side of the chariot for support, in an attempt to steady herself, and blinked rapidly amongst the chaos of colour and light all around her. She raised her arm up, waveringly, and looked out at the crowd.

A bellow of laughter erupted. Their outfits may have been surprisingly strapping, but the two tributes didn’t exactly swoon or convince the audience. Typical for Twelve. Still, countless eyes honed into the final chariot rolling past. Chatters dotted through the audience, burning questions as to exactly who was their stylist and how they managed to pull off a good look for such an outlying district.

“This is good, we’re not being brushed off, right?” Dahlia muttered, her shoulders perking upwards in a dim hope.

Salem opened his mouth to argue, but shut it back as to not ruin the confidence that was rising in Dahlia’s expression. He didn’t think they were impressing anyone though. Despite their extravagant presentation, they didn’t particularly strike as the charismatic or beautiful or menacing or even just interesting impressions of the other tributes in front of them. They were just two scared kids who didn’t know what to do with themselves, plucked straight from the Seam.

“I guess we’ll see.” He finally said, turning away from dismissive faces and facing straight ahead. He had seen this enough times on the screen in the town square, year after year. Salem wasn’t going to do any more than he was forced to, he knew the Capitol would still see him the same way anyways. As beneath them in every way.

Dahlia still tried to establish a rapport with sponsors, the importance of which Haymitch had importantly emphasised once he broke out of his aggressive drunken slumber earlier that morning. She stretched herself to the confines on the chariot, shaking her hand through the air. A few heads turned and watched, mostly to examine her outfit, some gawked in awe.

The pair exchanged a pressing look as the chariots slowly lined up in a neat semi-circle co-ordination before the Presidential Manor, finally reaching the end of the long Avenue. It was a gigantic white mansion, polished like a prized sculpture, dripping with an energy of importance and elegance. Carvings of polished stone adorned trimmings in tasteful patterns. Spotless windows gleamed back with the reflection of the shine and blare of the City Circle. Long red banners draped along the building, flashed with Panem’s golden emblem. Despite being amongst the shorter size within its surroundings, the mansion seemed to seize the rest of the city in its tight grip.

Salem craned his head upwards, watching as President Snow emerged towards the edge of a grand, stone-carved balcony. He towered over the clad tributes, their faces shrinking to specks beneath him. He was a thin man, his snow-white hair brushed perfectly behind his head and the same shade as the rose perched within the breast pocket of his fine black blazer. Snow was the same age as his grandfather, whom had to clutch a stick to walk and had sags of wrinkles etched over his face. The President, however, stood perfectly fine with his back straightened and legs poised as he declared his deep voice towards the city, which bounced along in loud echoes. His skin seemed smooth also, unblemished by age.

President Snow’s eyes pierced like a snake’s as they burned down towards Dahlia during his speech. They were blue like Greasy Sae’s, a similar light pale shade, yet they shuddered in contrast. Greasy Sae’s swam with a kind warmth. Yet even from all the way above her, Dahlia could see President Snow’s were cold and hollow. Void.

She had tuned out the entirety of his speech, paralysed under his presence. Salem didn’t take off his eyes not one moment.

“We wish you Happy Hunger Games. And may the Odds be, ever, in your favour.” The President’s parting words loomed over the twenty-four tributes, sinking down onto them and sticking amidst the cheer. And just like that, his mouth snaked into a grin, his eyes lingering. And the chariots pulled away.

Chapter Text

The elevator arrived at the third floor of the Tribute Quarters with a mechanic ding, as the doors hissed open.

“Now, the Training Centre is in the basement but this tower will house you for your stay until the arena. Each district has an entire floor.” Soren exclaimed, stepping out into the apartment with her marmalade heels clinking behind her.

Mac’s jaw dropped open at the sheer size of his new home. “All of this is just for us?” He asked in disbelief. The escort chuckled, placing both hands on either side of her tributes and guiding them forwards.  “Of course, isn’t this just marvellous?” Soren beamed.

If the train to the Capitol was anything to marvel at, it had nothing on the Tribute Quarters. The lounge was in an open space plan to the dining room and the balcony, allowing the marble floor to stretch in seamless slabs and engulf the inhabitants in a needlessly large amount of space. Plush velvet furniture positioned the rooms like museum displays, intricate crystal chandeliers twinkled above their heads, elegant ornaments lined the walls and poked out with bursts of precisely arranged flowers.

“Half of my neighbourhood could fit in here.” Glitch muttered, scanning her eyes from wall to wall, thinking of how her family of five were cramped in the box in the grungy high-rises they called a home. Is this how people in the Capitol really lived?

Mac winced at the cold marble slabs of the floor which stung his bare feet, shrugging in his rigid copper bodysuit. He touched along a sleek vase which curved at the rim, struggling to fathom such lavishness.

Soren guided them to the end of the floor, which took several steps, until they reached two tall doors parallel to the other. “To the left, that will be your room Glitch. To the right, that’s yours, Mac.” She said, pointing simultaneously. “I will leave you to rest until dinner, after that absolutely bedazzling display at the parade! You’ve earned it. I’ll make a note to order you chocolate and gooseberry souffle for dessert.”

She headed down the hall to her own room, her heels thumping on the floor. She outstretched her arms behind her as she walked, “Take in the glory of the Capitol, children!” She yelled in an ecstatic voice, shooting them a mischievous glance before swinging open her door.

Soren’s door clinked shut. Mac turned to Glitch, perplexed. “What the hell is a souffle?”

*****

“I have absolutely no words, none, none at all!” Vermeer Gusthowl shrieked.

The livid stylist ranted towards the two tributes, whom hadn’t made it ten steps into their apartment before he pounced from a corner of the lounge and began shouting at them.

“You reckless, ungrateful, stupid little savages!” His shrill voice cried, as he gasped loudly gripping onto what was left of Oxford’s gown, his hands trembling around the large holes left over the ripped fabrics. Chunks had been torn, leaving large messy holes and tears all over the mixed gowns of the District Eight tributes. Vermeer pouted his aged face in horror, the green swirls on his skin scrunched, his neon yellow eyeshadow smeared from tears over his eyelids.

He grasped onto Lilah’s arm firmly, turning her around and releasing a wailing sound from his plumped mouth as the entire lower back of her gown was missing, leaving only her bare back. “You- you tore away the leather ribbon?” He cried in disbelief. “You have shamed yourself as well as me!”

Lilah began to pull down the gown, throwing it off of her body, finding not an ounce of pity towards her stylist’s outburst. “It was a horrible outfit and all of your Capitol friends thought so too.” She exclaimed, wiping her face of cocktail residue with the gown’s torn sleeve. Oxford nodded, crossing his arms tightly behind his back.

“It was very badly received. We just improvised and the audience loved it.” He stated, met with a rebuff by Vermeer whom angrily shook his fist towards the boy.

“You ruined it!” He shrieked, picking up Lilah’s gown off of the floor, seizing it in his hands. “You ruined my work, my art!”

Lysander stepped towards him, wincing awkwardly. “Well, erm, Vermeer,” She said, as he turned towards her with tear-welled eyes, “I have to admit their parade costume was… well, as Oxford himself put it, not well received. I saw myself how people in the audience were laughing and poking fun.”

Vermeer stared at her, mouth open and eyes wide, in utter disbelief. “What?” His voice rung to a high pitch.

“It’s true,” Velvet’s voice declared as she and Cecilia entered through the elevator doors. “What Oxford and Lilah did was put a creative, immersive spin on it. It certainly has people talking.” She went and stood in-between her two tributes, acting as a barricade between them and their livid stylist. “The whole gesture is setting inspiration for a fashion trend already, look it up in the Capitol Couture Review.” Cecilia exclaimed, clicking the projector in the lounge and igniting a hologram view of the article.

Vermeer huffed, throwing Lilah’s gown back down to the ground and stomping loudly to the hallway. “I ought to calm him down.” Lysander sighed, reluctantly following after him.

Lilah perked up with a smile. “So they liked the whole move?”

Velvet edged closer towards the two tributes, lowering her voice. “Yes, but that was extremely risky. Dangerous, even. You ripping apart the costume the Capitol styled you in could be seen by some as…” she took a quiet pause and lowered her voice to hardly a whisper, “something I’m sure you didn’t want it to or mean for it seem as. You were only trying to catch the crowd’s attention.”

Oxford nodded. He knew exactly what Velvet was carefully inferring, or trying not to, as her grey eyes flicked cautiously around the room. The apartment was bugged, of course. He had considered the potential of Lilah’s gesture on the chariot being interpreted as subversive, which was nothing short of a stroke of genius and he was disappointed he hadn’t thought of it himself. But now, they were certainly remembered. Surely the Capitol could allow that, if they were to be forced into such pageantry. He twisted his mouth stubbornly, declaring his voice, “We had to do something to better our presentation, and it’s all well now, is it not?”

Cecilia released an unsteady breath, lowering  her voice to the same cautious octave of Velvet’s and exchanging an indecipherable glance with her mentor partner. “We spun the narrative as much as we could, so hopefully we’re in the clear. It was a hit with the audience, at-least. No harm, no foul.” She shrugged, shooting a glance towards the elevator doors. “Let’s just hope we don’t receive any surprise visits.”

*****

Salem shrugged himself into the Capitol clothes provided to him in the large wardrobe that dominated half of the wall in his room, which had collected for him an outfit at the click of a button. A crimson t-shirt and neat black pants; they were creaseless and smelled like linen. It was certainly a contrast to his tattered clothes in the seam, caked with coal dust, but it was too fresh and too clean. The delicate materials itched at his skin, clung to his body too perfectly.

He took another glance around the room. A raised king-sized bed, with linen so fresh and sheets so soft he could sink into them. Marble floor so shiny he could eat his dinner off of it. A crystal wall gleaming back with his own perplexed reflection. Salem picked up a remote, flicking the button, as an entire wall beside the bed zapped on with a creaseless screen. It played a Capitol street, of sleek pastel houses lined up like sweets. People in those same fancy yet ghastly attire he’d seen blurred in the audience amphitheatre during the parade. They were laughing, clutching tall drinks in their hands. He pressed down on the button, hard, turning the screen off as the pixels disintegrated into the air.

The bed seemed to almost swallow him as he took a seat on it. Salem sighed, laying back and allowing himself to drift in the comfort of the crisp sheets. He was safe now, comfortable now, but what about next week? There’d be no soft mattresses or clean clothes. And what about his grandfather?

Salem cursed, clutching his fist in a pillow. Without him, what was his grandfather to do? He was too sick to run the meat stall at the Hob full time. Maybe some would take pity on him. The Marches may have found it in their hearts to bring him a couple of bottles of sleep syrup, free of charge. Maybe some would spare him a box of matches, a can of soup, a bottle of liquor. Salem and his grandfather would cook up some rabbit stew and grain last year, bring it to the Hyacinths and leave it by their door, trying to ignore the wails that pounded through their frail little house. Maybe the Hyacinths, having lost their own son in the Games, would return the favour.

Salem began to cry with guilt, splutter with shame. He could have worked harder, left his grandfather with more.

*****

Ajax spun a steak knife on his finger, bored.

The aroma of the grilled lamb and peppered asparagus that wafted through the dining room was of no interest to him, neither was the mindless chatter of Severus Young as he read out from Capitol Couture’s review.

The excited escort flicked the pages of the magazine, his pitch of voice rising with every line his dyed golden eyes darted over. “With militant posture, ceremonial stillness, and just enough spite for the spectacle, Tildessa and Ajax redefined what a Career tribute looks like: less sparkle, more spearpoint.” He read out, jabbing with his finger to the words on coated paper for Ondine to admire, as she sat beside him calmly grinning. “They didn’t twirl. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t giggle.
They stood there like executioners wrapped in a sharp, tough couture- and the Capitol? Couldn’t look away.”

Tildessa nodded with a cool satisfaction, taking a measured sip of her wine as allowed the compliment to settle. “This means we’re favoured, right?”

Severus raised his wine glass into the air. “Are you joking? They loved you. Brooding and menacing, in that spectacular bladed armour Ondine styled. Sponsors will be through the roof! Your image is certainly covered, you can sleep easy on that part.” Tildessa smiled at the ecstatic response, turning to Lyme whom seemed as equally pleased as the escort yet didn’t broadcast it so loudly.

“I knew my idea would excel, it’s up to you both now to carry that persona. Strong, ruthless, predatory. Sell your appeal. Every action, every word, that you take should show that you are not to be messed with.” Ondine exclaimed, shooting a glance towards the two tributes.

“Uh-uh,” Ajax huffed, tracing the blade of the steak knife into the meat on his plate, “But when do we actually fight? Or do what we’re supposed to?” His impatience was about as subtle as the bright neon jacket that rested over Severus’s rotund figure.

Tildessa crossed her arms in agreement. “I understand how our image is important but shouldn’t we focus on our fighting or our strategy more now? We didn’t train all this time to come here and drink wine and prance around in costumes.”

“No, you didn’t. And neither did I.” Brutus replied in a hoarse voice, his muscled arms extended on the dining table. “Well, start off with the usual Career alliance. One and Two, sometimes Four. If they’re worth the trouble. See how they are, if teaming with any of them will be of any real use. Training starts tomorrow at ten, show everyone else exactly what you’re made of. What you can do. Why they should fear you.” Brutus chuckled, spearing a cut of lamb with his fork. “I know I sure did, in the arena. But hey, small steps. I worked up to it in training.”

Ajax’s lips curled into a smile, his boredom subsiding. Now they were talking. Brutus decimated his entire alliance when it came down it, in less than ten minutes. Ajax had replayed the footage enough times to memorise every swift move, every jab, every kill. “I can do that. Gladly.” He said with an excited satisfaction as he licked his lips, slicing into a chunk of meat  and toying with it on his blade.

“Well, don’t get too cocky.” Lyme warned, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes. “Some of the other tributes won’t boast their strengths as much as you. They’ll save it for when it matters. You better watch closely.”

Ajax shrugged indifferently. “I’ll make sure they won’t get the chance.”

Tildessa watched him from the corner of her eye, her lips squinted in a concentrated line. Her fingers tightened over the stem of her wine glass. She had always seen him in the Training Academy back in District Two, well aware there was bite to his bark. She had to show she was just as capable, too.

“To fear then, and to showing everyone what you’re made of.” Ondine beamed, raising her wine glass with an entertained wink of her rouge-lined eye.

For a few moments, the dining room was silent under the scraping of cutlery and the soft patter of Avox’s footsteps as they went to refill wine glasses. The lamb was rich, and the china plates gleamed under the glow of the crystal chandelier.

But there was the unspoken truth: tomorrow, the training floor would be a hunting ground.

*****

Rory was hunched in the corner of his room, knees up to his chest.

The branch and leaf suit of his parade costume was torn up and dishevelled on the floor, the plastic leaves tattered over the cool marble as branches had been ripped out and strewn over his bed. The make-up on his face was smudged over his face, leaving a slight layer of smeared colour of his pale skin.

The room was disgusting. Everything was too beautiful, too sterile, too clean. The air wafted with the overpowering scent of lilies, nauseating Rory as he wanted to retch on the bed, show them just how much he regarded their “treats” to him. But he decided against it, knowing the only ones who would see the mess and have to deal with it were their silent Avoxes who sauntered with their heads down in the apartment.

He had considered picking up the bed bench and launching it through the air, seeing it shatter  the bedroom window just like how he’d done in the Justice Building. Reducing the glass to jagged shards.

Fantasies filled Rory’s mind. He could grab a big shard of glass as he destroyed the window, climb out of the tower and run through the Capitol, avoiding every spotlight. Hide away, crawl through the border somehow and escape into the mountains. Shoot some Peacekeepers. The thoughts faded as soon as they had been conjured. Because that’s all they were, just thoughts and fantasies. Stupid fantasies that didn’t even make sense. The glass of the wall-length window was probably so thick and enforced he doubt anything he could do would hardly even cause the slightest crack. He was high up on the seventh floor, how would he climb out? There were no railings or corners to grab onto, just the smooth slippery glass of the building’s exterior. How would he run through and hide through the Capitol without being caught? Every person in the city - hell, in the country - had seen his face. He also reckoned even for the Capitolites, cutting through the border must have been just as tough for the brave but futile souls that had tried the same with their own in District Seven.

He grunted in frustration. Who was he kidding? There must have been an extensive security and alarm system that prevented anyone from getting out. They were locked in like prisoners after all. Rory knew he must not have been the first to dream of some thrilling escape, only to realise the stupidity of such an idea.

Rory gritted his teeth, standing up from the corner of the room and stomping over to the bed, where he picked up a crisp white pillow and slammed it against the wall. He pulled and clawed at it with his hands, sending feathers flooding across the room. Some stuck into his hair, some into his mouth. He didn’t care, he just kept shouting and pouncing at the pillow until it was a flattened piece of fabric. The entire bedroom floor was covered in feathers, small and wispy ad the same shade of white as Peacekeeper uniforms.

What else was there to do? There was no way out.

******

Fauna refused to acknowledge the knocks on her new bedroom door.

“Fauna, please open the door.” Her aunt’s voice pleaded on the other side of the thick varnished wood. Her knocks were at first but increased in their tempo, becoming slightly firmer in urgency. “If I could just talk to you, sweet. You already skipped dinner. Don’t shut me out, the last thing you need right now is to feel alone.”

The oblivious girl furrowed her eyebrows. No, what Fauna needed right now was to be alone. She’d just been flaunted with a plastic apple headpiece to the crowd that yearned for her blood. She was exhausted, overwhelmed, and she was angry.

“Please just let me talk to you.” Seeder’s muffled voice drifted through the door, still ever persistent, but evaporated around her niece’s ears. Fauna tilted her head down as she gripped the screen remote in her hand, flicking the audio button to the maximum to amplify the sound of crashing waves against a rocky shore. Sending her aunt a message without words.

Fauna could feel her hovering for a moment longer, releasing a disappointed sigh. Seeder went to turn the door handle, but retracted her hand and turned. Finally, she walked away.  The sound washed over the room, the image shining back in the reflection of the crystal wall. Fauna clutched onto the remote tightly, her mouth pressed in a straight line.

What was there to talk about with her aunt, really? What did Seeder expect to say or expect to hear if Fauna had let her into the room? Fauna wouldn’t receive any answers to her burning questions. The entire apartment was bugged, surely. If not with cameras then certainly with microphones. Whatever her aunt had done to anger Snow, to potentially rig the reaping and mark Fauna as a tribute in the Hunger Games; she couldn’t say. She couldn’t admit. Not here. So what was the point? Fauna decided she’d ignore Seeder until she had no choice.

Fauna turned back to the screen, watching the sea foam splash and drip against the jagged rocks. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to somewhat relax her shoulders at the soothing whooshing sound. She laid down on her bed, hoping it would  lull her in what was probably another sleepless night.

*****

The large and immaculate TV in the lounge, which took up half of the wall, played a recap of the chariot parade which dominated every screen in the country just a few hours earlier. Marina and Calypso watched themselves on the flawless screen, swept in a strange awe. The blue sequins of their outfits shimmered, their skin gleamed, their faces beamed to the cameras. They had pulled off a good luck, after all.

“Damn, we look great.” Marina exclaimed, giggling at her own figure on the screen, “Can you lend me that lipgloss you used, Gliretta? I think you just about found my right shade.”  

“You’re welcome.” Gliretta Opaline grinned, examining her handiwork. “I brought waves and sunshine from the sea right to the very Capitol evening, and you two couldn’t have looked any better in it.” The stylist boasted, fiddling her dark spayed curls with a blue acrylic nail.

Seraphina raised her champagne glass into the air in applause towards Gliretta, whom clinked it back with her own. “I was breathtaken, really. The design was beautiful.” Seraphina chimed, offering an encouraging and assuring smile towards the two tributes sat beside her, “And you two couldn’t have pulled it off any better. That charisma could get you anywhere.”

Gliretta’s long mouth, lined with dark rouge lipstick, curled into a gleeful smile. “Indeed, sponsors must be drooling over you,” she responded before Marina or Calypso could, snatching the sentiment and twisting it back to her own success: “and yearning for more of my work. Really, I blew myself away! I must check my job offers when I get home.”

Isla rolled her eyes. She crossed her leg over her lap, leaning forward as she admitted reluctantly “You did a good job, Gliretta, thank you. This will push a favourable impression for you two. Especially you Calypso, I’ve heard you’re a favourite amongst the ladies which can’t hurt.” Her eyes darted to her tributes, then fixed onto Marina. “This impression just might have saved Marina’s reckless image.” She stated with a sly but relieved sigh, “So, don’t take that for granted. The Capitol loved you, keep it that way.”

Calypso poked his finger over the rim of his hot mug of tea, which had been barely touched and no longer warmed his hands. He cleared his throat. “How do we keep it that way? So they don’t get bored?”

His question resonated with Marina, who whipped her face towards the two mentors sat opposite her on a parallel couch and carried onto his anxious line of questioning. “Yeah, what do we do next?” She asked impatiently, “I mean, I could’ve made out with myself on that chariot but I don’t think looking hot is going to really help out too much in the arena.”

Atlantis clasped his hands, nodding. “You’re right. What you do next is utilise the absolute maximum out of the Training Centre over the next three days. Like you both said, you’re naturals at fishing and fighting. Elevate your combat skills, get familiar with a new weapon. Don’t ignore the survival stations.”

“Demonstrate to the Gamemakers and to the other tributes what you can do, but don’t over do it.” Isla said, “You expose all of your strengths too much and you put a target on your back with the Careers. Even if you do choose to ally with them.”

“Well, should we?” Calypso asked carefully, thinking back to the reaping recaps. Both pairs from One and Two oozed an eagerness and intimidation that District Four could never dream of. “They didn’t seem like no scared kids like the rest of us. It’s like they’re yearning for this.”

Atlantis grabbed another bottle of fizzling golden champagne from the minibar in the dining room, popping open the cork and not bothering to reach for a glass as he took a large swig from the bottle. Gliretta gasped in shock.

“That’s something you yourselves have got to decide when you see them properly.” He replied as he wiped the foam from his mouth, “In my experience, you keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

*****

Clearfell’s mind had wandered entirely. The past day and a half, if he could believe that was only the amount of time passed, was intense and baffling. The chaos of the reaping, clutching desperately onto his family’s arms, the train ride to the Capitol, the remake centre, the parade- it was all a maze of events that seemed to drag in time painfully slow yet it was all somehow still one swift whirlwind that threw him in the limbo of time.

His tired brain had drifted to the absurdity of their apartment. He watched a fountain straddle the large space between the hallway to the elevator and the lounge. It was built into the walls, glistening in a reflective grey slate as precise, square gushes of water hummed softly down the straight layers and ran along the brim of the hallway. There was a fountain back in District Nine in front of the Justice Building, carved out of a scratchy stone and it smelled of moss and stale rainwater. Clearfell would scoop handfuls from the pool and splash it at Parel, whom would yelp in surprise and chase after him as he’d laugh. But this one was inside, and didn’t have any room to place a hand in. Why was there a fountain inside? Why did it not burst with sprouts of water but run almost invisibly amongst the walls? Why did the water occasionally burst into different colours?

“You alright there, Clearfell?” Mags asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes washed over him with an undeniable wave of care. Not affording the embarrassment, he allowed her to embrace him with her sympathy. It was nice to have somebody looking out for him, thousands of miles away from home. And she wasn’t even from Nine, so she didn’t have to even care for him either.

“No.” He shrugged, too tired to bother with lying or pretences, and too appreciative of Mags to lie. “But I just have to move forward, don’t I?”

Mags pressed her lips together, releasing a knowing sigh. “Yes, you do.” She said, wrapping her arm around her tribute’s shoulder, guiding him down the hallway as their footsteps patted across the marble floor. “But you also are allowed to be human, no matter how much they try to make you feel like you’re not. You’re allowed a moment with your thoughts, with your real self.”

Clearfell nodded, smiling sadly. “Thanks, Mags.” He exclaimed quietly, trying to shake away the blinking of his mind. He didn’t want to let it wander any further, it had to be sharp and it had to be alert. Now more than ever. He would save the human parts for lights out.

“Come join us in the lounge, best to just warm yourself up for tomorrow.” The mentor suggested, as Clearfell obliged and allowed her to lead him to the room that was turned down to a dim glow.

Zea and Slylva sat on a couch, deep in a seemingly important conversation and turned their heads to the pair that joined them on two fluffy lounging chairs beside them. “Clearfell, we were just talking about training tomorrow.” Slylva exclaimed, “You remember what I told you after watching the reapings last night?”

Clearfell nodded. “Yeah, you want us to analyse everyone else’s strengths and weaknesses. I’ll make sure to see what makes them tick.”  

 “Already from the parade, it was clear the Careers are used to being the centre of attention,” Zea chimed in, “The looks on their faces when they saw all the attention go to Three. You were right, it’s arrogance.” She thought back to the large purple chunk of satin that almost flew in her face. “And the kids from Eight right in front of us, destroying their outfits to get attention to themselves too. They’re pretty smart.”

Clearfell joined in, recalling seeing the District Six boy’s handsome face flash on multiple  screens in the Avenue. Even he struggled to look away, to be sucked into his winning smile. “Six knew how to grasp the audience’s attention just with a look, really. I also saw the blonde girl, from Seven I think, blowing kisses to the crowd.” He stated, shrugging his eyebrows quizzically, “Some of them know how to draw people in.”

Slylva stretched her arm out to Zea and Clearfell enthusiastically. “Yes, exactly! This is what you need to remember.” She emphasised, her short fringe falling over her face, “What could you learn from any of the other tributes? Anything of note could be useful, to your advantage.”  

Zea’s mind raced to her memory of the parade. Seeing her other competition in the auditorium of the Remake Centre, in the flesh. Who would kill who?

The thought struck her with shame. What would a girl who would hurry over to stop someone from stepping on a spider, know about killing? Buddy, the sweetest dog ever whom would cuddle up to her side and stare up at her with the cutest eyes as she mixed the dough for bread delivery- would be more likely to act on violence than her.

Zea wanted to be home. She wanted to be home with Buddy laying on her lap as she stroked his soft golden fur, as her mother laid on her shoulder and recited forgotten poetry from a time before Panem.

She huffed exasperatedly. Zea knew there was no time to daydream of a home and a family she may never see again. She knew she couldn’t afford shame, or guilt, of thoughts and actions that  she had no other choice but think of and to act on. She had to get it together.

“And after we gather all of this ammunition,” Zea proposed with an unsteady breath, “We’re to find how to kill them.”

*****

Cyprian’s parade costume, if he could even regard it as an article of clothing, slid off his body as fast as he could tug it off of himself. The gleaming stripes of metal hit the marble with a thud. He let the mesh sag in a clump of silver on the floor, stepping out to examine the bathroom which was apparently all his.

Another dimension of luxury enveloped him. The bathroom was composed of a sleek, shining marble so white he questioned if they weren’t padded with their own lights. A quarter of the space was outlined with a glass fitting to make way for a large shower fitted with several buttons, linings and rings of drains and streams. A long, tall bathtub rested in the centre of the room, shadowed by a short patterned wall of pink crystal which circled around it. Cyprian’s curiosity surged him as he stepped to the bathtub. Turning the tap, the tub began to fill with water. He climbed inside.

The warm water grasped him with a pleasant surprise. He laid back and relaxed his body as it began to fill over, as he studied a collection of buttons at the side and pressed them at random. Thick, foamy bubbles layered the water. A sweet cherry scent tickled Cyprian’s nostrils. The jets at the bottom and sides of the tub hummed to life, massaging his back. For a few moments, Cyprian was swallowed in a feeling of pure bliss.

Only for a few moments. He thought to how his father must have been faring back home, in their grimy metal bucket of a bathtub with freezing cold water and a handful of meagre, smelly soap cost half a week’s worth of work. That’s what his father must have been doing, he’d always soak himself in the tub and doze off whenever he’d get high in the night. He said it helped soothe his wounds, or something idiotic of the sort. One time he’d gotten so out of it he’d slipped under the water and fazed out of breath, even the vial plopped into the tub and spilled the acidic yellow contents into the water. Cyprian had to drag his father out, pump his chest. No sense of panic had seized him like that ever before. The stupid man was close to joining his late wife in the family plot over by the marshes.

Cyprian’s blood ran cold despite the bubbly warmth of the perfect Capitol bathtub. Who was left to take care of his father, fish him out of drowning in his own careless mistakes? Clean him up during the shakes? Bring in another load of tesserae when the kitchen cupboard would be empty for weeks? Raille and Prius couldn’t be there all the time, no matter how much they’d try and help out.

He dunked his head under the surface, letting the cherry-infused water burn him. It even began to stream with red.

Tomorrow, was a chance for Cyprian to prove to himself he could do something right. He could at-least try. He chuckled in despair, unable to convince himself, his breath hitching in bubbles under the water and bursting to the red-tinted foam in the bathtub.

It would take every bit of energy left in him to try in training tomorrow. He reckoned it would just be a waste of time in the last days he had left. Cyprian shuddered, disgusted that he was already so accepting of his fate.

*****

After what felt like an eternity of tossing in the unbelievable luxury of her new bed, Kia found herself unable to sleep despite the unbearable exhaustion of the day. The duvet was softer than anything she had ever touched, it smelled fresher than the blueberry buns Bentley would make for her birthday, and the pillow felt like it melted around her head like bathwater. Still, the pleasure of sleep refused to accept her.

Finding herself restless, Kia’s eyes moved from the ceiling of her new bedroom and were instead glued to the impeccable TV screen in the lounge, now desolate for anybody but herself. It was now dark in the big room, toning down the alien opulence of the Capitol setting, letting the light of the TV wash over Kia in a strong glow.

Her finger pressed on the remote, replaying the footage of District Six’s chariot in the parade over and over. She zoomed in to her face, to the captured reactions of the audience. Cyprian had managed to block her face as much as he could, and she had tried to compose herself as much as she could, but it didn’t matter. Kia was still caught panicking, and the cameras still captured the tears terrorising her expression. It was exactly as she remembered it. She looked weak, and shameful, and like not a single sponsor would give her a second thought. Her eyes brimmed with another stream of tears, the cause of her downfall, as she yelped in despair.

Claudius Templesmith’s commentary cut through the shots of her snivelling. “Mmm. But it’s not all glitter and glory, Caesar. Look at Kia. That girl is barely holding herself together. Her body’s stiff, her face tight- oh, is that her eye glitter smudged? You could say she’s a train about to derail!”

She grabbed the remote and instantly turned the TV off, Claudius’s dryly laughing face zapping to black and blending with the darkness in the room. “How am I going to fix this?” She muttered to herself, burying her head in her hands, tapping her feet on the floor.

“You push through, that’s how.” A voice stated, causing Kia to jump and gasp. A pattering of feet moved through the dark to reveal Meghan’s pale face illuminated by the lights of the Capitol skyline as she stepped closer to her tribute on the couch.

“Push through how? I’m a complete mess and nobody is going to take me seriously.” Kia huffed, her bare heels twitching against the marble, “I’m pathetic.”

Meghan scoffed, taking a seat beside the trembling girl. “And you think I wasn’t? That so many of us weren’t?” Her voice rang through the room, bouncing off of the glass. “You’ll find a way to adapt, to prove your strength in a way you didn’t even know.”

The mentor crossed her arms, as her gaze wasn’t invisible to Kia in the fall of the night but her voice was loud and clear. “But you keep putting yourself down like that, believing that you’re pathetic, and you’re already as good as dead.”

*****

Only Dahlia and Effie had stayed for dessert. Haymitch had consumed himself with too many glasses of liquor that kept flowing at dinner service, leaving him to mumble and stumble to his bedroom by the time Dahlia finished her first glass of juice. Plato attempted to follow after him but quickly gave up and retired to his own quarters since ‘he had to detox after the day’. And Salem hadn’t even shown up since they were first taken to the penthouse, shutting himself away in his new bedroom.

“Here, this is my favourite.” Effie smiled wide, gently pushing a slice of cake towards Dahlia. It was a rich, moist slice of chocolate cake embedded with a smooth lathering of clotted cream and studded with glistening red strawberries. The dark brown icing was dusted with a golden powder, and the layers of chocolate and cream pressed together in a symmetrical precision. It seemed more like one of the ornaments of art placed along the walls of the dining room rather than any cake Dahlia was familiar with in District Twelve.

Still, who was she to deny herself an extra serving of food? And Effie’s excited face could not be left disappointed. Dahlia picked up a small spoon and copied how she had seen everyone else at the table use it, slicing through the cake and tasting a hefty portion. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“This is really good.” She mumbled as she swallowed the dessert, “Like, really good!” Dahlia dug for another spoonful and licked her lips, much to Effie’s delight as she laughed pleasantly. “I told you so, did I not?” The stylist smirked, “Chocolate and strawberries? What could go wrong?”

Dahlia smiled, biting through the delicious cream in her mouth but her mind drifting back to the daunting reality that allowed her to taste this cake. “So, how did I do in the parade?” She asked, pressing a finger to the sparkling lotion that still stuck to her skin, “What did they think of me, really?”

Effie tapped her candy-pink nails across the china plate in front of her, “They were enamoured of course, you looked just dazzling in that dress. Gorgeous. Black lace and a hint of coal with your complexion? Dear, if I was a sponsor I’d go broke sending you gifts!” Her giddy voice warmed Dahlia and eased the heaviness in her chest but only for a moment. Dahlia knew the costumes must have been favoured, especially for District Twelve, but she meant what did they think of her.

“But of me?” She asked pressingly, “What do they think of me as a tribute?”

The question was met with Effie by a dragged pause. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped in her tracks, stuttering slightly. “Well, dear,” Effie’s former confidence had completely faded, despite her attempt to pretend it hadn’t. “As you know, District Twelve must burn itself through the shadows to reach the spotlight,” she cleared her throat. “The Capitol just needs some time to warm up to you, is all. I have no doubt they’ll love you.”

Dahlia’s shoulders dropped, slumping in her seat. So she was right after all, they were out of place in those elegant clothes, and she was still undermined as another forgettable Twelve. And the Capitol warm up to her how? There was little chance, little time, and a lot of more eye-catching competition.

Effie’s voice perked back up as she pushed the plate of cake back to her tribute. ““Now chin up, dear, no moping at dessert. Nothing makes a worse impression than a sad face, and you won’t be doing anybody any favours by letting my favourite cake go to waste.”

*****

The District One tributes seemed as though as they would blend right in with the splendour of their apartment in the tribute tower. Amongst the spotless plush furniture, the glistening marble floor, the extravagant golden ornaments and fine paintings- the pair seemed like perched mannequins. Beautiful and poised, refined. Part of the décor.

Taking in their surroundings and relaxing, they rested on a long couch in the lounge as though they owned the place. Sapphire had yet to change out of her parade costume, and the golden chains across her chest sparkled with the room’s soft lighting every time she moved to help herself to a flute of something fizzing and sweet on the coffee table. Her crimson hair sprang on the soft cushions, leaving a trace of golden glitter on the expensive fabric. She observed the new setting with a confident smile.

Elixion sprawled unashamedly in the armchair opposite her, his white garment bunched up at his waist, chest still slick with lotion that mirrored the gleam of the crystal vases in the corner of the room. He looked as if he’d never left the chariot. His grin certainly hadn’t budged, and every so often he would flex or roll his shoulders as if to remind himself how good it felt to look like a god before thousands.

“Did you see all the uproar out there?” He gushed, smirk stretched wide, “They were eating us up. Practically foaming at the mouth if I spared them so much as a look. At the rate it’s going, this whole thing is going to be a walk in the park.” He ran a hand through his blonde hair, chuckling, and buzzing with energy. This is precisely what Elixion was made for. He was thriving, and he was the right one for this. What would it take? A few more smiles and some swings with a sword, a fling of an arrow; and he was to bring pride back home? Prove his worth? To Elixion, there was no scenario in his mind that dissuade him from what was to come. He was to be the winner, after all.

Sapphire grinned, taking a generous sip of the beverage in the flute. “I’ve got to admit, that feeling was so thrilling. Like we’ve finally made it, and they’re just cheering us on. Like we’re celebrity.” She relished in the intoxicating applause that showered her just short of an hour earlier in the City Circle. Her parents would have held a party at their home, surely, invited everybody. They would have gushed and boasted, overjoyed with pride, to every drunk soul in the house as their daughter soared in gold on the screen. Their daughter had made it, she was on the road to attain the greatest honour Panem had to offer. That thought made Sapphire smile harder than ever.

“Celebrity? More like legend.” Elixion declared, completely uncaring of his own gloating. “Nobody in this damn city is going to forget us. We’ve got a hell of a strong start, Peridot, and it can’t go wrong from here.”

Sapphire tapped her trimmed nails across the rim of her flute, savouring the acrid sweetness that lingered in her mouth from the beverage inside. Her mind flickered back to the sizzling fireworks that draped the kids just a couple of chariots behind, the ecstatic applause that seized them. “District Three.” She said, recalling her scrunched face as she turned to see their faces engulfed in light.                                                                                  

“What about them?” Her partner wondered, picking up his own flute from the coffee table. He examined his bicep in the reflection of the window.

“Well, they probably overshadowed us.” Sapphire exclaimed, scoffing, “All the attention was on them as soon as they lit up. We were great but they were better. Maybe, the craze isn’t on us as much as we’d like to think.”

Elixion laughed sarcastically, almost spitting out his sip of the bubbles in his flute. He cleared his throat, sauntering back over the armchair nonchalantly. “What, so they stole a few minutes of screentime with a few sparks? So what? Big deal.” He stretched his muscled legs out, fiddling with a jewel on the hem of his garment, as though he were bored.

“They’re gonna be just as scared and pathetic as they came in tomorrow in training. Whatever glory they might have is gonna crumble under them soon enough.” Elixion proclaimed, ending his note with a mocking chuckle, “Just watch them take a swing with a knife tomorrow, huh? How good their outfits might have been won’t matter.”

Sapphire exhaled a sigh, finishing the last of what was left in the flute before picking up another. She nodded, extending Elixion’s sentiment. “You’re right. How ever any of them may succeed here, they’re not like us. We’re here to win. We’ve been built to win.”

The assured smirk returned to her partner’s chiselled face as he clinked his flute with hers. “Exactly, Peridot.” Elixion’s voice was as sturdy as the marble floor his feet rested on, “Exactly.”

*****

Huck yawned in delight as he rested on his bed. His bed. The insanely blissful and crisp bed, that multiplied the size of his own body, was all his. The vastness and magnificence of Huck’s new bedroom, or rather his new surroundings in general, seemed to swallow him in a way that excited him. His bed at home in Eleven was hardly a bed at all, merely a thin mattress with broken springs and stains that was as caring to his back to the tough wooden floor it rested on. It smelled of dirt and mildew back in his old bedroom, but here the air wafted with the sweet scent of lavender.

Besides, apart from the contrast, what else was there back home to miss? Huck didn’t have a home. Only a lodging shack by the potato fields in the Boykin settlement, of which he had to share with a dozen other fellows. Fellows that thought they were too good to even talk to him because he chose to dive his work in the black market of the district rather in the back-breaking work they suffered in the fields for hardly a dime.

Huck hissed. Whatever, what did he care what they thought? Maybe he was going to die in these Games but at least he didn’t waste his time away straining his body for food he wasn’t even allowed to eat. Not like them. His work, and his life, certainly wasn’t easy or safe either. Who was he kidding? But at least Huck didn’t have to kiss a Peacekeeper’s ass. A quarter of his clientele was probably Peacekeepers. This reflection caused him to rumble with laughter. The irony.

The lull of sleep pulled Huck in, as he settled into the amazing sheets that practically caressed his frame. He allowed his eyes to close before they almost shot back open. He hadn’t made a delivery in almost two days now, and his boss didn’t like a lousy work ethic, or lateness. Huck scoffed at the habit of panic as soon as it sprung up on him. He was sure considering Huck’s special circumstances, Big O wouldn’t mind. And if he did, well, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it to Huck now.

Huck breathed a long sigh before snuggling into place. He was going to enjoy and take advantage of what luxury the Capitol apparently wanted to spare. He dug his head into the soft pillow, clawing his hands into the mattress that seemed soft as butter. Whatever was lying ahead soon, Huck at-least appreciated that it wouldn’t be boring.

*****

The light in the bathroom was too bright. It was as fluorescent as the ones that burned over Lleyn as she was prepped and fitted in the Remake Centre. Her entire purpose in that bathroom was to wash off all of the hours of work the prep team had devoted to her body, scrub her skin raw of make-up and polish.

She winced under the white blare of the lights, illuminating the water droplets clung to her bare skin. Grabbing a towel to fasten over her wet body, Lleyn fumbled through the various power buttons embedded within the bright marble wall. She pressed at random, sighing in frustration as the big, blaring white light at the centre of the bathroom ceiling stayed shining. Some buttons extinguished smaller lights dotted in the room, others ignited dimmer ones tucked in the corners that burst with different colours. A few were bizarre entirely, as a large square switch played music, and a small oval one sent artificial aromas and scents wafting through the condensed air.

Lleyn gritted her teeth in confusion, then frustration. The only light that was blinding her tired eyes was still on, and it just so happened to be the most invasive one. She felt as though she was whisked back out to the sickening shimmer of the City Circle again.

Huffing exasperatedly,  Lleyn dropped her back against the wall, feeling the coolness of the bathroom air bite at her drenched body. She moved a few strands of wet hair away from her face, attempting to inhale and exhale steadily. She needed to get away, compartmentalise, and find a moment to breathe. She was glad that at the very least, she washed off the remnants of that awful chariot parade. Xerxes had gathered with their stylist, Cyrillus Damare, to discuss the feedback to Lleyn and Bronco during dinner service. The Capitol pair seemed pleased, but Lleyn had ignored all of their chatter and praise. It was humiliation, no matter which sort of names or adjectives they dressed it up as. Their gleeful faces made her sick.

Lleyn stepped over to the sink, gripping her hands over the counter. She took another breath. No use thinking about that anymore, it was done and she had scurried off away to the bathroom and to the shower to forget it.

A small, black button by the large bathroom mirror caught her eye. Lleyn pressed it, and gasped in surprise and then victory as the fluorescent light which dominated the room instantly flicked off, and faint streams of yellow emanated from within the mirror instead. Finally.

The reflection in the glass portrayed a bittersweet image. Despite the long shower, the Capitol refining of Lleyn’s appearance remained: shaped eyebrows, cleared blemishes, an entirely hairless body. But the glittering lotion that tainted her skin and the heavy make-up that caked her face was gone. She was fresh, and she was clean. And she was herself.

Lleyn hoped to hold on to the real semblance of her own self for as long as she could.

*****

“It is a connected design, of course, consistency is key. We want to make District Ten look more appealing and more promising. If we want to pull funding into the projects, and the right… investments, that is. I did my part tonight.” Cyrillus’s voice rushed at the dinner table, clanging in tempo with the scraping of his fork into a creamy éclair. His dark waxed hair beaconed to the glows of the lamplights in the room, and his thin layer of spiked black eyeliner gaunted the stylist's narrow face.

“And I commend you for that, Cyrillus.” Xerxes’s sharp voice flew in response as he dabbed the corner of his mouth neatly with a napkin, “But we are working on it. We need you for the look, for the brand. It must extend beyond the presentation of the chariot parade. That is where the challenge lies.”

Bronco had been listening to the stylist and the escort’s conversation throughout dinner but he had finally given up. It baffled him, almost as much as it did bore him, as it seemed like they were talking about something important that they didn’t want to air or directly address with anyone else around. Like they were talking around the subject until they could dive into it alone. It hardly seemed to concern their own tributes.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, rising from the table and strutting away to no notice of the Capitol pair opposite him. Bronco crossed to his two mentors whom sat in the lounge. The TV was on and playing the parade recaps but nobody was listening.

“You haven’t quite fallen under the radar here, Bronco.” Dallas stated with a smile as Bronco sat beside him, placing a supportive hand on his tribute’s shoulder.

Bronco blinked in surprise. “Is that a good or bad thing?”

“It’s early days still, darling, but so far so good. You have initial odds of 18-1.” Magneva explained, cupping her hot mug of herbal tea over her lap as she leant forward to address the confused boy. “You’re a mysterious volunteer from an outlying district, which is rare and something that is noticed. You’re tall with a bit of muscle on ya. You looked good and pretty menacing in the parade.”

“In summary,” Dallas continued, patting Bronco on the back, “You’ve caught sponsor’s eyes. So, bud, it’s a good thing.”

The reassuring and uplifting news paired with his mentors’ hopeful faces fell completely flat to Bronco, practically entering one ear and out of the other. His thoughts and his focus revolved only around his best friend.

“And Lleyn?” He asked quickly, his question trickling with impatience and an edge of worry, “What’s her odds? What do people think of her?” Bronco studied his mentors’ faces as they paused and exchanged glances with one another. Surely, hers must have been just as good as his.

“We can’t discuss Lleyn’s odds with anyone else but Lleyn,” Dallas exclaimed, met with a displeased sigh from Bronco. “But she’s not letting herself be forgotten, that girl. Don’t worry about her. You should be focusing on yourself.”

Bronco clenched his jaw, gently swatting Dallas’s hand away. “I don’t care about myself, or my odds,” He cried, “I care about Lleyn. I volunteered for her. I want to make sure that she’s safe. And I want you both, I- I’m asking you both to make sure that you’ll prioritize her survival over mine.”

Magneva released a harsh huff that wasn’t due to the hot temperature of her tea, and Dallas shook his head and levelled his brown eyes with Bronco’s dark ones. “Bronco, you can’t ask us that.” He declared, his voice now serious. “Our job as your mentors is to make sure you both survive. If you wanna do Lleyn a favour, you’ll start caring about yourself too.”

“And you don’t have to worry about that girl too much.” Magneva’s voice drilled through the rose-scented air in the lounge. “She’s fierce, that one. She ain’t going down easy. She has that mother’s fight in her that I’d know all about.” Magneva patted her pregnant stomach, tutting seriously towards Bronco.

“You’ve got a real chance goin’. Don’t waste it.”

*****

The balcony was a refuge from the encroaching decadence of the apartment. Birch leant against the railings, composed of thick glass, letting the warm night’s breeze caress her face. It flowed through her hair, brushing against her lips, fluttering the sleeves of her cardigan. The wind helped to cool her. It was a call back to the rustle of the breeze through the pine back home.

Although, Birch clearly wasn’t home. Once she opened her eyes, the veil of dense green shrubbery and blanket of wild flowers was nowhere to be found. The delicious smell of wood smoke and the sound of rustling of foxes beyond the leaves or trickle of the river was absent. That was all in the past, far away from where Birch was now.

Birch now stood high up on the seventh floor of the tribute tower, faced with a stellar view of the Capitol. Colossal towers hovered the black clouds of twilight, blinking with small lights. Specks of people swam and buzzed on the ground, engrossed with bursts of colour that still somehow poked with visibility despite the darkness. Car horns beeped, loud voices bellowed. Speakers even distantly further down in the streets could still be heard, playing promos for the anticipated Hunger Games that were to commence very, very soon.

No, Birch was not home. So the summer breeze, even with her eyes closed, didn’t succeed entirely in her pretence that she could be.

“We have to talk about what that was earlier, Birch,” Oaklan’s voice pierced the air with grave concern. She had almost forgotten he’d been standing there on the balcony with her as she let herself feel the breeze, and dream of the nostalgia of District Seven. He brought her right back to reality.

“The persona that you played into during the parade. I know we talked about having an angle, giving them something to see, but-“ Oaklan’s words were cut short as Birch did not let him continue any further.

“What else was I supposed to do?” She interrupted, tensing her arms over the cold railing, “I was backed into a corner so I stopped squirming away. I’m not stupid, I know how they see me. What they see. So isn’t playing into it good? Like I’m taking control of it?”

Oaklan looked down at his shoes, his pale hair sweeping over his face. He knew his tribute had a point, a very clever one, but she didn’t understand the implications this image would have. And he couldn’t tell her what the risk was, either. If he did, she would let her story end with a cannon in the arena.

Birch shook her head, tucking her flying hair behind her neck and securing it with the top of her cardigan. “I was popular out there, right? That means sponsors.” She stated, already familiar with the system of the Games that extended beyond mere brutality and survival. “They didn’t really give me a choice, but I guess the dumb flirty blonde will just have to be my strategy from now on.”

She couldn’t say she was happy with this perception of her either, but it could be a shield as she had hoped. The Games were as much about performance as fight, and after all; Birch was a performer. She could seize the city’s lust to her advantage.

“No,” Oaklan replied, “They didn’t give you a choice. But you have to play the strategy wisely, Birch.” He edged his face closer towards his tribute, the wind now blowing wildly through his hair and his shirt on the balcony. But he anchored his eyes towards hers so that she could see he was not playing around, even if he couldn’t say much.

“Just be sure you’re the one deciding.”

*****

The energy by the varnished dining table of the fifth floor was divided. One side sulked in disappointment and annoyance, whilst the other perked with optimism and satisfaction.

Ion, happily, found himself within the latter. He clenched his new metal fist around his cutlery, squeezing a fork so it bent out of shape. He poked fingers into his steak, letting the hot peppery gravy smother the metal, and chuckled as the fingers each individually twitched with the commands of his mind.

Volta, on the other hand, clutched her temples as she slumped over her chair. She could fall face flat into her meal if she lowered herself any further, and she figured that would be better than the torment that was ripping through her body. Nothing else really occupied her brain but the craving of morphling.

“Shouldn’t she look better, since she was tidied up in the Remake Centre?” Damocles sneered, eyeing him the drained tribute beside him as he took a generous sip of his wine. “She still looks horrendous. You had one job, Nyx.”

Nyx’s mouth gaped open in offence as he narrowed his eyes towards the moping escort. “Volta is struggling due to drug withdrawal, as Porter has said. And she looked just lovely in her bulb outfit.” The stylist offered a smile with his line of defence towards Volta, whom groaned in pain in return.

Hydron scoffed, adjusting his specs. “Just lovely with that cocktail thrown all over her.” His comment, spoken from the more negative side of the table, was shot down with Porter’s scrutinising glare. Hydron didn’t back down. “It’s true,” he whined, “All they saw out on the Avenue was a junkie and her betting odds are in the gutter. She needs to sort herself out quick or there’s no chance, and there’s no sugarcoating that.”

“Gee, thanks for the faith in confidence.” Volta muttered, reaching for a full glass of water as her stomach churned with the disgust at the smell of seared steak and buttery potatoes on the dining table. There was no improvement from the train. She felt as horrible, and as good as dying as before.

“Volta, you need to push the withdrawal out of your system and you’ll be good as new.” Ion said, sick that everyone at the table was addressing his partner in third person even though she was right there. “Then you can learn in training tomorrow.” His words tingled at Volta. She didn’t have the energy to speak but she returned him with a small, grateful smile that somebody at-least pretended she wasn’t entirely pathetic.

Porter decided to change the subject. “Ion, I’ve heard word you’re quite a hit with spectators so far. They loved your whole move with the prosthetic, your confidence. You’ve reclaimed yourself.” The comment uplifted Ion’s mood even higher, a shy grin sneaking on his face. He tapped the metal fingers onto the edge of the table.

“Thank you. I hope they’ll still see me as good as I am, with or without this new hand.” He replied, waving it into the air. “I’m really, really happy with it- but I don’t want everyone to ignore me when it’s taken away.”

Porter gestured her glass towards the boy. “And they won’t, Ion,” She declared, “You prove yourself within training and you’ll show you’re just as good with one hand as the rest of them with two.”

“About training,” Hydron twisted the sappy tone of the conversation back to logistics and facts. Which to him, were far more important. “Use everything available to you. Everything. Don’t you dare waste a second in that gymnasium because you slack on anything that may teach you something that may save you in the arena, and you’re dead.”

Ion paused, but nodded. He learned by now that Hydron was going to give it straight, no matter how off putting he was, at-least honesty was a core principle within his harsh words. And that sour tone.

Ion took it to note, whilst Volta let the advice roll through her like the sounds of Damocles’s obnoxious slurping beside her. She wanted to leave, collapse into her bedroom, sleep off the pain and the nausea that was raging through her. But there was no energy left in her frail body, she could hardly muster the strength to drink from her glass of water.

Damocles munched on a big, chewy piece of steak in between the octaves that left his mouth. “Dare I say it is imperative they throw themselves out there with the more… noticed contenders.” The escort exclaimed, sloshing his tongue over his fat lips and licking up the peppery sauce, “For God’s sake, they still do not even compare! Blend yourself with the stronger tributes and you might just-“ Damocles didn’t get to finish his sentence.

The overpowering and dizzying smell of food at the table was too much for Volta whom was battling with every attack on her senses she could face as her body and mind grappled torturously with the absence of morphling. The sickening sounds that jumbled within the escort’s mouth and his shrill voice sent Volta over the edge.

Without affording the time to stop herself, Volta puked over her plate. The vomit flew quickly, leaving the ill girl powerless. Whilst most of it splurged over her lap and plate of food, some splashed onto Damocles’s creaseless violet jacket sleeve.

Damocles shrieked in horror. His dyed purple eyes bulged wide at the ghastly sight of the vomit that dripped onto his clothing. How dare the savage taint him like that. “You disgusting, wretched girl!” He yelled, fury and disgust spiking his veins. Damocles whacked a hand around Volta’s face, hard, sounding with a loud clap and sending her to yelp and stumble back over her chair and collapse to the floor before she even had a moment to retain a breath from her accident.

Everyone else at the table gasped. Damocles yelled again, raising his fist this time before Nyx quickly ran over and caught the enraged escort’s arm. “Calm down, calm down. It was an accident.” The stylist pleaded, leading Damocles away. Ion and Porter rushed to the stricken girl whom cowered on the floor, gently helping her to her feet.

“An accident? The vile shrew ruined my jacket! She best hope she’s dead in that arena or-” Damocles still shrieked, but his rants faded into muffles as Nyx pushed him down into the hallway to their quarters.

Volta breathed out a cry. She wasn’t sure if it was in disgust or embarrassment, or the welt of pain still stinging at her cheek. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Porter said quietly, croaking her neck brace and leading the tribute into her own bedroom, guiding her to the bathroom. Hydron watched Damocles be ushered away, his fist slowly clenching at the sight. Ion rushed behind Volta, tearing a handful of tissues that he brought towards her as Porter turned on the faucet with the urgent jab of her hand.

Ion held a couple of the tissues against the water, dabbing them gently over the slight splats of puke that had spluttered onto Volta’s shirt. “That was grossly unacceptable of him, he can't get away with this.” Porter muttered, inspecting the faint red bruise on the side of her tribute’s starkly pale face. She exhaled a sigh of frustration. “I’ll get some ice for your face. Stay here.” And she rushed back out to the dining room.

Volta stood in a daze, humiliated that others were tending to her as though she was a small child but she didn’t have the energy to push them away. In a strange way, she enjoyed the attention and care that she had not felt from anyone in a very long time.

“She’s right, what Damocles did was horrible. I hope he gets fired. That ignorant, fat idiot.” Ion snarled, wiping his partner’s chin as he tugged on her shirt and helped her remove it off of herself.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Volta said quietly, her gaze diverting away from the bathroom mirror. Funnily enough, that was not the first time she faced the violence and the anger of a man. And it definitely wasn’t the worst one, either.

Ion looked at her with wavering eyes of pity. The energy on the fifth floor was no longer divided. It was entirely sunken, now.

Chapter Text

The next morning, ten o’clock sharp, all twenty-four tributes were gathered in the enormous gymnasium below ground level of the Tribute Quarters. They were stood in a tense circle, mostly keeping a cold distance from one another. Many glanced to find the brightly lit space lined with various different weapons and obstacle courses, the black concrete walls impenetrable, the floors carpeted by rigid mats.

The Head Trainer, Nereidus, observed them with a calculated gaze before commencing the first day of training once all tributes had arrived. “Your schedule will be the same everyday for the next three. With an exception for the afternoon of the third, where your skills will be accessed by the Gamemakers.” He declared, scanning his eyes over each face under his authority. All of the tributes were clad in identical elastic black uniforms marked with according district numbers on their backs, however, they were all different. Some stood bold and brazen, some concentrated and intent, others anxious and fidgeting.

“Training hours are from ten until five, with a lunch break at one. Your attendance in this gymnasium is mandatory, no exceptions. The stations range from weaponry, to fighting techniques, to survival, to endurance. There will be an expert to supervise at each station.” His deep voice explained, pointing to each one within the space. “Any combat or fighting with other tributes is not allowed, there’ll be plenty of time for that in the arena. There are assistants on hand if you want to practice with a partner.”

Nereidus watched smug grins and chuckles escape from the quartet to his left, the fittest and clearly the best fed of the group, as they eyed up the other tributes and watched the collections of weapons dotted throughout the gymnasium.

“Don’t spend all of your time playing around with weapons. There are survival stations presented to you for a reason, and they’ll be key to learn for the arena.” Nereidus exclaimed flatly, crossing his arms as he surveyed every face before him. “Use your time here wisely.”

*****

The Career Tributes instantly approached one another as soon as Nereidus’s induction finished, shaking each other’s hands firmly and watching one another with an unmoving, hard gaze. The automatic collaboration of an alliance was unspoken, yet their rivalry was just as palpable as their confidence that already claimed the room.

“Well well well, that was some show you two put on last night,” Elixion faced the District Two pair with a half-grin as he raised his chin, “You look just as cheerful as you did on the chariot. Pretty neat capes, though. Good start that we were all the show.”

Tildessa stood rigidly straight, her face unamused. “The parade was of little consequence. We’re not here for dress up, we’re here to fight.” She examined their statures with her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

Ajax’s eyes narrowed, as he stepped forward with a heavy drag of his boot. “We’re here to show what we can do.”

Sapphire peered around the gymnasium with a sly smirk, watching tributes fumble their first swing with a spear, or their scrawny arms buckle under the unfamiliar weight of an axe. “I think the floor is yours, Two,” she stated with an amused sing of her voice. “So, what can you do?”

“Anything. Everything. It’s why we’re here.” Ajax exclaimed, his voice monotone. His dark eyes lit up at the bloodthirsty gleam of sharp, silver swords stacked a few stations ahead. Tildessa shrugged as she answered, eyeing the pair closely. “Both Ajax and I are skilled and experienced in all aspects.”

“Care for a demonstration?” Elixion remarked, gesturing to the point of his apparent ally’s focus, “Those swords seem to be catching your eye, right?”

“Sure,” Ajax replied, sensing an edge of amusement or competition from Elixion, of which he didn’t care to entertain. “You might as well watch me all day.”

Ajax took a few steps towards the station of his desire, before he heard his partner’s voice interject. “Any one of us can show off which weapon we’re best with and pat ourselves on the back at how skilled we are,” Tildessa said, crossing her arms over her chest, “How about we have a go at something random, something more of a challenge.”

The suggestion struck the rest of the quartet by surprise, especially Sapphire, whom felt summoned to the knife throwing station which teased her only from across the room. “Interesting. Alright, Two, I like that! It’ll be a real test.” Elixion replied, “What do you propose?”

Tildessa surveyed the gymnasium for only a few moments, catching sight of a tall thin ladder tucked away in the corner. It gave way to a series of sturdy bars overhung in the air, stretching three and a half meters to the other side. “That.” She stated, pointing to the climbing course.

Sapphire huffed, her throat gnawing in annoyance. She turned to Tildessa and stepped to the side, making way towards the station. “Wouldn’t you like the pleasure of going first?”

The other girl simply nodded, strutting towards the course as the rest of her alliance followed. She mounted the ladder, lifting herself up the steps with ease until she reached the series of bars. When she looked down, the other three careers had shrunk down beneath her. It was certainly not a short drop down.

“Well, here’s your challenge Two.” Elixion called out. Tildessa didn’t acknowledge him and fearlessly accepted her own proposal. With a swift flick of her wrist, she released herself from the ladder and grasped onto the first bar. The first seven reaches were flawless, as she clutched one hand to one bar and then one hand to another bar with ease. Once Tildessa reached near the halfway point, that’s when her breath hitched in her throat and her arms began to burn. The climb to the next bar left her to release a strained breath as she could feel her hands slipping.

Tildessa spared a moment to look back down at her alliance. Their heads were craned upwards, watching her intently and with an air of judgement and expectation. She moved forwards. Her hands firmly clambered over the next two bars, but they began to shake with the effort. Tildessa released a groan as she felt her body weigh down like lead and her muscles strain, her fingers begin to slip. She held on, throwing her way down two more bars before her arm faltered in exhaustion and she dropped. Tildessa landed on the mat below with a thud, exhaling a frustrated breath, but as she looked ahead she allowed herself a nod of victory as she had been a mere few feet away from finishing the course.

“You weren’t quite finished,” Elixion teased as he approached her, “But that was pretty impressive and you made it far, I’ll give you that.” He held his hand out towards Tildessa. She exhaled a tired breath and accepted it, letting him help her to her feet. “Your turn now, pretty boy.”

Elixion motioned towards her with a salute and a grin, mounting the ladder himself. Wasting no time, he clambered over the bars. Elixion moved through them with an identical ease to Tildessa’s, stopping halfway to let his body hang down for a few moments before pulling himself higher up and doing a few push-ups on the bar. “This is a piece of cake!” He called down.

Ajax rolled his eyes. “Your partner is a real show-off.” He grumbled, “He doesn’t seem to take anything seriously.”

The District One girl shot up to her partner’s defence. “If he’s good, why shouldn’t he show his skills off?” Sapphire retorted, facing Ajax, “The Capitol wants a show, after all, some entertainment. We don’t have to be boring.”

“I think they’ll be getting their entertainment.” Tildessa lowly chuckled, watching as Elixion had moved a few more bars as then his cockiness faltered with the grip of his hands. His hands began to buckle with each further climb he took, his body drooping still and rigid as Elixion tried his best to hang on, suspended in the air. He reached his hand out, gasping as he almost slipped but caught on to the next bar with the other and surged his war forwards shakily and left the bar matted in a layer of sweat.

He was only a few feet away from the platform, just about where Tildessa had dropped. “Come on, Elixion!” Sapphire yelled encouragingly, “You can do it! Keep going!”

Elixion gritted his teeth, blinking incessantly, feeling the torturous strain of his body hang down as his arms screamed for release. If he so much as moved his hands an inch he would fall down. And he could not allow that bruise to his ego, so Elixion braced another reach. He caught the next bar with a pained grunt, his hands buckling, then threw himself to another. Finally, he hopped onto the finishing platform.

Slightly heaving in exhaustion and lathered in sweat, Elixion only spared a couple of breaths to regain in his lungs before he turned down to the three watching him and laughed loudly. “Now that’s how it’s done!” He boasted, raising his arms out in the air and hooting.

Sapphire giggled, clapping towards him, as Tildessa permitted a slow but admittedly impressed tempo of clapping to join the rhythm. Ajax stood with his hands in his pockets, bored.

Not immune to the challenge, Sapphire was up next. Up on the platform, she took a measured breath and leaped forwards. She began the course with an applaudable fluidity, swinging through the bars like an excited monkey, much to the hoots and claps of her partner below her. Sapphire breezed through the first half, until her own weight began to crush her down. Her hands tremored as she crossed to another bar, exhaustion pressing over her arms. The scrutinizing gaze of her alliance motivated her forward, as she swung her body back and forth and risked a jump, skipping a bar and grasping quickly onto another. Sapphire released a breath of self-pride.

“Just a couple more to go Sapphire, don’t let me down now!” Elixion’s voice rung through the air. Sapphire hissed, watching the finishing platform so close to her yet she found it impossible to move. Both hands gripped onto a bar towards the end of the course, however she couldn’t will either of her tired arms another grab forwards.

Sucking in a few deep breaths, she ignored the sweat dripping on her brow and decided she could no longer bear the weight of her body suspended in the air. Sapphire threw her arm forward, but it was too exerted and her palm was too sweaty; and she slipped off the bar and dropped to the floor with an angered yelp.

She was so close.

“It was a stupid challenge anyway.” She muttered under her breath as Elixion helped her stand. Tildessa watched her with a judgemental leer of her eye but patted her on the back, “That was commendable.” She admitted, which somewhat alleviated Sapphire’s embarrassment but still left her quietly seething.

Ajax wasted no time with his turn. He sprang up the ladder and surged forwards, gripping onto the bars as though they were nothing more than mere twigs as he clambered quickly ahead. The bars even seemed to shake under Ajax’s firm seize of them, as his shredded body began to tremor but with a few strained grunts, he climbed onwards and didn’t take more than a few seconds at a time to rest.

“He’s like a power machine.” Sapphire exclaimed, wide-eyed in disbelief, as she watched Ajax mount his way towards the end of the course. Tildessa rolled her eyes, stubborn but not stubborn enough to realise the might of her district partner. “I suppose that’s why he made it through.” She exclaimed. They watched Ajax throw himself to the finishing platform, exhaling only a breath before climbing his way back down. He approached them casually, unfazed. He had barely broken a sweat. His voice was monotone as he crossed his way back, bored.

“I want to do a real exercise now.”

*****

Mac approached the station at the centre of the gymnasium, which held an assortment of axes in different shapes and sizes. Some were large, with a thick sturdy handle with and an imposing, sharp blade. Others were smaller and daintier in size, thinner and lighter but more carved and precise with the blades. He decided to take a risk and go for the bigger axe, as there wouldn’t be much choice or lenience in the arena, after all.

He gasped in surprise as it almost dropped on his foot, startled by its heavy weight. His frail arm strained with the effort as Mac attempted another raise, holding the axe by his side as he wearily approached a selection of dummies with targets pinned over them, and an expert whom stood beside them.

“Would you like a go with me or try on the practice first?” The man asked. Mac stammered slightly, eyeing the baton in his hand and the netted face guard over his head; not to mention the expert’s bigger size. “Um, I’ll practice first.” He replied quietly, as the man stepped aside and watched. Mac crossed to the closest dummy and with a hesitant breath, he began what he set out to learn. How to engage in combat.

A weak arm hardly swung the axe forward, flailing under the handle’s weight as the blade barely cut into the vinyl skin of the dummy’s arm. Mac had been aiming for the stomach. He blinked in embarrassment and pursed his lips, pulling the axe back and steadying his grip on the handle. He focused on the red line on the torso of the dummy, swinging again. A slightly improved yet feeble blow landed on a white line towards the abdomen. Mac sighed in defeat.

The man’s eyes surveyed him through the gaps in his headguard. Totally unmoving. Mac briefly looked back at the expert, hoping he would suggest some techniques or give some advice, but the man stayed silent.

Mac was familiar with the lighter and more stringy, delicate feeling of wires and electronical appliances as the ones he dealt with in the warehouse he worked in, usually tasked with constructing circuit boards. But as he was well aware, practice makes perfect. And it was a similar process with the small, blunt ends of screwdrivers to fix in gadgets, you had to get a feel and establish a rhythm to set the process.

Therefore, garnering the determination for another try, he attempted a series of sways of the axe in the air to establish a familiarity with the weapon’s feel and direction. Reckoning that achieved a heightened understanding of the axe and its physics, he whacked it towards the dummy. The blade pierced the skin of a red line of the side, where a rib would be. Mac huffed in a half-relief. Not quite where he aimed, but close enough. He struck multiple points of the dummy with a few shaky but faster swings, cutting open the skin and exposing the foamy flesh of the dummy.

Mac’s victory at his improvement was short-lived, as he turned to see another tribute also occupy themselves within the station. The boy from District Seven, broad-shouldered and more than familiar with the weapon, moved to a ring of mats beside the dummies as the expert began his test.

Rory swung a large axe towards the man with ease, whom quickly deflected the blow with his baton. The collision didn’t slow Rory down though, as in seemingly no time he retracted the axe back and hurled it again, this time the blade clanged against the metal armour over the expert’s waistline.

Seemingly transfixed, Mac watched in fascination which soon enough faded to unease. Rory was fast, scarily fast, and he wielded the axe like it was a third arm. The expert jumped back, swerving to the side as his baton narrowly clanged against the blade which landed near his throat. The man nudged him away, whacking the baton towards Rory and striking him in the shoulder, in the side, poking him in the stomach as he flailed backwards. At the thwart of the baton flinging towards his head, Rory ducked and caught it with his hand, caught in a brief tug of war, before a jab of his arm slashed the blade into the armour of the expert’s chest.

“The spar session is complete. Well done.” The expert said, as Rory wiped a light drip of sweat from his forehead and nodded. The scrawny boy from Three watched him from a metre away, whipping his head back to the dummies as soon as Rory met his eyeline. The four career tributes, though, didn’t hold the same scurry as they kept gawking from across the gymnasium as he caught their gazes once placing the axe back in the rack.

The quartet stared at him, arms crossed and postures straight, grins plastered on their smug faces. Had they been watching him this whole time? Were they judging him, snickering at his performance during the spar with the expert? Whatever their goal, Rory didn’t care. He stared back at them, stone-faced, before picking up a lighter axe and stepping towards the throwing section.

Just as familiar as the quick whacks with his combat session, Rory knew axes like the back of his hand. He would chop trees every day, lodge blades into the dense wood and chop until the tree would buckle and collapse. Throwing was no different, and nothing new. He position his legs, swung the axe back, and threw it over his shoulder. It hurled through the air and the blade pierced the shoulder of a dummy with a slapping thud. Rory picked up another, and this time it breezed by with the flick of his arm and landed in the dummy’s stomach.

Rory decided he was comfortable staying in this station for a while.

*****

Zea and Clearfell crouched by their makeshift fire, both huffing in frustration. They had been in the fire-making station within the survival sector of the gymnasium for almost two hours. They had watched closely and tried to memorise as the expert had demonstrated the instructions and the multiple methods to ignite a fire. Whether it be from twigs, leaves, stones, batteries, even pieces of cloth. They both listened and remembered, and both attempted to try. It was to no avail.

Zea threw two sticks down which she had been holding down at her feet, catching her head in her hands as she gripped onto a strand of her brunette hair. “I give up,” she almost yelped, “All this time and not a spark. Not a single one.”

“Don’t you ever need to make fires to cook all that bread in your mom’s bakery?” Clearfell asked, holding a piece of his flint in his hand which he grated against a larger rock, to no effect.

“No, we have ovens for that. Wood-fired ones, where you don’t have to bang rocks for hours.” She replied, observing Clearfell’s attempt with the flint with little faith. “Don’t you ever need to light any fires in the wheat fields over by the west?”

Thoroughly scraping the stones, Clearfell chuckled. “If we did, do you think I’d be so useless right now?” He held the two stones over a small bed of dry leaves, encouraging a rapid friction. All that resulted was the grating sound of the scraping. “And no, we have matches. And a fireplace. God, do I miss that toasty fireplace right now. Would never take it for granted again.” Clearfell’s mind drifted to memories of laying by the mantel in winter, letting the flames lick his face as his mother would boil a bowl of barley stew over the burning timber.

Zea laughed, standing up and walking over to a small box of logs and sticks which she brought back to their tepee. “Hopefully there’ll be fireplaces and ovens lying around in the arena.” She sat back down and placed a flaky log in front of them, with a cut in the middle. Clearfell picked up a dry twig from the branch and placed it into the whole.

“I think the expert showed us just rubbing it with our hands.” She suggested, as Clearfell obliged. He twisted the twig until it burned his hands and left them clammy and hot, breathing out a sigh of frustration. He focused, picking up the tempo until it hurt his palms but a faint blaze of smoke began to appear.

The District Nine pair’s faces lit up in excitement, quickly falling back down as the smoke weakened and, again, no fire was to be seen.

“You have to put your hands lower down.” A soft  voice exclaimed. It belonged to a small, bony girl whom quietly approached from behind them. The label on the arm sleeve of her uniform marked the number Twelve.

“From the district of coal and fire, of course!” Zea beamed, “We could definitely use your help.” She waved the girl over welcomingly, as Dahlia shyly obliged and took a seat beside them. Her hollow eyes fixed onto their attempt on the log, shaking her head.

“That stick’s too thin, you need something bigger.” She said, extracting a slightly thicker and flakier branch from the box, passing it to Clearfell whom replaced the twig with it. “And keep your hands down low as you rub, as fast as you can. Make sure it doesn’t move out of place.”

Clearfell followed her advice, as his hands like before burned with the effort but within a few minutes the blaze of smoke reappeared. This time, soon enough, it intensified into a spouting of lively orange sparks and then ignited to a fire. The fire was small and very faint, but it was still a successful fire. And that was all the District Nine pair needed.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Zea chuckled, glancing over to where Dahlia had been crouched within the station and her eyes lit up at the three successful makeshift fires, all of different means, which were still burning. “You did all of those by yourself?”

Dahlia nodded, brushing the light dirt off of her hands. To her relief, the fire-making station was a safe refuge from all of the unfamiliar and frankly frightening ones that packed the gymnasium. She would have to ignite a fire from branches and leaves everyday in the Hob, to help Greasy Sae cook her soups. And rub together the coals to produce some flame as they would sit on the floorboards at home, Greasy Say’s hand caressing endearingly over Dahlia’s head as the warmth waved over them, as she would sing those beautiful folk songs.

“Thanks for showing us, we’ve been sitting here on our asses for who knows how long now, helpless.” Clearfell exclaimed with a smirk, as Dahlia smiled and held a leaf over the tiny fire, letting it burn the pale green to a dark black.

“I can show you how to light a fire with other things. Even cotton balls.” Dahlia shyly offered, reaching towards the box by them, as the pair returned her suggestion with genuine smiles. “Oh, please do. We owe you a class with the scythes after this.” Zea perked up, re-arranging the teepee to make way for Dahlia’s demonstration. “Deal?”

Dahlia nodded, “Deal.” She said, fishing out a handful of clumpy cotton and rolling it into a cylinder within the hot ashes. Despite her self-confidence, which was now extinct, Dahlia felt good to be helpful. To be of use. At-least with what she was familiar, she stood a chance with something.

*****

It seemed as though Kia and Cyprian were practically glued to the camouflage station, seeing as how they had spent the entire morning in it.

Kia chuckled as Cyprian brushed a dense lump of damp grass over her arm, sprinkling layers of soil within it as he arranged the elements in a disguise over Kia’s fair skin. He used his hands to delicately position the mask of grass and dirt, making sure he did not miss one spot to be exposed. His eyes were pinched entirely in concentration and with a meticulous effort throughout the entire process.

“Okay, well here goes nothing.” Cyprian said, as they carefully stepped over to a model table draped with grass and moss on the surface, placing Kia’s arm over it. Their eyes lit up in surprise. Her arm almost entirely blended in to the background, the greens and browns indistinguishable at a first glance. It took a few seconds and a good, hard look to notice that there was something actually out place.

“That’s amazing, Cyprian,” Kia gasped, smearing a line through the point in her elbow to spread away the dirt and expose her skin amongst the foliage. “You’ve got to do that again. Can we try the one with the jungle background?”

Her partner chuckled, “Fine, go on then. But you have to do me next.” Kia huffed in reluctance as they laughed, moving to the table she desired and collecting the box with the supplies underneath. Kia shook off the previous camouflage and this time, rolled up her trousers and propped her leg over the table. Cyprian scooped a handful of moist soil and got to work.

It calmed him, in some peculiar way, as he dressed Kia’s leg in the dirt and began to patch an assortment of droopy, browning vines over it. It was as though he was constructing a piece of art, drawing on a canvas. Cyprian’s memory fluttered to his rough sketches in his battered notebook, the stolen paint from the car factory he used to flesh out his invested hours of work into a painting that only he would care to see.

Cyprian would draw mostly what he could see, something that would stick in his mind and be spilled on the page afterwards. Like the deep red hue in the fur of a skittish fox he had neared on in the narrow alleys on his way home from studying at Raille’s, or the light morning mist that allowed a pop of light blue in the sky over the West before the clumped dark clouds of the warehouses took over.

His eyes glazed over, losing their focus, but his hands still absently placed vines and leaves on Kia’s leg. He lost himself in thought. Sometimes, but very rarely, Cyprian would also draw things that couldn’t be seen. Like the blue ribbons and spikes that would slice into a chest, curling in wire over organs and leaving them to bleed in jagged clumps. Those sorts of bizarre things would fill the paper when he tried to materialize the grief of his mother.

“Everything alright?” Kia’s voice boomed in Cyprian’s ear. He blinked back to the fluorescent light of the gymnasium and realised his fingers had trailed off of his camouflage subject. Without responding, he lightly shuffled the finishing touches and nodded, allowing Kia to compare her leg to the model. Her skin was embroidered with a bed of thick vines and twisted leaves, with a weaker job at the ankle which threw off the disguise.

“Sorry, that wasn’t the best attempt.” Cyprian lowered his head in disappointment, reaching into the box, “I’ll try again, get it right this time.” Kia wiped the remnants off of her leg and reaching her own hand in the box. “Don’t worry, let me try now. I could not do any better.”

Cyprian obliged, resting his hand against the surface of vines as Kia took her turn. She began the first layer of dirt, smoothing it over his skin, and began to lowly chuckle to herself as she began to place the leaves.

“What is it? Am I that bad of a test subject?” Cyprian asked with a smile, as she shook her head and held his hand still against the table. A funny memory sprang to her at the sight of the attempt of disguise.

“The twins used to do something like this, when they were younger,” Kia said, placing a clumsy sprawl of dry vines over her partner’s arm to settle into the lathered soil. “We used to go play hide and seek in the junkyards by the West as we’d wait for our brother to get off work. I would count to sixty and they’d hide, I’d look for them and look for them in rusted cars and behind those big sheets of metal.” She recounted, dotting the leaves within the vines, “And one time, I couldn’t find them. I looked everywhere for who knows how long, and I began to panic- thinking I’d lost them.”

“You found them, right?” Cyprian inquired, as Kia nodded with a smile as the thought of Chicago and Venice’s mischievous faces sweetened her mind. “I heard them laughing, thinking they were so quiet. I followed the sound to a pile of old tyres.” She said, “And then I saw them. They were in the dirt! They’d covered themselves in it and then threw on some plastic. It was real smart, I’ll give them that.”

“They must have been determined, the metal was getting cliché.” He laughed, flexing his hand against the table and stared at his arm, stunned, finding it almost indistinguishable against the jungle vines.

Kia smiled sadly, a tear brimming in her eye. Her voice dropped. “I hope Bentley will play with them still, even if he’s still busy.”

Her partner’s face fell as he placed a hand on her shoulder for comfort, as Cyprian opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by the sudden voice that originated from an expert at the station, whom had apparently edged her way right to the pair. “You must move on to another station, you’ve overstayed. Protocol is a maximum of two hours spent at one station per day.” The woman stated.

Cyprian nodded, patting the dirt and vines off of his arm back into the box, as the two began to walk away in search of their next venture. The woman’s narrow eyes directed onto Kia as she let them depart. With a lowered voice, gesturing towards the other tributes, she said “And I would wipe my tears dry here, if I were you.”

*****

The trident sliced through the air, jabbing at the hurrying hologram figure’s torso. The hologram shook for a moment and vanished, as Marina quickly turned and braced herself as another humanoid hologram lunged at her from ten feet away. Without skipping a beat, she pulled her arm back and threw the trident, watching it charge through the air and hit at the hologram’s side, as the pixels faded and the trident clattered to the floor.

Marina ran towards it, missing the other one that popped up from the side and sent a pixelated knife hurled her way. She only noticed in time to block her face, throwing her arms up in instinct, as the knife slapped against her arm. Of course there was no pain as the knife was only a hologram, but she felt a vibration over her wrist. The ring around Marina briefly lit up in an orange light, as a robot-like voice announced: “Simulation Attempt 3 Failed. Injury sustained. Score: 7/10.”  Marina huffed in annoyance, rolling her eyes as she retrieved the trident from the floor.

“Are you sure you got your money’s worth in that Academy?” Calypso jeered, watching his partner with a teasing smirk. She ran up to him, smacking him playfully on the arm.

“Oh please, I brought those digital idiots down on their asses.” Marina clapped back, “And I haven’t seen you try the simulation yet. Go and prove yourself better than me, go on.”

Calypso shook his head, tapping his shoe into the mat. “I’ll stick with the dummies for now. I’m still shook up on how that expert made me fall over. Twice.”

Marina cackled with laughter, smacking the spikes of her trident against Calypso’s one as though they were children fooling around with sticks. “He did! The guy didn’t spare you any chances.” She swung her trident around her waistline, casually practicing the swings and jabs in the air. “He was pretty harsh with me too, slapped me right on the nose with that baton,” Marina admitted, “That’s why I’m sticking with the simulation. Just as realistic as him but the hits can’t hurt me.”

Calypso’s eyes drifted to the panel to the side of the wall lined with spears and tridents, where two white lines marked the floor and a selection of targeted dummies stood in long distance. He pointed towards them. “Wanna take a break from the combat and try our throws?” His question was answered by Marina’s smirk and they crossed over to the mark points.

The cold, long handle of the trident slid in Calypso’s palm as he pressed it and established a sturdy grip, positioning his legs and squinting his eyes on a target. The expert beside the pair pressed a button which sent a dummy zooming towards him from thirteen feet away. Taking a moment to aim, Calypso lobbed the trident towards the target. Although he had been aiming for the neck, the spikes pierced the shoulder area, which he was content with.

Marina nodded and passed him another trident, as a button was pressed and another dummy sprang forwards on the tracks. This one was faster, and Calypso hardly caught a breath before reacting, throwing his trident as it cut into the foamy flesh of the dummy’s stomach as it got to just within a few feet of him.

“Not bad, Calypso, not bad!” Marina hollered and struck him with a high five, of which Calypso willingly returned. “Where’d you learn that? Lobbing them towards those annoying seagulls when they try steal your catch?”

Calypso laughed and shook his head, handing his partner a trident as she stepped towards the line and prepared himself for the same task. “No, actually my dad taught me.” He said, tapping his fingers against the rack next to him, “It helps land a whole shoal of fish at once. It’s tricky, but my dad never misses.”

He thought back to the early mornings and late afternoons with his father on his sailboat, cruising the sandy shores alike many others with the same idea for a catch. Sometimes, Gilbert Reefe would encourage his son to tread his way to the shallow waters and catch a bunch of bigger, skirtier fish with his trident. It was good fun, atleast. Sometimes they’d even make a yard game out of it.

“Oh no way, I usually just use my hook line for that. All the good it does me, come home empty handed. Those damn fish know our tricks by now.” Marina shrugged, wishing for nothing but another lazy evening with Bermuda hoping for their lines to tug as they engrossed each other in gossip. Even if she caught nothing, it didn’t matter as she would come home to grilled tuna or even the delicacy of oven-baked salmon with rice. Her sister could affort the luxury of such fish, every once in a while, with her salary at the resort.

Marina shuddered. Oceanelle was probably serving the same vapid Capitol clients at the seaside hotel, refilling their drinks and arranging their rooms, listening to them chatter about the odds of her little sister.

A dummy across the track zapped forward. The sudden spout of anger translated from Marina’s scowl to her arm, as she chucked her trident with a roar. It hurtled onward, slicing into the dummy’s head with such force it almost ripped off of the vinyl body.

*****

Fauna excelled at the climbing station. There was a selection of model trees with a variation of sturdy or thin branches, high or short trunks, softer or a more bristled wood. She clambered up the most challenging one: an enormous, thick tree with a high stump and thin beds of dark, wispy leaves.

She took a jump and threw herself around the base so she straddled the stump, holding her weight over the stiff bark to ensure she wouldn’t topple over and fall. Slowly and cautiously, Fauna wriggled her way up over the tall stump, until her hands could securely clutch onto a branch and that’s where the hardest part ended. She climbed up a mirage of strong, prickly branches without so much as breaking out a breath, reaching within twenty feet up from the bottom in a mere few minutes.

Fauna began to feel her feet buckle underneath the higher canopy as she progressed in height, so she lowered her body to distribute the weight just as she would in the orchards in District Eleven, and moved her way through the clusters of leaves that poked at her face. As she got to just about near the very top of the tree, feeling the suspended drop that taunted beneath her, the thin bristling branches whined under her weight. She felt the one she was holding onto begin to droop down, causing her to gasp in her own reprimand as the branch bent over.

Hurriedly, Fauna raised her crouch and estimated a jump as she hopped to another branch, swinging her body around it and almost slipping down. She caught her arm around the barked arm just in time, hooking herself around it to establish a secure position. Seeking to kill time of the day and reach the very top, Fauna steadied the sole of her shoe in a hole in the dry wood and pulled herself further up. Her hand set onto a soft material, as her brows perked in confusion, and as she looked up she almost jumped back and yelled in shock. Fauna had just held onto another tribute’s shoe.

She quickly retracted her hand and gripped it into the spiky ends of the tree bark. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”  She blabbered, turning her face away in embarrassment.

“No worries. I didn’t even hear you coming up either.” The tribute responded, her voice springing into a soft chuckle. Fauna’s eyes made out the tribute’s face through the veil of dark leaves which separated her hand from the foot. It was the girl from District Seven. Fauna almost marvelled at the sight. She still looked beautiful, even in her simple training outfit and her natural face void of the make-up she saw her in, the previous evening during the chariot parade.

“I guess we’re both hiding out up here.” Birch proclaimed, shifting in her seat amongst the highest canopy of the tree and feeling the branch buckle beneath her, the leaves brushing against her arms.

“This is the highest point, isn’t it?” Fauna asked, as Birch nodded and pointed up. The pipes and vents of the black ceiling were only a jump away from the canopy. It was still a stretch, but certainly feasible. Birch had spent the last half hour watching it, contemplating slipping through the vents. Of course, that would be impossible. But the thought was fun.

She also relished at her achievement of climbing to the very top of the highest model tree in the room. Even though the fluorescent lights burned into her eyes and the concrete walls boxed her in, it was nice to feel soared in height. Birch hadn’t really hopped around in trees since her childhood, she didn’t need to as she didn’t work in the forests back in Seven, but the habit kicked in quick enough. And before she knew it, Birch had been racing up without feeling the need to look down.

Fauna looked out through the clumps of foliage. This spot was a perfect vantage point, offering an unobstructed birds eye view of the entire gymnasium. She watched the Careers waste no modesty to brag their capabilities, intimidating the field. Some picked up new skills successfully, whilst others clearly struggled. Fauna considered herself to be the latter, falling to her knees in a spar session with a spear she had attempted after lunch. She decided to stick with what she knew for now.

Birch turned to the girl, eyeing her curiously. “How are you so light on your feet? You didn’t make a sound.” She huffed and wobbled the branch she sat on with the buckle of her hips, as it wined underneath her. “These were practically screaming as I made my way up here.”

Fauna shrugged. “I guess I’m just light.” Her answer was short and quick. The beautiful blonde girl seemed to be of no threat or hostility, welcoming Fauna’s intrusion into her territory on the tree. Still, they were supposed to be in competition. Fauna didn’t think it wise to expose her methods yet, at-least not until she would secure the possibility of an alliance.

“You’d make a perfect lurker, then.” Birch remarked, holding onto the branch as she mounted her way off of it and wrapped herself around the other end of the wood. She found her footing on another branch that curled below and gently leaped her way down on it, beginning her descent. “The spot’s yours. I’m going to quit hiding out and explore the other stations, broaden my horizons or whatever.”

The foliage rustled as she made her way back towards the matted floor. Fauna held her mouth shut, then decided to risk the question. “Could I join you, maybe?” Her voice faltered down to Birch whom had climbed already a metre down. “You could show me how to use an axe, I was terrible when I tried. And I’d teach you in the foraging station.”

Birch paused as the proposal had caught her by surprise. She had already felt so alone, and so lost. So what could be the harm? They could teach each other a thing or two.

“Sure. Let’s go.” She said, as the two girls made their way down the tree together.      

                     *****

Huck yelped, twitching at the impact of the Head Trainer’s fist that rammed into his stomach.

Nereidus’s face tightened with a stern frown. He steadied his feet in a prepared stance and raised his clenched fists towards the tribute. “Your arm is far too high up, you are leaving an open invitation directly to your torso.” He stated, gesturing to Huck to copy his own stance.

With a winded breath, Huck obliged and somewhat mirrored the Head Trainer, his elbows covering his chest. “Now punch me.” Nereidus commanded. Huck sent a tight fist jabbing towards his chest, missing wildly as Nereidus simply took a swift step back, then curved his arm to send a light but firm hit in Huck’s side. Huck gasped out in defeat, practically springing towards Nereidus with a punch that struck his shoulder, hard.

The landed blow did little to prove the tribute’s progress in the combat technique session. “You’re not going to really hurt anyone in the shoulder.” Nereidus said, crossing his arms. “Like I already mentioned, you hit where it is sensitive. The stomach, the ribs, the face, the ears, the throat. Anywhere else and you’ve wasted a hit.”

Huck huffed in frustration, kicking his shoe impatiently into the mat. “I know, I’ve tried!” He cried, his patience wearing thin, “I just can’t hit you anywhere there before you’ve dodged.”

“My advice is you practice until you try. You can’t just back out of a fight in the arena.” The Head Trainer relaxed his raised fists slightly, allowing an easier opening, “Catch me off guard.”

With a deep breath, Huck braced himself with the pose and set his attack. He ran at Nereidus with a shove, which slightly caught him off balance, and threw a punch towards his chest which Nereidus caught off with the swerve of his arm and sent a fist towards Huck’s ribs to the other. This time, Huck slapped it away with his arm and kicked the trainer in the abdomen. He raised his arm again for a shot at Neridus’s throat, before Neriedus swerved with his shoulder and swung at Huck’s stomach.

“That was better, an improvement of reflexes. But again, you are too slow and your defensive stance is not efficient.” The feedback practically faded through Huck as he rolled his eyes, disappointed and frustrated. Ten feet to his left, he saw as the bruting Career boy from Two excelled in the spar.

Ajax swerved away from an incoming hit with ease, sending a rapid uppercut in response to an expert’s chest. The expert stepped back and gasped, launching back towards him with a raised fist. Ajax caught it in his hand, turning it sideways as the expert groaned and was rendered defenceless, before Ajax gutted a deep punch in the expert’s ribs that sent him dropping to the floor. A pair of Peacekeepers rushed over with raised guns in suspicion of an aggressive defiance, before the expert put his hands up and explained it was only a session.

“He is what you’ll be up against in a few days,” Nereidus said flatly, “So, would you like to practice further?” The question was answered with Huck’s reluctant nod, as he leaped towards the Head Trainer and sent a punch flying towards his face, of which Nereidus swiftly swerved away from and jabbed at Huck’s chest, sending him to stumble slightly backwards.

As he collected his stance back and wiped a bead of sweat off of his forehead, exhaling a tired breath that hitched at his throat, he caught the Career boy’s eye. The eye honed onto Huck, as the boy stood and watched the spar.

Huck yelled, striking a punch that hit Nereidus in the chest. Nereidus retailiated the swing of his fist that caused Huck to duck and attempt a similar uppercut that was pushed off by the expert whom lightly jabbed at Huck’s side with two successive blows. The tribute hissed in pain and faked a swing of his fist in distraction before he quickly kicked at Nereidus’s side. He smirked, attempting this again before a stream of hits punched at Huck’s torso, as he choked for air, weakly throwing his arm forward before being knocked down to the floor, on his ass.

He coughed for breath, his head hanging in embarrassment, as the Career boy met his eye with a mocking half-grin and a raised eyebrow that deemed Huck as so weak, he didn’t even deem the time to even be considered a threat.

Huck wasn’t even sure if he had the evidence to argue the contrary.

******

The snare which Salem had constructed seemed to receive a minimal but noticeable glance of approval from the expert at the trap station.

He had twisted and looped a rubber band with a copper wire to create a small hole, sharp hole. He wrapped and secured the wire around a branch, placing a fake frog near it. The fake frog hopped with a mechanic buzz and was swept into the air, caught by the glint of wire and trapped in the snare.

Salem observed the sight in relief. He already had so much to be thankful to Burdock for, being the primary supplier to his grandfather’s black market meat business. But Salem felt like summoning Burdock right in that gymnasium and throwing him hugs of gratitude for teaching Burdock how to set up a snare.

It had been useful back home too, as sometimes he’d place one in the coal-dusted plain of grass around his house and would light up at the whip of its whizz to find a rabbit trapped there. A clever and rather effortless method of finding dinner.

Salem considered extending the size of the slip in the band and the wire as he tied the two together. He attached it to a log with a pointy spike. Just as he theorised, the contraption could potentially be enough to capture a human, trapping an unsuspecting ankle within the wire and the spike automatically swing. The idea sparked a test into practice.

Smoothening the spike in the leg with a stone, Salem wearily neared his foot towards the snare. The expert stepped near, watching the boy, puzzled but intrigued. Salem gritted his teeth and risked the step. With a snap, the wire slung over his ankle and the other piece slapped the spiked log into Salem’s leg. He whooshed in surprise, pulling the wire off of himself.

The expert allowed Salem a brief and subtle nod of his head, turning next to survey the District Six girl at the other end of the station whom was struggling to construct a trap out of a net.

For his next experiment, Salem obtained a handful of bricks and a coil of rope. With an slightly raised self-confidence, he pooled his thoughts to determine what else he could make do with.

*****

The berries perched in front of Glitch were virtually indistinguishable from one another. Her mind replayed the expert’s initial demonstration in the foraging station multiple times. But there were so many different plants to remember, and so many that looked the same.

Her hazel eyes were glued to two sets of berries. The pile on the left contained small and round berries, dark purple and almost black in colour, that seemed to be bursting with a ripe juice. The one on the right contained a cluster of identical ones- but these were ever so slightly darker in their shade and held a shinier glaze on their skin. Glitch’s task was to identify which pile was blueberries, and which was nightlock.

Not feeling adequate with a judgement from sight alone, Glitch took a berry from each pile and crushed one in each hand. She smothered the juices over her fingers, examining them closely as she took a whiff from each hand. They smells intermingled with one another. Indistinguishable.

She decided to try again. Still masking as ever so similar, one tiny tinge of smell pinged to her. The scent of the berry in her left hand was sweet and earthy. The one on her right was similar, but ever so minutely, it held a tint of a metallic smell in it. Almost like it was sharp and chemical. Like the bleach she needed to use to wipe the circuitry plates in the warehouse. Glitch finally nodded, her mind made up. She placed the pile on her left into the square testing plate on the table in front of her. It tinged with a green light, announcing that these berries were edible. A small screen by the plate announced that Glitch had gotten nine out of twelve guesses correct. Content, she moved to the next batch of fruit.

Volta shivered from a few tables away. Her bloodshot eyes had watched the other girl analyse and deduct the berries, the small lights on the screen blinking green during most of her time in the station. Seeing as her own beeped an overwhelming amount of red, Volta thought to watch and learn.

The effort was shaky. Her mind and memory fragmented with an excruciating thirst for morphling. She would try to remember which mushrooms were safe to eat and which weren’t, but as Volta studied them on the table before her they would just melt into a source of nausea. She would turn and clutch her throat, her mind spinning as her body sagged.

Far too many urges of allowing herself to curl up in a ball on the ground and cry in pain and desperation had been battled with. Volta pinched herself on her arm, so hard that when she retracted her nails the marks were as red as the tiny berries on the next table. She forced herself to focus,  her sunken eyes darting between the two different piles.

The pile on the right held a cluster of big mushrooms with droopy pale stems and large brown caps, that yellowed at the ages. The one on the right contained mushrooms with thick, precise stems of white and pretty red caps that were dotted with white spots. Coming to a decision, Volta thought that the ones on the right looked prettier and tastier. Something the Capitol must decorate their fancy dinners with. So she moved the red mushrooms over to the square plate. The screen instantly beeped another red.

Volta cried out in defeat, throwing herself against the wall and sinking down as she brought her head to her knees. She couldn’t focus and she couldn’t think. She felt like she was rotting from the inside out and the only cure was a precious, precious vial of yellow morphling.

Forget the Games, Volta’s body felt like it was already dead.

*****

With the clock of the first day of training running towards its end, the District Eight pair agreed to try their luck in a station that had been dismissed by most of the other tributes.

Lilah’s hands worked with the fabric out of habit. She twisted the ends of a long rope into a tight knot, halting it to a rigid ball at the end as she slipped a small hole in-between. Oxford passed her another stretch of rope, of which she hooked around a stick that held up in a pit of dirt. Meticulously and efficiently, Lilah interweaved these ropes around several sticks and planks that Oxford had positioned in a rectangular structure, as he pulled a tarp over the top and pinned it into the layer of wood and rope with smaller weavings of cloth.

Finally, they stood back and observed what they had built. A small, feeble shelter with gapped walls of sticks and a ceiling of plastic tarp. And it didn’t buckle and collapse in on itself, at least. “It’s no tent,” Lilah said, “But it’ll save you from the rain, and the cold.”

Oxford nodded, his hand feeling over his chin as he observed their work. “It’s certainly efficient enough, if there were any more tarps or even some form of sheets they could be used as a form of insulation.” He though back to a previous Games that had been ingrained in his memory. “And it would be best to keep any gaps as covered as possible.”

Lilah set her hands on her hips. “I’m sure a little wind wouldn’t be a big deal, if there’s not enough resources.”

Her partner looked back at her with a look of grave concern. “Don’t you remember the Fifty-seventh?”

Taking a moment to think, Lilah shook her head. “Just that there was a bunch of blood and violence, like every year. And the boy was the son of someone my mother used to work with in Tack town.” Her voice dropped to a sad but unsurprised sigh. “But he died in the bloodbath. His mother was let go from the warehouse because she became… well, pretty catatonic.” Lilah then turned to Oxford, confused. “Why do you ask?”

“That was the year the Gamemakers triggered a thunderstorm during the last couple of days. Only what poured down was acid rain.” Oxford said, blinking excessively. He could still remember the screams of the tributes on screen, the way their skin melted and smouldered in a blistering red, their flesh contorted into raw meat. Until they were unrecognisable.

“Many of the tributes were killed because they had no shelter. There was a hole in the canopy of the Careers’ base, which was dissolved by the rain and it killed them, too.” He recounted, “But there were a few that were lucky. One girl hid out in a cave, and a trio alliance were shielded by a plastic tarp.”

Grimacing in horror at the tale, Lilah marched over to collect a bundle of nylon cloths in the corner of the station which she began to rip and tie together into a blanket.

“What are you doing?” Oxford asked.

Lilah looked at him with an annoyed glance, securing knots over the fabric. “Learning how to protect my face from being burned off.”

*****

Ion jumped backwards, narrowly avoiding the baton that was thwarted his way, and braved a pounce towards the expert. He jolted a knife that clanked against the armour of the expert’s neck, and shoved her hard enough that she took a rigid step back.

He quickly managed to obtain a few breaths before she charged at Ion, whom waved his knife but was knocked sideways and dropped it, as it thudded by his feet. He knelt back down to retrieve it, but the expert kicked the knife away as it clattered across the floor.

“If I am coming at you, hold the knife towards me not over me.” The expert advised, allowing Ion to collect the kicked knife which he did by grasping it with his metal hand and fiddled the tip to poke at the fingers.

“And if you lose grasp of your weapon, and have no time to retrieve it, and your attacker has a weapon-“ She exclaimed, “You run.”

Ion considered the expert’s advice but scrunched his chin in slight scepticism. “If they catch up to me though, they could just stab me in the back,” He figured, wriggling his metal hand over the handle, “Should I not chance tackling them, taking their weapon?”

Even though a netted headguard covered most of the expert’s face, Ion could still sense her frown at his idea. “It is too dangerous of a chance. Unless you are very confident in your tackling abilities.”

Ion set the knife down back on the ground, rolling his shoulders in preparation. He certainly was not confident in his tackling abilities. He’d never even so much as thrown a slap at anyone, even if they picked on him at school. “Can you teach me how to tackle?”

The expert held her arms up in a defensive stance. “Five minutes before the next tribute in line.” She exclaimed.

Gathering the confidence but not the expectation, Ion charged forward. He was flown over on his back in no time.

*****

Bronco secured his grip over a silver bow, feeling it cool against his skin. He carefully allotted a sleek arrow into the bowstring and sharply pulled back, feeling the tension against his shoulder. Her squinted one eye, letting the other focus on the dummy target fifteen yards in front of him. He held his body still and fired, aiming for the dummy’s head. The arrow punctured the vinyl collarbone.

The bow and arrow wasn’t exactly a talent of Bronco’s, but he was grateful to be no stranger with it. Once summer rose in District Ten, and the weather got even warmer, a few squads of Peacekeepers would allow men from the stables and slaughterhouses into a portion of the wilderness beyond the border. Under strict supervision.

They were to hunt wild game. Deer, boar, rabbit, quail, elk. Not that the hunters were allowed to feed off of what they caught. Apparently the Capitol was in craving of more authentic, exotic meat. As if the livestock in District Ten they had to raise, tend to, and then execute in inhumane scales wasn’t enough. So the groups of men would hide out, lurking amongst the hills and the foliage, stalking the prey that got to roam free in the wilderness. They weren’t allowed any guns of course, could not be trusted with such power. Guns would be holstered at the ready by the Peacekeepers on horseback. So they were equipped with bows, sometimes dart guns.

Bronco had been allowed to join a few times, where he learned how to handle the bow. Mostly, if he didn’t miss, he’d succeed in helping clip an injury on fleeing game. But one time his shot was strong, and his arrow caught a deer in the throat. Struck the creature right down. The guilt at the pit of his gut still lingered, but at-least the deer had a chance to run. Lived a good, free life in the trees and the rivers. Unlike the animals he had to slit the throats of in the slaughterhouse, day by day in heaps. They didn’t get to live a life of such liberty, and they didn’t get the chance to flee. So, if it came to it, Bronco preferred the chance to hunt.

After attempting a few more rounds, he set the bow down on the rack as the boy from One stood behind him and snickered. Bronco didn’t even care to look back as he heard the successive whizzes of arrows once the boy took his turn.

He crossed over to the weaponry station where he saw Lleyn swipe at a dummy with a sickle. The blade slashed across the chest, as she quickly turned to another and jabbed it at the dummy’s side, then pulling it out and angrily slitting the sickle blade across the throat where some chunks of foam spilled. A group of dummies surrounding her had suffered similar fates of her heavy, livid swipes.

“Getting into it, Lee?” Bronco questioned with a smile. Lleyn breathed out an exerted sigh and flipped her hair out of her face. She gestured with her head behind him, her eyes signalling upwards. Bronco looked over to find a raised stand where the Gamemakers resided. They were clad in deep black suits or robes, wandering around to observe the tributes in the gymnasium. A few jotted down notes, most of them simply stood and watched. He saw a herd of them gathered over a sizzling banquet, completely ignorant.

“Those bastards are watching. So, I gotta impress them a little. Magneva said something this morning about improving my odds.” Lleyn explained, throwing her arm back and lodging her sickle blade in the middle of a dummy’s face. She was nothing but furious for feeling as though she were a circus monkey, having to do anything for those vultures to see. But she knew she wasn’t going to see Rex again by sitting around like petulant child.

Bronco picked up a dagger and joined his best friend, burying the thick blade into the foamy flesh of a dummy’s neck. He listened to the whacks and thuds and rips that sounded as Lleyn practiced.

He set his hand on his hip as he turned to acknowledge her. “You know, if you’re gonna be anything like this in the arena I might have to stay away myself. Don’y wanna get caught in the way of that.”

Lleyn shrugged. She stabbed the curved blade of her sickle into the shoulder of an already torn dummy, dragging it through the torso and exposing a deep, open line. “Practice makes perfect.”

Chapter Text

Beetee wasted no time in interrogating his tributes about their day in training. Glitch and Mac had barely entered back into the apartment, still in their training outfits, before he hounded them into the lounge.

“Were there any particular skills you learned? Anything you believe of use or value?” Beetee’s voice flowed in that usual slow, precise flair of his. He sat on a lounging chair with his elbows crossed over his knees, focused unwaveringly the pair.

Mac slumped against the soft couch, releasing a tired breath. “I learned some combat, I guess. With axes and knives, and wrestling. There were people way better than me at all of them.” He thought back to watching the tall boy from Seven beat off the expert with ease, chuck axes like they were mere pebbles. Mac reckoned it would take a lot of practice to go up against someone like that.

“Ah, but like I said Mac, never underestimate yourself.” Beetee reclaimed towards his tribute with a gentle point, “Our brains are our most important weapon. You used that today, did you not?”

“Yeah, with the trap-setting. I made some decent nets.” Mac allowed himself some praise in that regard.

The same question was shifted onto Glitch. She responded with a shy fidget of her hands, thinking back to all of the survival stations she lurked around to avoid the swiping blades. “I got a high score in the foraging station, and I learned how to dress a wound and prevent infection. The ways how to identify and store safe water.”

Beetee nodded with a hum, seemingly satisfied with his tribute’s answers. He then caught their eyes with his own through his wiry specs. “Did anything stick out to you in particular? Was there anything in the gymnasium that was unusual of awfully specific?” His question weighed with a sense of importance, of urgency. Both tributes were unsure what to answer.

Mac scratched his head, coming up blank. “I’m not sure. All of the stations seemed to make sense for the different sectors. Why?”

“Every year, the Gamemakers hide a clue in the training gymnasium of what the arena will be. It will be small and very hard to miss,” Beetee explained, “But once you find it, it will be comical. Sticking out like a sore thumb.”

Glitch hazarded a guess. “There was this climbing course with metal bars. It was long and high up, I saw the Careers having a go with it.”

Beetee’s head tilted upwards in thought. “Perhaps it could imply an arena with required climbing. Even one with a great height. It would not be out of character if the arena would even be suspended in the air.”

Glitch’s stomach dropped like she probably would in something up high. Her mouth fell open in disbelief at the terrifying thought.

“Still, that may just be a standard obstacle course.” Beetee half-concluded, wiping his glasses delicately with a handkerchief by his lap. “Tomorrow, I need you to pay attention and look for clues.”

*****

“The initial bedding odds have been released!” Dallas’s voice yelled. The anticipated mentor rushed over to the dining room with a silver, rectangular tablet gripped in his hand. Xerxes sat up in his seat, pulling away from his meal.

“Do I even want to know?” Lleyn wondered with a disgruntled huff, swallowing the final chew of her creamy noodles. Bronco, straightening in curiosity beside her, wiped his mouth with a napkin and set down his chunk of grilled chicken. “What are they?” His question pierced the room with impatience.

Dallas placed the rectangular device down on the dinner table. He pressed the button which ignited in a projected light, a composition of clear pixels hovering in the air under the shine of the crystal chandelier. The hologramic laser depicted the page of the betting odds above everyone’s meal plates:

Bronco squinted his eyes, scanning through all of the names until he found his and Lleyn’s. His chest rose with an ounce of solace at their odds, 10 – 1 and 14 – 1. He wasn’t entirely sure what they meant, but from his mentors’ statements, this calmed him as good news. Bronco assured himself that Lleyn’s level of odds would catch up to his, and hopefully exceed his, in no time.

“You are in the leaderboard! That’s fantastic.” Cyrillus gushed, raising his fork with an excited smile, “This is absolutely brilliant news regarding potential sponsors. Everybody likes an underdog.”

“Indeed. So far, you are performing well as an outlying district. That’s sure to bring a considerable deal of attention.” Xerxes carried the stylist’s point, circling his gloved hand over his flute. “Cyrillus, you were excellent with the underdog idea. I like that. Underdog is the look we’ll be going for.”

Dallas patted both of his tributes encouragingly on the back, turning between them excitedly. “Whatever you’re doing guys, keep it up. I know it was only the first day of training, but you’ve started off strong.”

His buoyant comment was sidetracked by Magneva’s advice. She looked to the two tributes with a playful but stern look. “As y’all keep training, challenge yourselves, alright? Don’t be afraid, learn as much as you can. Exhaust your brain till you pass out.” She said, “And make sure you’re as brawny as a bull in a fight.”

Lleyn scraped the ends of her fork against her plate, twirling her noodles until they sloshed to a saucy mess. She stared at the pixels that marked her better than most of the field, not too far behind the best. She’d demonstrated to bring her odds up, just as Magneva had instructed. But the numbers just didn’t seem real to her. However high they may have been, twenty-three of those names on the board would be marked on gravestones stoon.

Her hand gripped over her fork, her arm tensing as the hologram hovered over the table, right before her eyes.

Lleyn was to make sure her name wouldn’t become one of those carved in a graveyard any time soon.

*****

A delicious, abundant feast was served for dinner. Calypso decided he wasn’t hungry.

The chatter of everyone at the dinner table and the aroma of roasted meat sauntered behind him as he stepped out to the balcony. He shut the glass door behind him, hoping to muffle everything out, as he leaned against the railing.

A golden hue began to set over the sky. Ribbons of light, white clouds were tinted a deep orange as they carpeted against the high towers. A soft breeze gushed through the air. It was the beginning of dusk, as the day would lower to a calm before night glided its way over the world. Evenings like these on the coast were priceless. The waves would slow to a soft roll and darken in colour but provide that reflective quality. Seagulls skidded across the surface, making their way home. Such an evening was what gave an ounce of peace in the world. A proof there was still beauty, even in Panem.

No matter the evocative displays of prosperity and excess, the Capitol and the Districts still shared the same sky. That fact was something which helped soothe the misery that seemed to consume Calypso. He relaxed against the glass, losing himself in the golden canvas.

The clink of the door sounded, as Calypso turned to see Seraphina approach the balcony railing. Her sea-blue dress fluttered in the wind as her high boots thudded on the floor. The escort greeted the tribute with a smile.

“I brought you a drink,” She said, handing him a glass of red wine. Calypso’s finger lingered on hers for just a second too long. The sensation startled him, as he hurriedly retracted and took the glass. “It’s perfect for a sunset view. Hard to see a good one like this most days.”

Calypso didn’t reply, taking a sip of the wine. It was rich and thick, leaving a distinct but pleasant taste in his mouth. Seraphina was right, some of this with the view definitely wasn’t a bad pairing.

“I heard from the odds that you and Marina are doing well. You have a very promising chance, Calypso, Marina said you were unstoppable with a trident. And with your charmer image, you should be happy-“ Seraphina’s gushing was cut very, very short by the fall of Calypso’s face as he looked back at her in disbelief.

“Happy for what? Really, Seraphina, happy for what?” His question, vexed although not rhetorical, left the escort lost for words. She had forgotten where she was going with the answer to his question. What did she want to say he should be happy for?

Seraphina steadied her spine as she found her voice. “I only meant happy that you are doing favourably. You’re in the leaderboard, you’re noticed.” She squeezed her hand over the neck of her wine glass as she studied Calypso’s face. Her compliment and intention of uplifting the tribute seemed unsuccessful once she caught his pained expression.

“What’s wrong? The Capitol loves you.” She asked. Calypso was dumbfounded as his eyeline met hers. Her question was genuine. He scoffed. He left the dining room for some time alone, and even though Seraphina’s presence brought a strange sense of comfort to him- Calypso wanted to explode at the naivety that embedded her speech.

Calypso downed the wine in one fell swoop, marching back towards the door that led into the apartment.

“That’s exactly what’s wrong.” Was all he said, before slamming the glass door behind him. Seraphina stood in the breeze, engulfed in confusion, her clutch on the wineglass stem slipping. But the boy was so pained, so angry. He portrayed the same emotions, the same human qualities that her family and friends did. Seraphina couldn’t help but shake the truth that they were two people, two human beings, standing on that balcony. That sad look that hovered in his eyes caught her by surprise.

She wanted to understand why.

*****

Sapphire let herself fall onto her bed. The plush duvet enveloped over back, as a soothing and comfortable reminder that she was chosen. She was selected for the Games, she was housed in the opulence of the Capitol, and she was chosen to win. Although she had hoped she would be at the top of the leaderboard, Sapphire was happy with the flush of pride and the showering of praise she had received for her odds that were amongst the highest of this year’s tribute line-up.

She let out a soft groan as she stood back up to change her clothes. Her ankle throbbed with a dull pain as she walked across the floor to the wardrobe. Despite Sapphire’s enthusiasm, her twisted ankle was a call back to her failure earlier that morning in the gymnasium.

The finishing platform had been so close, she had been doing so well, and she failed. In front of her Career alliance, in front of her biggest competition. It was humiliating. It was dangerous, too, as Sapphire was scared that maybe she wasn’t looking as strong as she had hoped.

With a scoff, Sapphire pushed the thought out of her mind as she threw her shirt off and swung the wardrobe door open to grab a sleek blue nightgown. What were these trivial stresses that would whine from a little girl? Sapphire Peridot was no failure.

She would attempt the climbing course again tomorrow, and prove to everyone that the fall was just a hitch in her way. There was nothing to judge, as very soon she would show she was the best in the room. The one that would leave the arena with her name in the history books. Her odds were already amongst the highest, she was trained and she could fight anyone.

Fitted into her nightgown, Sapphire pressed a button on the panel next to the window that ordered her a drink. Within a minute, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to meet an Avox, head bowed in silence and obedience, to collect her delivered glass of champagne.

Sapphire giggled as she drank a generous sip of the fine liquid and sprawled back across over her bed. There would be towers of champagne constructed at parties in her honour when she won.

Not to worry, everything was going well. This was good. This was great. This was promising. Her family was anticipating her arrival back home, as her return would be glowing with victory. They would be so proud. Sapphire would be an exemplary representative of the Peridot name.

Soon, so soon, life would be perfect.

*****

The air in the lounge on the eleventh floor lingered with a strange smell. It was sweet and tart, but faint. Almost like a form of water vapour, like the one that sprinkled over the tremendous greenhouses in District Eleven. The smell wasn’t as pungent or flavourful as the artificial incense pumped through the vents that would waft over the apartment, so it confused Huck.

He stepped over to the lounge, following the scent. It was almost like… mango? With am empty imitation of the taste. Huck finally found it emanating from his stylist slouched over the couch. Terephine held a thick orange stick in her hands. It was plastic, with small holes were the smell came from. She was bringing the other end to her mouth, inhaling then exhaling.

“Are you… smoking with a kid’s toy?” Huck’s question called with puzzlement. That’s exactly what the stick looked like, something a child would play with and smack around. What on earth was his middle-aged stylist doing with one?

Terephine laughed loudly. She exhaled another puff of the mist, which tantalised Huck’s nostrils with the sweet smell. Her eyes, a dark grey accentuated with long, pointed red eyelashes that shot out around her face like caterpillars; fluttered to the tribute.

“This is not a toy, silly. It’s an e-cigarette, doesn’t it smell divine?” She waved the orange stick towards Huck. “I just can’t get enough of it.”

Huck went and stood in front of her, still just as confused but the object interested him probably more than anything else he had seen in the last few days. “You people here need to splurge up anythin’ here, huh?” He rolled his eyes and took a seat next to his stylist. “A good, old-fashioned cigarette ain’t enough for you?”

Huck remembered his cigarettes, a crumbling smelly tobacco wrapped in shitty paper. They had been taken off him when he arrived in the Capitol, as were his blue pills that helped tone the world down to a pleasant hum. He missed those sacred items dearly.

“Honey, old-fashioned cigarettes in this city are exactly what you call them: old fashioned.” Terephine remarked with a suck of the e-cigarette, the faint smoke blowing out of her glitter-painted mouth. “Only the older generation still uses that stuff. They’re a relic of the Dark Days.”

Her tribute raised an eyebrow. “And what makes this plastic thing so different?”

“For one thing, you can take as many puffs as you like before the battery runs out. No lighter needed. It has multiple flavours, and this one has special relaxation effects.” Terephine switched the TV on as she explained, letting a random Panem News channel broadcast over the lounge.

Huck chuckled sarcastically. “What you need relaxing from? Picking out which wig to wear?” He pointed to the elaborate crayon-red one that sat on Terephine’s head in straight lines and warped up to a large, exaggerated watermelon-shape at the top.

“I will have you know being a stylist for such an important event is hard work, thank you.” She shot back with a roll of her eyes. Huck was not convinced. He eyed the e-cigarette or whatever she called it, in her hands.

“I think given my situation here, I need some relaxation effects more.” Huck laughed, stretching his hand out towards Terephine. “Let me try it?”

Terephine looked back at Huck with a cautious look on her face before hesitantly nodding and handing the plastic stick to him. He placed the end in his mouth and mimicked the sucking motions he’d seen her do, let the mist cloud his lungs and slowly exhaled to see it evaporate in a light cloud into the air.

Huck nodded, shrugging. “Alright, this ain’t bad.” The effect that his stylist had mentioned seemed to kick in pretty instantly too. His body seemed to lower in a state of calm and his belly slightly fuzzed. Not as good as the pills, but he’d take it.

“Could you get me one of these, for like a taken when the Games start?”

His question was delivered with a grin but he was mostly serious, much to Terephine’s amusement. She snatched the e-cigarette back from Huck’s grasp and couldn’t help but giggle.

“I doubt it, but might be worth to ask.”

*****

Dinner in District Seven’s apartment for the most part, was quiet that evening. Both Birch and Rory were tired from training and quite frankly, both mutually tired of focusing on anything that reminded them they were preparing to fight for their survival. Both mentors sensed this low energy and decided to respect it just for a night, seeing as they had thrown so much advice at them already. Zelenus was happy to dine in peace.

Glaucia Lusitania, once she arrived for the occasion – late, had other plans.

“What is all this quiet in here?” She snapped, practically throwing her jacket at an Avox to take. She loudly took her seat at the dinner table, her chair scraping the floor as she moved. “There are parades and festivities outside, they were marvellous. You could hear a pin drop in this room.”

“Oh believe me, if you want I could make a ruckus. But I think that wouldn’t like mine.” Blight snorted with a sarcastic edge, taking a swig of his drink. Everybody at the table was almost certain that it was just a glass of vodka. Nothing to mix the sharp alcohol, just vodka.

Glaucia acknowledged his comment without hardly looking at him. “You thought correct.” She stated with a sly roll of her eyes, reaching over to serve herself a bowl of a cold, green soup. She announced her voice in the room again. “I saw the betting odds today. I’m glad that the pair of you aren’t embarrassing this team, but you shall definitely keep those results higher.”

Rory turned to her with a scorned look in his face that the escort didn’t bother to read. Birch ignored the comment, pushing her finished meal away as Glaucia’s presence was not raising her appetite, either.

Zelenus tapped his spoon gently against the china of his soup bowl. “In all fairness, it’s only the first day of training and they still have the Gamemaker evaluations,” he defended, “All things considered, they’re doing well so far. They’re being noticed.”

“We’re being noticed?” Birch asked, curiously but with a doubled edge of caution. She had dabbled over most of the stations in the gymnasium, but was unsurprised to see the Careers gain all the spotlight with their very immodest demonstration of what they could do.

The stylist bowed his head. “Yes, the Gamemakers provided you with respectable Odds thus far. Even without them, you’re picking up traction with your images. The sultry beauty and the brooding lumberjack. You’ll really have to play on that in your interviews, too.”

Birch and Rory slowly looked at each other with identically dumbfounded expressions. Both of the mentors mirrored this also with disgruntled sighs. But they had to admit, for the Capitol, they were strong angles to take.

Oaklan decided to change the subject. “Back to your betting odds, I think being in the mid-range is a safe space to hide in.” He explained, “You haven’t got targets on your backs with the Careers, so they don’t see you as direct threats. Although, Rory, your odds are definitely up there and if they saw how you can handle an axe- maybe, don’t boast that around them.”

“What you should do, is join the Career alliance.” Glaucia almost demanded, not suggested, as she waved her spoon towards the pair. “Now that’s a smart move, a guarantee of attention and power.”

Birch wrinkled her face in disapproval but it was Rory who took this rejection to a blatantly vocal level. “No way. Never.” He immediately shot back, shaking his head as his elbows tensed over the dinner table. “Over my dead body am I buddying up with those arrogant suck-ups.”

Blight chuckled, knocking back his drink and coughing at the motion. “I gotta agree with the kid. They’d look down on him and treat him like a little servant cos he’s not really one of them. They do that all the time with a Career stray. Any problem in the arena and whoof, he gets the short end of the stick.” His point made even Zelenus nod in agreement, whilst Glaucia scoffed and ignored the mentor’s reasoning.

“I already might have an ally anyway,” Birch mentioned, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Well, not officially but we showed each other around some of the stations today. The girl from Eleven. Her name’s Fauna.”

Oaklan paused and cocked his head slightly. “That’s Seeder’s girl.”

With a slam of her cocktail glass on the table, the escort sneered in rebuttal. “So you wouldn’t take a reputable and promising Career alliance but you would some nobody from probably the shoddiest district nobody gives a damn about?” Glaucia’s face twisted in shock and then disgust. “At-least they understand and uphold the honour of the Hunger Games. Which is more than I can say for your kind.”

Nobody really provided Glaucia the satisfaction of responding to her rant, but Rory glared at her with a venomous sting that she returned. If there was a way to throw her into the arena, he thought, then he would be far happier fighting.

“I’ll have to agree about the Eleven girl, even if she is the relative of a victor. Her odds were really low in the chart tonight, and I don’t see how she would then be of much benefit.” Zelenus stated, fetching a fresh fruity cocktail from an Avox.

“Well then they underrated her. She’s really fast and knows and taught me a lot about foraging. She climbs trees like a mouse, she totally snuck up on me.” Birch defended, thinking back to how the thin face that peered below her in the canopy sprang out of nowhere. Maybe she just wasn’t paying attention when Fauna climbed and didn’t hear her, but regardless, the girl definitely was not useless.

Oaklan nodded. “And odds change all the time. They completely fluctuate and flip once the tributes are in the arena, in the action.” He said, looking over to Birch with the thought of Seeder at the back of his mind. “I’d say she could be worth a shot as an ally. See how she is the next couple of days and you can reach a decision. It’s never any easier when you’re alone in that place.”

Glaucia scoffed once again, this time the volume of the unpleasant guttural sound shot from her high, shrill voice ringing louder through the dining room. She snatched her cocktail, kicked back her chair, and strutted away impudently over to her quarters.

She yelled back before slamming her bedroom door. “I am not going to be blamed for this utter foolishness!”

*****

Oxford was not to waste any time underestimating his contenders.

Several sheets of crumpled paper were sprawled out on his lap as he sat intently on the couch in the lounge, writing and jotting down notes and charts hurriedly. His hand cramped and ink marks stained over his fingers. It reminded him of long evenings hunched over his desk at home, of pouring all his focus onto studying for assignments for Mr Toque, the strums of his mother playing piano egging him as a soothing background noise. The approval and praise he’d receive. Mr Toque’s handwriting rewarding Oxford of top marks.

Now, this was probably the most important assignment of his life.

The released odds had resulted in what Oxford had more or less predicted. The Careers dazzled with the best scores, surely suffocated by sponsors and bets, particularly the brute from District Two. The trembling girls from Three and Five at the bottom of the barrel. Some tributes with potential and commendable odds, those from the more physically industrial districts like the boy from District Seven and the pair from District Ten. He and Lilah, as Oxford had figured, slotted in the mid-range of the odds. Unremarkable, but safe. And surely not forgotten from their stunt at the chariot parade. He gathered an implied calculation of all of this information.

Oxford’s tired, bloodshot eyes darted between the bright TV screen and his rough but plentiful scribblings of notes. The flashing clock in the corner of the marble wall read well past four o’clock in the morning, as he felt himself shrouded in the darkness and the sleepy quiet of the apartment, but Oxford had no intention of rest.

Finally, releasing a satisfied breath and shaking his cramped hand, Oxford completed his notes and spread the papers all over the coffee table. Oxford had watched the footage of all of the Hunger Games of this year’s mentors, jotted down and analysed their actions and strategies. The writings of his observations were illuminated by the glow of the TV:

The mentors when they were tributes themselves, as Oxford had analysed, usually developed a rough strategy from the aspects of their home districts. District Two produced trained and ruthless fighters as seen by Brutus Gunn’s senseless slaughter of his competitors. District Three displayed representative of how brains could trump brawn with Beetee Latier’s manipulation of the swamp arena’s forcefield to wipe out the other tributes.

Furthermore, District Six’s mentors were drawn to hiding and camouflage, as seen by Idaho Luther’s disguise amongst the sloth mutts in his Games. District Eleven illustrated a focus on stealth and resourcefulness, through Seeder Lotus scavenging her blistering desert arena and using even the cactus spikes as weapons against the other tributes.

But some of the mentors had been more specific, more creative, in their own personal quests for victory. Hydron Parten backstabbed his own district partner and then engineered the tracker jacker mutts to kill his contenders, and spared them no fairness when they were rendered vulnerable. Velvet Lerot, Oxford’s own mentor, had lurked and stalked within her forest arena to acquire the information and skills of her competition which led to her advantage.

In similarly outstanding ways, other mentors such as Slylva Mapleleaf analysed the strengths and weaknesses of the other tributes and cleverly took them down in methods personally destructive to them. Haymitch Abernathy, although his genius downplayed and altered in the Second Quarter Quell footage: banded together a Career/Newcomer alliance split and utilised the poisonous paradise arena’s forcefield to save him and kill the District One girl in the Final Showdown.

Processing all of this, Oxford tapped his pen across the sheets of paper and then wavered to the published screen of the tribute betting odds. Each mentor had something important, something smart to offer their tributes.

If Oxford could guess what his contenders learned, and what they excelled in and feared, he could find ways to take them down. Use their skills to his advantage, much like his own mentor had.

Chapter Text

Tildessa was comfortable with exertion. She was almost accustomed to it. District Two’s Training Academy was no walk in the park by any means. Long hours learning to fight, learning to endure, learning how to wield anything with a blade until it became second nature. Tildessa’s father did not scrounge his savings to send her to that Academy for her to lose this opportunity now. If it wasn’t for this chance at glory, she would have had no choice but to join him in the mines long ago.

The Slate daughters’ destiny used to be a topic of angst and clash between her parents. Her mother was entirely against her children ever volunteering for the Hunger Games, even one day becoming Peacekeepers. There had been a strange opposition, a fire in her mother that had been passed down from the maternal side of the family. Her father, clearly, was the opposite. When Tildessa’s mother died long ago, she had no choice and no other opinion but to sign herself to the Academy. That fire from her mother’s side had been extinguished in the blare of her father’s values.

But it was the right thing to do, she told herself. Her father knew what was best. To becoming a willing tribute in such an important event for Panem was a sacrifice worth taking. Tildessa had excelled at the Academy, after all, she proved herself through the volunteer trials. Mr Slate’s scarce money and patience had not been in vain.

With a rapid swerve sideward and a quick jump of her feet, Tildessa huffed. An arm was lunged her way followed by another thwart of a baton but she ducked and batted away the weapon with her own with relative ease. The expert’s baton had not yet made contact with the tribute. Tildessa’s cleaver, on the other hand, did. A calculated whack of her hand sent the cleaver blade clacking against the armour of the expert’s throat. Drawing her arm back and swerving again, it thudded against the armour chest. The expert raised his hand in the air as a signal it was the end of her session, and she had done well.

Tildessa nodded, a curl of satisfaction unfolding in her chest. This spar was nothing different from what she had practiced a thousand times in the Academy, and did not even live up to the harshness of her training by any account.

Although, as much as she wanted to believe that she was, Tildessa was promptly reminded that she wasn’t the only one in this gymnasium that was having an easy time.

Ajax was up next after his partner. He snatched a mace from the rack, his weapon of choice, and stepped over to the expert flailing it in the air as if it were a toy. As the session began, the expert had no time to pounce. Ajax was already on him, grasping the man by the throat and with a crashing sound thumped as the heavy spikes of the mace rammed into the expert’s helmet.

Seemingly in a daze, the expert took a step back, raising his hand in the air to mark he had been defeated. Tildessa scowled at the sight. It had taken her over three minutes to score her win in the fight. Her partner had done it, what, two seconds?

“Round Two.” The expert declared, as Ajax created some distance and whirled the heavy mace in his hand. At the commence, the trainer sprinted forward and swiped a hit which Ajax deflected with his mace. Another swing of the baton caught Ajax in the leg, but the tribute retaliated with a shove that tripped the expert over. The man regained his balance and poked forward, hitting Ajax right in the gut. But the tribute hardly reacted, even so much as a flinch. Instead, Ajax only shoulder-knocked into the expert, hard, causing him to fall to his knees and left him defenceless to the brute’s jabs over the spine of the armour, the contact thumping loudly.

Finally, as the expert grabbed hold of his baton and swung, Ajax simply jumped to avoid the collision to his legs and hammered the mace over the expert’s helmet. An arm was raised, once again signalling a defeat.

Ajax sported a stone-cold smile. The Head Peacekeeper’s son was no embarrassment, no slacker. He had been taught well, and even more so; he had taught himself well. Ajax’s entire life had revolved around wanting to be like his father. Strong, powerful, looming over everyone like a dangerous omen. How much purpose he must have had, holding lives in his palm and using it to batter their bodies. That’s all Ajax Howard would to do, very soon, see for himself what his father had done with not a breath of hesitation. And just like that, the pride and the honour would be his.

Instead of panting tiredly from the battle, he only dragged the mace gripped in his hand forward. If anything, the power charged him with adrenaline.

One question popped in Ajax's mind, leaving him smug. Who was brave enough, or stupid enough to challenge him?

****

Ion was no stranger to height. His job as an electrical linesworker back in District Five’s Eastern Quarter left him dangling up in the air for hours on end most days. He would feel his body free in the air and taste the breeze in his face, watch the power lines hang over the beige hills, hear birds squeak nearby.

In the training gymnasium, however, the environment was quite different. He was high up, yes, but there was only recycled ventilation to taste and anxious tributes to watch. Ion was now particularly anxious himself, as he gripped onto a metal bar of the enormous climbing structure. It seemed to fluctuate in pattern and levels, confusing his brain as he only tried to make his way up. There was no even footing, and the only path he could take was an unstable walkway that would tilt as soon as he’d step on it. The last one he attempted had thrown him off, leaving him to collapse to the bottom and declare his efforts wasted. But no, he had to try again.

He huffed in half-surrender before clambering his way further up. The top of the structure, which he assumed was the finish line, was a mere ten feet higher. Ion convinced himself he could do it, as there was not much further to go now.

Grabbing onto a pole and holstering himself around it, Ion climbed over a few bars until all he could do was mount another wobbling beam he had previously encountered. He readied himself, psyching himself up for the courage to attempt it, and leaped forward. Ion pressed his body over the beam and wrapped his arms around it as it shook, slowly stepping his way around as it jolted him around.

With another leap, Ion successfully landed even footing on a curved metal bar and using his prosthetic hand to to boost himself up, he finally climbed over with a squeeze of his stomach onto the top.

Ion breathed in exhaustion which was followed by a happy smile as he realised he had done it. He had reached the top of the climbing structure without falling off, this time. Jerking his head around the view of the gymnasium below him, Ion wondered what else he now felt confident enough to attempt.

*****

Huck cursed rather loudly at his fifth failed attempt at the knife-throwing station. It joined the other on the floor, which had not reached any of the targets of the dummy above them.

The expert at the station, already fed up with the unsuccessful display, stepped over to the tribute. “You are throwing the knives like a ball. A knife is not a ball.” She stated in an unamused voice, picking up a small knife from the rack and passing it over to Huck. “You watch the target, keep a hold on the handle firm but still light. You aim when you throw, and your hand has to move in the direction of your aim.”

With a deep and agitated breath, Huck took the knife and positioned his body intently. He stood almost diagonal, arching his arm back and squinting his eyes as he concentrated on the dummy. His focus was set on the red circles of the target on the chest, and trying to aim, he threw. The knife was chucked towards the dummy’s side, but with the handle, as it bounced off and clattered to the floor.

Huck sighed, shaking his head and picking up another knife. Taking more time to compose his throw, he took a shot. To his luck, the blade actually cut into the dummy. The knife was sloppy and barely holding on to the vinyl, but it managed to clip into the dummy’s forearm- even if it had been aimed for the torso.

He hooted to himself in victory, grabbing a dagger and hurtling it towards the target. Huck’s cockiness dropped right back down where it came from as this time, it completely missed. He tutted in embarrassment as he heard the Career girl from District One snicker behind him.

Huck shot her a dirty glare as he exited the station, but Sapphire kept giggling. Her entertainment was over, and now it was her turn. The expert crossed her arms and watched intently, familiar with the girl’s skill as Sapphire had frequented this station enough to have picked out names for each blade that rested within. She stepped over to the rack and held three small, dainty knives in her hands. Sparing only a look at the dummies that lined the far wall in front of her, Sapphire sprang into action.

Within mere seconds, the knives whizzed through the air successfully. All three had punctured with a thud, striking into three separate dummy’s heads. Sapphire grinned, taking another four into her grasp. This time, she turned her back to her targets and threw as quickly as she turned. Each blade landed directly in the centre of a critical target.

Sapphire was at home with blades. She loved the way the handles felt in her hands, their light weight suspended within their fingertips. She loved the release as they flew through the air with a whistle, the thud that followed and the satisfaction she had done well.

Her mentors should have known they weren’t lied or gloated to. She really was like lightning.

*****

The District Three pair’s task might as well have been acquiring the power to fly out of the invincible borders of Panem and to the moon.

Their mentor, Beetee, had instructed them to master the art of deduction. Find clues as to what the arena may be. That way, they could truly prepare for what was to come. But the training gymnasium was packed with a variety of different stations. All of which seemed to be helpful for survival or fighting, and not clearly specific. The pair was stumped.

“He might as well have asked us to find a needle in a haystack.” Mac complained, releasing a defied sigh as he took a seat on a large log in the fire-making station. Glitch took a similarly baffled seat beside him, tapping her foot against the pit of dirt confined within the mats.

“Let’s make a list of things that might stick out? Even if they’re probably nothing?” She suggested, tilting her chin up to ponder the mental notes she had taken of everything observed throughout their third morning in the Capitol.

Mac cracked his knuckles and took another good look at his surroundings. “There’s a big focus on nature, I guess? We have logs and soil here. There’s a few trees for the climbing course. But that’s a given, an arena is usually outdoors and-“

Glitch interrupted her partner as her head whipped around to face the trees towards the back of the gymnasium. They were varying in their size, width, and species, but the comment reminded her of something else she had seen. “You said the trees are for climbing, and there’s some sorts of trees most years, but,” Glitch recounted, pointing to the ladder obstacle course with one hand and then to another climbing structure separate from the trees. “We already said the high ladder course might be standard, but third different type of climbing course?”

Their eyes flitted to the structure which stretched out in straight metal lines and curves, with some short platforms to steady onto in-between until the structure led a climb up to twenty-five feet into the air, not far from the ceiling. It gave way to wobbling beams positioned all throughout that led to walkways that would prove as unstable, jolting platforms. Three other tributes were attempting it individually, holstering their way up and through. Glitch winced as she watched a boy topple over a tilting platform and smack from almost twenty down onto the safety net on the floor.

“They’re climbing like… like up the pipes of the warehouses back home,” Mac realised, as then another thought ticked to his mind. “Or like the Mega Comps out by the North Division.” He visualised those massive, symmetrical blocks of aluminium transmitters and diodes and blinkering lights in District Three. They towered over like energised, LED-studded mansions. The workers had to climb their way up to the fragile roofs for maintenance and repairs with large ladders or ropes. They were super computers, apparently, although it was never really explained to Three exactly what they were for. Probably something for the Capitol.

“Three different types of climbing courses, that might be a little excessive.” Glitch theorised, grabbing a stick and marking ‘3 CMB’ in the dirt to remember their observation. “Maybe it would be a mountain, or a tower.”

She thought back to one of the earliest Games she could remember, a brief memory of herself in her mother’s arms as through the large screen in the district square, it showed a boy and a girl slipping their way over an old, crumbling building draped with overgrown vines. An abandoned city, the arena was that year. Glitch remembered asking if any people had ever lived there. Her grandpa, still alive at that time, said- if there had, they were long dead now.

“Yeah, something that might involve a lot of climbing. Even something artificial.” Mac nodded, finally feeling like they may have achieved a tangible theory, a potential clue.

Glitch stood back up, keeping her eyes peeled. “Let’s look for more.”

*****

Lunch was a predominantly quiet occasion in the training gymnasium. A few pairs had huddled together and dug into their meals with crutches of conversation or discussion strewn about, but most tributes sauntered alone on single tables and kept to themselves, eating in the quiet.

The Career quartet were an exception. The pairs from District One and Two sat together on a table closest to the simple but sufficient buffet, occasionally shooting glares or calling out unsavoury remarks at those who passed by to retrieve a plate of food. Their voices, not particularly quiet, stuck out like sore thumbs against the shy atmosphere. Even when it came to strategy.

“We thinking of taking on any strays?” Elixion asked with a raised eyebrow and a playful sing of his voice, “Or keeping this club exclusive members only?”

Ajax huffed, spearing a mushroom and dipping it around the thick red stew in his bowl. “What do we need anyone else for? We’re all better than them. Even our betting odds say so.”

“There’s always strength in numbers. The more of us there are, the less we have to lose.” Sapphire exclaimed, “At the very least we can just have them look over our stuff or set our fires. You know, things like that.”

Tildessa allowed an agreed nod as she took a sip of cold water. “It could be safer, and more convenient. The alliance the other year left their supplies lying around with nobody to watch and another tribute absolutely wrecked everything.”

“Exactly, Two.” Elixion pointed to her with his fork before twirling it in a slab of thick pasta noodles. “How about we ask Four? Their odds aren’t bad and sometimes Four is part of the Careers.” He suggested before taking a bite and scooping into the bowl for another.

“They haven’t so much as looked at us.” Tildessa replied with a scrunched expression as she wiped her mouth with a napkin as she turned turned her head around to find the pair. The two sat, joking with each other on a small table on the far end of the narrow cafeteria. They seemed to stay far away from the quartet. “They look competent with weapons, but not interested in us. So if they’re not with us, they’re against us.”

Ajax finished her sentence as his gaze drifted to the District Four pair with a cold, distant look. “And that makes them threats.”

“Well, hey, maybe they’re just shy.” Elixion raised his hands up and shrugged, “Sapphire and I will go ask them after lunch. Can’t hurt to have a couple swimmers on our side, right? Surely, they’re going to accept the offer.”

Sapphire tapped her fingers on the table, letting them drum as she surveyed the cafeteria around her. Her deep blue eyes fixated on the District Seven Boy on a far table, shoulders upright as he ate a meal alone and with an entirely reserved energy about him.

“What about the lumberjack?” Sapphire proposed, as her allies peered their heads to get a good look at him. He returned their gaze with a dirty look.

“He has my vote. We all see him with those axes.” Elixion stated with a grin. Ajax turned to him and did not mirror the playful expression, scowling and almost chucking his fork into the other boy’s bowl.

“He’s not even a Career, not like District Four. Even they barely are. Don’t even think about it.” He snapped, “He will have no honour to bring to this alliance.”

Tildessa tutted her head towards her partner in agreement but then pulled her lip in a demonstration of indecision. She spoke up after considering a glance at the boy across the room: “But he’s skilled, with decent odds. Like we said, better to have him on our side than as a threat.”

Ajax tensed. Were they going to invite every other tribute into the alliance now? Accept any weakling? He couldn’t allow any filth to infiltrate his image of honour, even by mere association.

“Then I will ask him.” Ajax declared. His three allies stared him in surprise, thinking it must have been a joke. From his unmoving, hardened expression: they gathered it was not.

Sapphire scraped the remnants of the sauce in her bowl as she leaned forward in disbelief. “You will? Didn’t you just shake in your boots at the idea?”

Ajax shot her a glare that then transferred over to the subject of their conversation, watching the boy closely and without missing a beat. “If you are truly considering him, I’m to make sure he’s worthy.”

*****

With a swift jab, Marina’s trident clashed into the waistline of the expert’s armour. He jumped back, whacking his baton which hit across her arm as she deflected. She ducked as another swing almost caught her in the way and clanged the spikes of her trident into the armour of the expert’s torso. He raised his hand in the air. She walked away with a smirk.

Marina’s attention flicked to her district partner, watching him in the fighting technique station just a few metres down. She walked over and watched him grappling intensely with the Head Trainer Nereidus. Calypso’s handsome face was now tightened in a determined flush of red, his veins popping out of his neck. The two were wrestling, and Calypso was trying desperately not to be thrown to the floor.

He succeeded, pushing his weight back onto Nereidus as their arms were locked around the other, until suddenly the Head Treaner shoved the tribute. Calypso fell to the matt but took Nereidus down with him, as they both tumbled over the floor as Calypso was caught in a headlock but firmly resisted it and with a strong smack of his elbow, distracted his opponent. As the session ended, he hadn’t exactly won but he hadn’t lost either. And he gained a pleased nod from the Head Trainer as he exited the fighting techniques station.

“Quite the wrestler there, eh?” Marina chuckled as she handed her partner a water bottle. Calypso took it and desperately gulped it, panting tiredly and wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

He opened his mouth to respond but realised the boy and girl from District One were approaching them, looking directly their way. They turned and held their ground as they faced the pair.

“That wasn’t bad, Four, not bad at all.” Elixion complimented as he faced the two with a quick clap. They didn’t reply, both on guard and looking at him with slightly confused but standoffish faces. He set his hands on his hips and tutted. “Well, where’s my warm welcome? Don’t strop, I’ve come to you with an offer.”

Marina crossed her arms over her chest, her eyebrows raised. “An offer?” She questioned, genuinely intrigued but keeping her space bordered away from the two Careers.

“We want to invite you to join our alliance.” Sapphire stated, taking a stop closer and closing in her eyeline with theirs. “With Two, as well. We’ve seen how you’ve performed and your odds. There’s strength in numbers.”

Marina and Calypso exchanged a glance with each other. “Give us a minute to talk.” Calypso said, as they took a few steps away and hushed their voices as they considered the proposition they had just been presented with.

“What do you think?” Calypso asked, looking over to the pair quickly whom crossed their arms and looked right back.

“I don’t know, Four does sometimes are part of the Careers, after all.” Marina shrugged, “It would be good to not have them as competition. I’d feel a whole lot better not having to worry about those brutes coming after my neck.”

Calypso appreciated the point of her answer but his prejudice ran deep. Year after year, he’d watch them: all the same caricatures of each other. Their interviews all blended into one repetitive and meat-headed consensus of ‘excitement, honour, and strength’ – not to forget a complete praise and surrender of the Capitol. Then they’d slaughter the other tributes without seemingly a second thought, moving through the body counts like the human beings at their feet were mere fish hunted from the sea. They would win with proud smiles on their faces.

He didn’t want to be around anything of the sort. “Think of how quick they’d turn on us, though, Marina. They’re totally heartless.” Calypso considered with a low voice. “You see how they are. It’s not like the Careers from Four.” He thought back to watching his best friend in last year’s Games be betrayed by the Career Pack without a second thought. Thames hardly escaped from them with his life, his leg was almost hanging off of his body in that fight. If it wasn’t for those senseless other Careers, Thames might have made it to the Feast in time without that injury and protected himself from that supersonic eruption.

No. He was not going to join forces with that sort.

With a nod, Marina felt her gravitation towards an acceptance of their offer dim. He was right. Back home, the kids in the Training Academy regarded the process as precaution rather than privilege; which seemed to differ for the other two Career districts. If they volunteered, it would not be for the sake of ‘honour’ and certainly not because they wanted to fight as tributes.

“Okay, you’re right. We’ll be just fine together, won’t we?” Marina asked with an anxious voice as she felt their eyes on her. Calypso nodded and took her hand with his. “Together. We don’t need them.”

With a finalised glance, they stepped back over to the District One pair. Calypso stood his ground spoke. “We just talked about your offer,” he began, but Elixion blurted with a bashful confidence before letting him finish.

“I knew you’d make the right choice, we’ll –“

This time, Calypso interjected before they got too carried away with the wrong answer. “Thanks for considering us,” he said, interrupting, and ensuring his voice and his posture were firm and assured. “But we’ll have to decline. We’ll be fine on our own.”

Sapphire and Elixion froze in their tracks. They seemed to stand still in time for a few seconds, their eyes wide and their arms dropped by their sides in disbelief.

“You’re rejecting us?” Sapphire’s question barely left her mouth, as if she was crazy for hearing what she had just heard. How dare they… she mustn’t have heard them right. They cannot have been this stupid, she thought.

Marina crossed her arms again. “Yeah. Sorry.” She risked the audacity and had to almost bite her tongue in amusement before she spoke again. “But we wish you the best of luck, though.”

Sapphire had to summon the strength from keeping her jaw dropping and then stomping over to the knife station and finding a new target. Elixion only chuckled hoarsely to himself, looking down at his shoes and shaking his head.

“I see how it is. Fine.” He said, voice calm but dripping with venom. “But looks like you’ll be needing the luck, not us. Good talk, pals.” He shot them a wink and simply strutted away. Sapphire looked them up and down from head to toe with a threatening glower and joined her partner in his departure.

Marina turned to Calypso with an unrestrained cackle that she had to admit was choking with fear but she couldn’t help but laugh.

“It probably wouldn't be the worst idea to perfect our skills now.”

*****

The unexpected sight of a sewing needle had lit up Lilah’s eyes in surprise. Instantly, she rushed over to it and realised it was placed inside the medic station. Dummies laid on the floor with a varying multitude of different injuries, medical instruments lined the walls on metal tables, and first aid kits were stacked in boxes.

This, Lilah thought, was a station she would definitely need to pay attention to.

As expected, the sewing kit was the first item she took hold of. She approached a limp dummy on the floor, with a deep cut over the thigh. The vinyl skin was torn open in an exaggerated slash, the foam inside exposed and slightly spilling as it was painted with an almost comically bright fake blood.

The prop imitated a gushing wound that had to be closed up to prevent bleeding and infection. So, Lilah got to work. She collected a belt from a table nearby and squeezed it over the dummy’s thigh, then brought over a first-aid kit. From the small case, she ripped out moist tissues of antiseptic and gently wiped it over the rim of the wound, on the hanging vinyl skin. Picking up a pin and sliding a black string in it- she got to the stitching.

Of course, it was only a fake injury, but Lilah was confident in her medical abilities. It was just like with a tablecloth, of which her hands immediately acted out of habit. Piercing the needle through skin, she sewed the string in weaves over the open flesh. It was a consistent rhythm of an intermingling of skin and thread. After a while, Lilah looked back to examine if her work was done. Indeed, the fake wound had been sewn shut. No more of that red foam was to be seen.

She moved on to the next dummy. A cracked arm flailed at its side, with what she supposed was a fake bone sticking out of the crevice. This injury, Lilah was not so familiar and intuitive with solving. Yet still, she knelt down and rummaged through the first aid kit to determine what could be done.

The wet cloth on the table caught her eye as did the belt by the previous dummy, as she grabbed hold of both and applied pressure to the area just above and below the protruding bone. The process was led by Lilah’s instinct, but upon further thought, her hazy memories. Watching her mother, or being told by her.

Lilah’s mother used to be a nurse, and a midwife. She would help deliver babies all over the district and was occasionally summoned for medical assistance in the Peacekeepers barracks. She would also tend to any of the mill workers or people in the towns if she could. On a late evening filled with shouts and crashes, Lilah would peer from the door to see her mother tending to herself also. A cold glass on her bruised cheek, a wet cloth on her black eye, a plaster on her scratched chest. Lilah and Lucet followed suit of these treatments to each other too, once she was gone, and their father found them next.

The stilt was fastened tensely over the inanimate vinyl arm as Lilah grit her teeth. She had plenty of experience, and talent, to bring with her to the arena.

*****

Clearfell needed a minute.

He needed a minute away from the clang of blades and sizzle of fire. From the yells of other tributes and barking commands of experts. From the foreshadowing of what reality awaited him in only a few days.

Feeling his breaths hitch and his chest burn, Clearfell knew he needed to get out of eyesight. Not only the Gamemakers, but especially the playing field that could mark him off as an easy target if they saw his incoming panic attack. He frantically searched for a place void of people, keeping his head down and his steps hurried as he tried to locate a place of refuge.

Spotting the camouflage station void of any human life, even the expert that was supposed to be supervising there, Clearfell ran. He ran inside and unleashed the terror eating away at him. Leaning against a wall modelled with faux pine trees and leaves, there was a space to collect his fragmented thoughts.

Strangely, the wall felt oddly warm and comforting. It allowed him to relax, to slow his breathing and compose himself. He arched his way against it, exhaling slowly as he tried to soothe the panic from his lungs.

“Um,” a voice called out awkwardly nearby. Clearfell’s eyes popped open wide in shock, as the voice vibrated and tickled against his shoulder. It sounded from right behind him. On him. “Sorry, you’re kind of on me.” He jumped away and turned around to inspect the comfortable faux wall, bewildered. It took Clearfell a moment to gather his confusion as two basil-green eyes blinked back at him against the ivy. Someone was camouflaged against the wall.

“Oh!” Clearfell cried, mortified. “I didn’t see you, I’m sorry!”

The tribute stepped away from the wall and outlined his more humanoid figure. A hand cloaked in moss wiped away the soil and ivy off of his own face to reveal himself as the boy from District Six.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine.” He laughed, patting a layer of the foliage off of himself and ruffling leaves out of his honey-coloured hair. “I guess you just proved my disguise was pretty convincing.”

Clearfell chuckled, inspecting the other boy. What was left of his camouflage over his body was uncanny in comparison to the model wall that Clearfell had thought he was leaning up against. It sheerly astounded him. “You’re like a chameleon… that’s amazing.”

Cyprian waved his hand in the air modestly as the other patted dirt and bramble off of his thighs, “Thanks, my partner said I do it good but I thought she’s too kind to be honest. It’s nice to make myself invisible in here, kind of literally.” He admitted. He crossed over to a bucket which contained a damp cloth that he began to dab over his body and rid the remainders of his camouflage.

“Well, I mean it. I would never have known you were right there if you hadn’t of said anything.” Clearfell exclaimed.

Cyprian shrugged, collecting a tray from nearby as he pointed to another model wall that seemed to imitate a sand dune. “I can teach you, if you like?” He offered, kneeling down to sort through the contents in the tray. Clearfell took a moment as he fumbled his words, feeling his hands twitch nervously at his sides. “Sure, yeah,” He finally found his voice.

With a smile, Cyprian backed himself into the faux wall. “Practice on me? I’ll tell you what to do.” Clearfell nodded and approached the other boy as he dug his hand into the tray he had seen him assort.

“You need to find something wet to apply over the skin first. If it’s a sand dune, some water would be fine probably.” Cyprian advised, as Clearfell held out the dissected, soft green flesh of a cactus he had found.

“Will this work?” He asked curiously, feeling the juice lather and stick over his fingers.

“Maybe even better, it’s sticky, almost like glue.” Cyprian responded with an intrigued look of his eyes which caused Clearfell to chuckle as he gently began to rub the juice from the cactus flesh over Cyprian’s bare arms. He had calmed entirely, almost forgetting the inheld sobs that tackled him just minutes prior.

“I’m Clearfell, by the way. I’m from Nine.” He exclaimed, holding out his hand for a shake. Cyprian didn’t need an introduction, as he recalled seeing the boy’s tanned, angular face fight to look strong at his Reaping. The forlorn expression that betrayed it as a younger boy, a brother, shrieking. He remembered seeing the boy’s shiny skin and cascading silk costume at the chariot parade, too. But still, he extended his own arm and the two shook hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Cyprian, from Six.”

It felt strange, even somehow illegal; to engage in such a civil physical contact given the circumstances, but Cyprian chose to ignore the stigma. They were all still normal people, after all, no matter what they’d become at the end of the end of the week. He wanted to engage in the last of what was sure to be a nice human interaction whilst he could. Whilst Clearfell’s hazel eyes still held that undeniable kindness.

Once his arms and hands were evenly coated, Cyprian lifted his chin up to expose his throat as an indication he could move to him next. Clearfell stared, slightly flustered and hesitant, and obliged. He smeared the green liquid over Cyprian’s skin, feeling the bumps and cranes of the boy’s neck. The earthy, almost sweet scent of the cactus juice tingled Cyprian’s nostrils.

“So, where did you learn this whole disguise stuff? I would have thought you guys in Six would be covered in oil and rust rather than leaves.”

Cyprian’s face lightened with a soft grin. “Well, you thought right. We do. I come home from work shaking metal shavings out of my hair most of the time.” His breath caught in his mouth as Clearfell’s calloused hand moved its way to the top of Cyprian’s chest, lathering the juice over his skin. “But we have paint, and we make games out of that with ourselves sometimes. Especially as kids.” He pointed to the heaps of sand in the next band, as he instructed, “Just put the sand over the wet areas now, make sure it sticks. And don’t miss a spot.”

Clearfell obliged, scooping a handful of sand and patting it over Cyprian’s arms, allowing the golden grains to seep over the juice on the boy’s skin.

“We have something like that too in Nine, actually. We dress up as scarecrows and put hay all over our clothes and in our hair. Most convincing wins a bottle of posca.” He recounted, which caused Cyprian to laugh softly.

“That sounds pretty interesting. Have you won before?” Cyprian asked, failing to suppress his enjoyment at the mental image.

Clearfell etched the sand over Cyprian’s wrist, feeling it hold in his grasp, smoothing the grains down over any exposed gaps as he smirked and shook his head. “Can’t say I have, but I still always get my hands on the posca.”

The boys laughed, cutting short in their amusement and leaning away slightly as the expert of the station re-entered and pressed them under her watchful gaze. In a matter of time, Cyprian’s hands, arms, and throat were lathered by the golden hue of the sand and the covered areas of his body blended into the faux wall.

Cyprian’s eyes caught his reflection in a narrow mirror at a parallel wall. “Who’s the chameleon now?” He asked with a smirk.

Clearfell chuckled, shrugging modestly. He ventured over to another wall modelled with a mess of soot and charcoal, picking up a tray and holding his hand out eagerly. “I’d like to practice on this one too.”

*****

It was impossible to fault Rory’s prowess with an axe. Each one he came into contact with ended up buried in the centre of a target or clashing against the vital areas over an expert’s armour. He didn’t miss a beat, and didn’t falter in his aim with one.

This was a fact Ajax had no choice but to acknowledge as he neared towards the lumberjack. His unmoving eyes watched concentrated as Rory sprinted forward and with a quick flick, sent an axe lobbing at a moving hologramic figure. It whizzed through the ribcage of the pixels and vanished, as he picked up another axe by his feet and rammed it into the air of another lunging hologram, swiping it over the neck. The lights in the ring zapped a faint green, with a robotic voice announcing: ‘Simulation Round 8 Passed. Minimal injuries sustained. Score 9/10.’

Rory closed his eyes and exhaled a pant, reaching over for a water bottle. He turned back to see Ajax wasn’t waiting in line for the simulation test, but was rather waiting for him.

“Can I help you?” Rory asked, brimming with an annoyed confrontation, as he returned his hold to the axe he had been using.

Ajax decided to ignore the disrespectful tone of the boy’s question and stood to face him, expression unflinching and blaring with intimidation. He had an invite to deliver, so that he did.

“My alliance thinks you may be worthy of joining us, in the arena. Becoming a Career.” The words jabbed and stung at his teeth as he said them. The boy he addressed reeked of nothing but defiance and resistance. He was the worst kind of tribute, the worst kind of citizen of Panem. One Ajax had only dreamed of dealing with at the might of his sword once the gong rang.

“And I’m here to see if you’re worthy. To determine if you deserve the chance.”

Rory scoffed, as dismissively as he dared. He gripped the cold handle of the axe and plopped it onto the rack as he began to step away from the brooding Career. At first, he looked around for the other Career members to see if this was some sort of joke. When he didn’t find their smug faces, Rory was insulted. Those Careers, that volunteered for this hell, that sacrificed their lives for the praise of President Snow and his disgusting city: thought that Rory wanted to be one of them? That he was supposed to be grateful they considered him in their pathetic, violent little squad?

The proposition worsened his bad mood. “Don’t bother, I’m not interested in joining your pretentious, Capitol ass-kissing little clique.” Rory spat, walking away.

The response stunned Ajax beyond words. He had expected a rejection, even a foul attitude, but the audacity was something he never even considered one would dare against him. Even those in District Two knew better than that, let alone some tree-hopping scum. He stormed towards Rory. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Now leave me alone. The Gamemakers are right there if you need anything to suck.” Rory answered, completely careless and not even bothering to address Ajax, keeping his back turned as he moved to the walkway towards a different station.

Ajax saw red. The disrespect was like a slap in the face, and nobody disrespected him. Nobody messed with Ajax Howard. Without a second thought, he charged ahead.

Hearing the Career’s yell, Rory only had enough time to turn around and feel his torso crashed into, collapsing him into the floor. All of the wind was knocked out of him, his chest stinging in the pain of the collision, as he felt a pair of tough hands grasped over his neck. One of them balled into a fast and pelted across Rory’s face, as he groaned at the impact.

Ajax raised his fist again, but was caught off guard by Rory’s retaliation by jabbing his own fist hardly against Ajax’s ribs. He snarled, but then gasped again as Rory managed another strike. Ajax punched against the other boy’s chin, his knuckles tightened white with rage, but before he had time to retract his hand and attempt another hit he was knocked off balance and tackled to the floor by Nereidus.

When Rory looked back up and groaned, holding his chin as his lip streamed with a line of blood, a squad of Peacekeepers had already raced towards them. Guns were pointed, and Nereidus yelled “Fighting is forbidden!” as he grabbed Ajax up by his collar and made him stand. A pair of Peacekeepers seized his brawny arms and led him away as Nereidus held a hand out to Rory and helped him to his feet.

“You better watch your back in the arena! You have no idea what you just did.” Ajax threatened with a livid scream.

Rory held a finger to his busted lip, grunting slightly as he stiffened his body from the punches that still lingered over his face and what was sure to be a bruise on his chest. He watched Ajax’s rants and protests muffle as the Peacekeepers dragged him away from the gymnasium.

And for the first time in probably years, Rory smiled.

Chapter Text

Head Gamemaker Sorentius Thespane was thrilled to see his puppets so up close. He had been watching all twenty-four of them in the training gymnasium for the past three days, but now he relished in the chance of taking the time to really see every single one. And each tribute would perform under the scrutiny of his gaze, their fates signed away to him. Their demonstrations this afternoon would be the last building blocks to cement the arena.

The first puppet called for the individual assessment was Sapphire. She strode into the room with a perfect poise, her mouth stretched into a prepared expression and her deep blue eyes fixated on the Gamemakers towering on the raised platform above her. The sound of the Gamemakers’ chatter and the clinking of cocktail glasses had simmered down as they eyed their first tribute.

With a careful stance, Sapphire stopped before the group as they gawked down at her. “Sapphire Peridot. District One.” She stated, with a courteous bow of her head. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and to be here today.”

“We allow a maximum of fifteen minutes per demonstration. If we feel we have seen enough, we may end your session early.” Sorentius declared with a deep voice. Sapphire nodded, and moved to showcase her talent.

Instead of a multitude of stations being spread all around the gymnasium as it had been for the first three days of training, equipment from each station had been brought forward and assorted into a space before the Gamemakers viewing platform. A small litter and humanoid targets stood in the distance, with a few racks containing all the varying weapons that had been at the tributes’ disposal. Sapphire headed directly for the throwing knives.

Gripping three small, dainty knives in her hands as she tucked another two into her belt, Sapphire approached the line towards the targets. The dummies instantly began to spring to life on the tracks, charging towards her. This was certainly not Sapphire’s first rodeo: so without missing a beat, she jumped to action. Within seconds, the three knives whistled through the air and successively pierced into the dummies with sharp thuds. One blade pierced a neck, one blade pierced a skull, and another pierced a heart.

Sapphire ripped the other two knives from her belt and quickly watched a pair of hologramic attackers snap into the air and bolt towards her. Without as so much as swaying a red hair out of place, she swerved to avoid a thrown axe and hurled a knife forwards in retaliation. It crashed into the hologram’s pixelated chest, and the other one got glitched into crumbling fragments of light as her last knife flew into its face.

With a concentrated turn of her head back to the Gamemakers, she looked to find Sorentius Thespane’s expression but then, she instantly ducked down and narrowly avoided an hologramic arrow that skimmed over her scalp. Sapphire threw her hand to the rack and located another knife, throwing it quickly into the ambushing target and crossing the blade through its chest.

Next, Sapphire mounted the ladder climbing course. Without wasting a beat of hesitation, and without showing a breath of anxiety, Sapphire climbed ahead. Her fluidity returned, her body picked up speed as her hands shot forward onto the bars like lightning. Back at the halfway point, Sapphire found herself hanging falteringly still in the air with burning arms and quivering fingers.

But she was no failure. She had perfected this mistake. Sapphire clambered forward and swallowed down the agony and the exhaustion that ripped at her. Her arms were as hot as lit coals but she soared ahead. Gasping, she swung her body and threw it forward. This time she did not fall, an arm’s reach away. She landed on the finishing platform. Breathless and aching, but pumped full of triumph.

The buzzer blared as Sapphire climbed back down the ladder. She looked up to see each Gamemaker with their sights unmoved from her figure. “Your time is up. Thank you for your demonstration. You may depart.” Sorentius announced. Sapphire bowed and crossed to the exit.

Sapphire left the room consumed with pride. She had lasted the full fifteen minutes, with not one Gamemaker turned away from her for a moment.

She had been perfect.

*****

“Elixion James, from District One. Proud volunteer.” The boy’s voice boomed over the room as though it were some important announcement. His masters’ response of silence and undivided attention signalled for him to begin his display.

Elixion crossed over to collect a beautiful silver bow as he slung a rigid arrow in place and pulled the bowstring back. Feeling the tension over his shoulder, he smirked. He knew the Gamemakers would love this, and love him. They would be foolish not to. Elixion looked back up at the group of them on the platform for a moment, resisting the urge to wink in arrogance.

A moving dummy zapped forwards. With a snappy calculation, Elixion pointed and shot. The arrow smacked into the dummy’s skull in an instant, and the other two that followed were silenced in their tracks almost as soon as they began, as the Career boy’s arrows sliced into their vinyl skin too. After a few moments, a trio of hologramic humanoids launched towards him in attack.

Elixion smirked, chuckling to himself. What a lovely addition. An arrow hit into the leg of one as it fell and was finished off with a clean shot to the throat. Another hologram collapsed after it was struck in the stomach. Elixion simply had swerve to avoid an approaching hit and with a whistle, his final arrow whirled into the target’s eye.

With a smug grin, he turned to see that his spectators still held their captivation towards him. Of course they did, no surprise there. Elixion stepped towards a ring of matts and an inanimate Head Trainer Nereidus hovered aside. “I’d like to request a spar, bare hand.” He said, as Nereidus nodded and they collected themselves into position.

Throughout the final seven minutes of his assessment, Elixion hardly broke his confident grin. Sweating, panting, tensing; it didn’t matter. He was winning. Though hits had been received, and at one point he almost fell to the floor at a particularly strong punch in his side- Elixion had been trained too well to accept defeat. He dodged and swerved enough to make Nereidus step back to regain energy. His fists struck, hard, against the Head Trainer’s ribs, his stomach. One strike rammed against his chin, causing the expert to stumble backwards, as Elixion kicked him in the shin and shoved him onto the floor. A final jab of his fist pounded against the Head Trainer’s face and kept him down.

Elixion was dripping in sweat, his toned body pelted with signs of battle but he stood over his opponent. Victorious. And not to forget, with his signature smug grin that escaped to his face despite the regaining and hoarse breaths.

“Thank you for our demonstration. Your fifteen minutes are up.”

With a self-assured strut, Elixion left the room even happier than he had entered it. They now had seen just how excellent he was.

*****

Tildessa had dreamed of this moment ever since she had arrived in the Capitol. A chance to prove her worth before she needed to get blood on her hands. That she obtained prowess and that her dexterity in violence was only a symptom. And so, she was to ensure that the reality was just as successful as her fantasies.

The spar was commenced with a thrilling introduction as a powerful jab of Tildessa’s sword was narrowly dodged by Nereidus as the long, thick blade clanged over the armour of his side. The Head Trainer’s response was a slash towards Tildessa’s helmet, which she slammed away with her sword and jumped back, then twisted her body sideways and lunged at her opponent. This scuffled the expert and allowed an opening for Tildessa to swipe her sword into his chest.

A second round was granted. Whilst this battle dragged for longer and challenged the tribute further, Tildessa wasn’t beat. Like she had known, she was comfortable with exertion. The restrictions in her lungs and the numbness of her legs as she poured her might into both offence and defence did not falter her. Whilst she did earn clashes against the armour of her arm and her stomach, it was not to say she had lost.

Even if she had, she certainly did not lose the Gamemakers’ focus. Amidst her ruthless attacks with her sword and her swift swerves of her reflexes, she found moments to spare looks back at her judges. Her masters, rather. She had their attention completely drawn to her gruelling display.

She completed the battle with a rough jab of her blade into the armour that concealed Nereidus’s heart. Tildessa herself had sustained what would have been dangerous injuries, but she had not allowed any strikes to any part of her body that would have killed her. Simply, she did not allow for such a chance to occur.

Finally, Tildessa’s time had run out but she did not feel as though she had wasted any, or needed any more. The Gamemakers had seen enough of her display. Whilst she was not invincible, she was certainly enough to hallmark a capable Career tribute. Agile, strong, powerful. She was calculating, also, thinking just as fast as she was fighting. Battle was like a mind game, if it was stripped down to it within its simple roots.

And Tildessa had mastered the game, much to the evidence of her performance.

*****

It was definitely no surprise to Ajax himself, or to Head Trainer Nereidus, or to the leering Gamemakers: that the brutish boy from District Two was to dominate his field. Whilst most of the judging group had watched his Career counterparts in intrigue, they now leant forward and studied the volunteer in amazement.

It was as though Ajax Howard had been born and bred, built and curated for the Hunger Games. The crown must have been a birthright. A promise.

His strength was unmatched, leashing with hammering strikes and slashes against Nereidus’s armour that notched down the duration of the spar rounds to a maximum of a few minutes. His ruthlessness was ferocious, as he did not allow a tinge of mercy as he struck his invincible attack. His bloodlust was unstoppable, as it fuelled his power and his skill to wield his sword and his fist to the defeat of the Head Trainer.

Ajax easily ducked and stepped back, bobbed and weaved, avoiding incoming hits. Defence was effortless, and it was boring. His attack is what got his blood pumping. The clash of the armour as Ajax’s blade rammed into the areas over the gut, the heart, the neck- rung loudly across the room. He wondered how the noise would sound when there would be only unprotected flesh that was caught in his might very, very soon.

Whilst Nereidus’s rebuttal was commendable, and certainly strong- it only paled in Ajax’s skill. The Head Trainer was slammed to the ground with several whacks of the blade against the armour of his spine. He had clipped the fierce tribute with his own swipes but clearly not enough to complete the spar rounds on his feet. Ajax whacked the blade in one final hit against the armour of the neck, almost in an executioner’s motion.

Next, the fifth spar round put the Head Trainer to shame. Less than a minute had run by and the brute had Nereidus pinned on the floor, the blade of his sword poking through the small holes in his face guard. A squad of Peacekeepers had to approach to ensure there had been no damage.

Head Gamemaker Sorentius was undoubtedly transfixed by the sight. His bulging yes, dyed with a crimson red, had been glued to Ajax and anticipating the countdown of the timer as he believed there was not enough time to witness such sheer power from his star puppet. He craved more.

“I believe we have our victor, Sorentius.” His counterpoint’s voice beamed from over his shoulder. The Head Gamemaker held a cold glass of red wine to his thin lips. They tutted in a silent delight at the taste of the rich liquid, yet his eyes were just as satisfied.

“We shall see.” Sorentius proclaimed with a tilt of his chin.

*****

Glitch was up next.

The uneven climbing structure is what caught her eye. Its specific existence, as she had discussed with Mac during training, must have been important. So, with the time ticking, she began her ascent.

The first five feet up were no problem, as Glitch only had to simply hold onto the metal curves and hoist her way up throughout the lines and the steps. As the structure began to mesh in its design, as she had already observed, was where the challenge laid ahead. Glitch wrapped her arm around a sloped rail and mounted her way up ahead, slipping on the metal surface.

Seven minutes had run by and Glitch was almost at the halfway point. Her arms were buckling and her whole body was dangling as she clutched onto a wobbling beam and gasped, holding her body around as though not to fall. She extended her leg to cross onto the nearest step but she strained at the effort, as it was a relatively far reach, and she was being moved around.

Glitch whipped her head back at the viewing platform. Some of the Gamemakers had already turned away to chatter or to collect drinks. But the Head Gamemaker was still watching. Glitch wanted nothing but to curl into her mother’s arms and give up but there was no such opportunity. His eyes were judging her. And so, she risked a jump forward.

Luckily, Glitch landed on the step and with a breath of relief, picked up her pace as she hoisted herself further up the structure. She had only five minutes remaining. The top was a mere ten feet above, and all she had to do was hurry. And so, Glitch clambered her way forward but shouted out as the walkway she placed her feet on jolted downwards. She tried to grasp onto the rail but it was too late. Her fingers only managed a quick grab before they slipped and she tumbled down.

Glitch landed on the safety net on the floor with a thud. She looked over worriedly at the Gamemakers and quickly tried to lift herself back up and attempt another climb on the structure. As soon as she set her hand on the bar, Sorentius Thespane’s voice rung out above her.

“You may leave now, thank you. I believe we have seen enough.”

With a sigh of despair, Glitch sunk her head down and walked over towards the exit. The unimpressed tones of the Gamemaker’s voices and the four minutes still remaining on the timer left her finding the door with a chest heavy with disappointment.

*****

The Gamemakers were particularly perplexed by Mac’s demonstration during his private session. Unlike most tributes whom would utilise the space of the gymnasium to display their proficiency in any of the weapons or items provided, Mac was sat with his knees crossed in front of them.

He had been fiddling with perhaps the most random objects of all: a lemon, a few strings of wire, and a few matches. He stuck two matches through the tough skin of the lemon first, wrapping the coils of wire around them. The boy then arranged a pattern that crossed wire between lemon and added more of the fruit to create a strange chain of sorts.

A few mutters and suggestions to end the session early were voiced due to the sheer confusion, randomness; and the anticlimactic demonstration from the District Three boy. But Sorentius insisted he wanted to see where the boy was going with this. There must have been reason to the madness.

In under ten minutes, Mac’s chain of lemon and wire and matches spanned about twelve feet and he dragged the line behind him as he finally stood and walked. He picked up a small lightbulb which he attached to the wires, which in a few moments, began to spark with light. The coil began to hiss with electricity. The Gamemakers’ interest was finally perked.

Mac crossed over to a weaponry rick from which he picked a spear and began to wrap the chain around and tighten it over the metal. Then, with the spear in one hand a dummy in the other, he dragged himself over to the small pool in the corner of the gymnasium. He placed the spear beneath the bright blue water, the lights from the bulb and wire twinkling in a faint murk that even the Gamemakers could see.

Then, Mac simply tossed the dummy into the pool. Soon enough, it began to convulse and shake on its own. Dim sparks trickled over the surface of the pool. That’s where his display was finally realised. Mac’s skill of resourcefulness, his clever trap.

Mac left the assessment slightly proud of himself.

*****

The combat simulation was what Marina had dedicated a majority of her time during training on. So, it was certainly the place where she was going to spend her allocated fifteen minutes in front of the Gamemakers. And, it certainly paid off.

Marina was fast and she was strong. Her trident soared through the air and swung through the holograms with such force the pixels had little time to react to their defeat. She leaped backwards and threw her head down, narrowly missing a swipe that had jumped out at her and she thrust her trident forward. The spikes waved through the hologram, marking another victory. Out of breath and sweating heavily, Marina had no time to waste on her exertion. Another target was pouncing towards her. She threw her trident with a tough jab of her arm, watching it flail through the air and leave the hologram to glitch away back into the light.

However, she had no time to celebrate. Another hologram melted from the corner and lunged towards her. Unarmed, all Marina could do was sprint. And so, she did, picking up her pace and swerving abruptly at close swipes that were flung her way. One pixellated knife bounced over her shoulder and the light vibrated over her skin.

The chase lasted a few minutes, as the girl bolted through the gymnasium in a commendable pace that, soon enough, began to slow her in her tracks. She ducked and rolled as the hologram caught up to her, laying on her back and then firmly kicking the pixels as they approached her. The target accordingly faltered, which gave Marina a moment to hoist herself back onto her feet and run.

She reached her dropped trident with a quick sprint, picking it in her grasp and launching it through the air without hesitation. It landed right through the torso area of the hologram, diminishing the pixels away as the weapon landed on the mat with a pop. The lights around the platform turned green. The robotic voice announced: “Simulation Attempt 1 Passed. Minimal injuries sustained. Score 8/10.”

Panting heavily but straightening herself in front of the Gamemakers, Marina sighed pleasantly. She contained inside herself, a delighted and entertained laugh. The timer buzzed, her session was up. And the judges were definitely not bored.

*****

Calypso had decided to take his chances with fighting. He knew it was what the monsters watching him from above would be wanting anyway. The audience, as well as the Gamemakers whom had constructed that stage of hell, would be thirsty for it. Any show of violence would pump them with pleasure.

And so, that meant as much as he hated to, Calypso would give it to them. That’s why he crossed over to Nereidus and requested a sparring session as he knew it would at-least cast over some attention onto him. And that, it did.

All of the Gamemakers watched intently as Calypso struggled against the Head Trainer’s broad and heavy frame. His arms buckled as they pushed against Nereidus, and his neck was strained with the effort of fighting him. Calypso’s hair dripped with sweat, as he finally retracted his fist and swung it at Nereidus’s face, landing a solid punch on the cheek. The Head Trainer retaliated with an uppercut to the tribute’s ribs followed by a shove, knocking Calypso to the floor.

Nereidus towered over him but was set back by the sudden jerk of Calypso’s leg, his foot kicking at Nereidus’s shin. The Head Trainer groaned in surprise and stumbled backward, as Calypso seized the moment by rolling over back up to his feet, and charging at Nereidus. He tackled him to the matts on the floor, striking him in the face with his fist again. Calypso was thrown off balance and punched in the gut, but he smacked Nereidus in the throat causing him to choke, and Calypso then ran away.

Calypso quickly grabbed hold of a knife on a nearby rack, pouncing back at the Head Trainer and trapping him in an armlock. He held the blade against Nereidus’s neck, locking eyes with the intrigued Gamemakers on the viewing panel. The timer buzzed.

The wrestling club at school had paid off. Calypso did well.

*****

A consensus of disapproving sighs could be heard from the viewing panel as Volta entered the room for her assessment.

They had seen her during the three days of training. Cowering in the corners of the gymnasium, avoiding all of the other tributes, blatantly failing at most stations she did attempt. She looked no better then she had before either. Quivering hands, matted hair, bloodshot eyes.

Volta crossed over to the small assortment of tables allocated for the foraging display below the raised Gamemakers platform. Although she had not succeeded with this during training, it was the only aspect she could bother with trying. She observed two different piles of berries that were either blueberries or nightlock.

Volta had never had a blueberry before. How was she supposed to know?

She plucked a berry from the vine. Fumbling it in her fingers, attempting to examine its shiny black skin and spot the difference between the other cluster- Volta was confused. She didn’t have a clue. She’d seen the girl from Three correctly guess which were edible the first day of training. But Volta didn’t remember which was which.

An impatient cough from above alerted the girl that she was wasting time. The buzzer displayed almost three minutes had already gone by. Volta brushed the puzzled look off of her face and placed the cluster on the left on the plate. It glowed red, indicating these berries were indeed the very poisonous and very deadly nightlock, and her guess was wrong.

Volta considered munching on a handful of them to save herself from the embarrassment.

She moved over and sat down on the floor, taking a coil of rope into her jittering hands. For a few minutes she fumbled with the rope, blinking her eyes hurriedly as she tried to assemble a strong knot as she had seen other tributes do. Hers only left a weak and loopy hole at the end of the coil, slipping as she moved it.

Volta huffed, turning to the side and clutching at her temple as another wave of nausea washed over her. She almost retched as her head spun and the inadequate knot slumped on her lap.

Finally, to the relief of his colleagues, Sorentius spoke up with a professional tone that successfully hid his boredom and his grimace. “I think it’s best we end this session early. You may leave.”

Volta practically staggered out of the room.

*****

Ion was determined to prove his worth.

Although he certainly didn’t possess a commendable prowess, Ion’s efforts were not in vain. In a five minute spar with Nereidus, he managed two jabs of a dagger blade to near-critical areas over the Head Trainer’s armour.

Ion groaned as a baton was whacked over his arm he held up in defence, and then at the collision of the baton over his side. He swerved backwards, swiping the dagger towards Nereidus but missing wildly. The second spar round was off to a shaky start.

Ion yelped as Nereidus grabbed him by his shirt and thrust him backward, raising his baton for another hit. The boy ducked and jabbed his dagger, lodging the blade slightly into the baton to keep it from thwarting him again. He took this brief distraction to punch Nereidus in the ribs, pulling the dagger out and jumping out towards Nereidus. With a shaky but tight swing, Ion  clanged the blade against the shoulder of the Head Trainer’s armour.

The baton was swiftly struck over Ion’s head, declaring the round to a finish. Ion had lost the fight again, yet still, he was confident that he had shown off decent fighting abilities. Most of the Gamemakers were still looking.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Ion mounted the climbing structure and ascended his way upward. He knew the way to reach the top now- reaching his way efficiently through the obstacles. and if his combat didn’t impress the them, then this would.

*****

Kia had settled for the only skill that she had actually been good at throughout training. Unsurprisingly, it was camouflage. She only had fifteen minutes so she knew that she had to be quick, as her rushed movements left her work rather flimsy but she still persevered as she picked up the case.

She had applied a layer of wet mud all over her body, slathering it over her skin and holding her breath as the earthy scent flooded her nostrils. It took time and effort, ensuring that every sign that she was a human was concealed. Of course, below the lingering gaze of the Gamemakers, Kia didn’t have to do very much at all to be viewed as something that wasn’t human; that wasn’t a person.

With the time ticking, Kia pulled her shy shoulders forward and stood up to collect the tray of foliage to complete her disguise. She hurriedly stuck patches of moss over her body, sticking leaves to the mud. She dressed herself up in the nature that was so rare to come by back home in Six, and the nature she was terrified that she was probably never going to see in her life again.

Or worse, the nature that would be twisted and perverted into whatever hellish landscape was in store for her in the arena.

She laid against the model wall that had been pushed up close. She shut her eyes, feeling the mud stick like a goopy glue over her body. Kia had, indeed, blended right into the mud and leaves that she was trying to hide in. A few of the Gamemakers even lifted themselves from their seats to squint closer and find the tribute’s figure within her brilliant camouflage.

The timer buzzed. Her eyes shot back open and Nereidus approached Kia, handing her a towel. “There’s a shower down the hall after the exit.” He exclaimed, as she shyhly nodded and took the towel in her grasp, walking out of the gymnasium.

As she left, Kia giggled at the thought that Chicago and Venice would have loved to see her disguise herself so well, begging her to teach them in their games of hide and seek.

That’s all the arena would be, Kia tried to convince herself as she located the small shower room down the hall and patted all of the foliage off of herself. A game of hide and seek.

She just could not afford to be found.

*****

The peculiar scent of the earth struck Cyprian as he entered the room for his assessment. It caught him completely by surprise. The gymnasium had always been so sterile, so cold, almost clinical. The last thing he expected to sense was dirt.

The explanation was found as he saw the patch of mud, leaves, and moss littered over the floor. Kia must have camouflaged for her session. He knew she must have gone invisible, and that cheered him up from his creeping nerves as he approached the viewing platform.

“I’m Cyprian Hargrove, from District Six.” He declared, struggling to make eye contact with the judges. They looked down on him like a piece of dirt on their shoes, or a circus monkey. Some of them were starting to turn their backs and indulge on a large banquet behind them for dinner. The excitement of the Careers’ sessions had passed, the evening was starting to move to the outlying remainder of the second half of the tribute round-up. The Gamemakers were starting to get bored, and Cyprian’s gut clenched in his stomach as he tried desperately to conjure thoughts of how to keep them interested.

Head Gamemaker Sorentius Thespane was right there, in the flesh, watching him. Sorentius’s dyed red eyes burned down onto the tribute. He was waiting to see what the forgettable scrawn was going to show him. His sleek fist held onto a worn notebook, as Sorentius placed a pen into a slit within his black hair, that was lined with artificial streaks of a snow-white.

Looking back and forth between the camouflage resources and Sorentius Thespane’s notebook, an idea struck Cyprian of how to keep those pages written. Cyprian’s initial plan was to show off his talent of disguise. But Kia had already done that herself, they wouldn’t want to see too much of the same skill across the field and certainly not one that wasn’t as eye-catching. They’d only grow more bored. Cyprian abandoned his plan moved over to the corner of the room to the reflex station.

He pushed the button and stepped onto the track. He had only attempted this station twice throughout training, and both times he wished he had done better. Cyprian only hoped he’d do the best now, because it mattered.

A hologram burst from the ground behind him. Cyprian immediately sprinted away, darting all over the track to create distance between him and his pixellated pursuer. This worked for the first two minutes, as Cyprian successfully demonstrated his very fast pace as he ran all over the track, dodging and weaving when the hologram got near. But his lungs began to burn in exhaustion, as his legs slowed and the hologram figure caught up.

A gust of wind caught in the boy’s throat as he saw the glowing yellow figure narrowly skim the back of his shoulder. He was almost caught. Cyprian pushed through the exertion and kept sprinting, his legs buckling as the time passed and the hologram was practically breathing down his neck. The figure zapped away from existence once the five minute mark was reached. Cyprian dropped his hands on his knees and bent down to heavily pant and regain some breath. He looked over back to the platform, pleased that most of the Gamemakers were actually still watching. Taking greedy bites of their roasted meat, but still watching at-least.

Next, the hologramic obstacles popped out. Large pixellated planks zoomed through the air and barelled towards Cyprian. Barely having had the time to catch his breath after his sprint, the boy narrowly threw himself to the side and just about avoided contact. He had to duck and pull himself to the floor as another hologramic plank shot towards him.

His body squeezed by exertion, Cyprian pulled himself forward and took a quick leap as the hologram sailed on foot level. He had to run again, for a few moments across the track, and as he saw the light approach- Cyprian risked the moment he had to quickly stop and turn his body sideways. The planks passed him on either side. The station glowed green as the simulations faded away and the robotic voice announced: ‘Reflex Simulation Attempt 1 Passed. Score: 9/10.’

Cyprian took a few seconds to finally rest, holding his hand to his beating chest and panting. But he wasted no time as a victorious smirk rewarded his face for his outstanding reflexes.

And the Gamemakers were still watching, too. Sorentius Thespane was scribbling in his notebook. Cyprian departed, nervous but happy, in solace at the fact that the pages were written and they were still interested.

Chapter Text

Birch had stressed over what to show during her private assessment. Her thoughts swirled over demonstrating her competence at climbing, or how to identify toxic plants. But she had to consider- climbing would probably take up the entire session. The foraging skill was probably too on the boring side for the Gamemakers. Although Birch knew as good as she was at those things, they likely could not reward her with a decent training score. Oaklan had advised attracting attention both in training and with the audience-catered image.

So, she sauntered over to the assembly of weaponry racks provided. Her fingers gripped over the handle of a hatchet as Birch stepped forward and let the small blade dangle by her side as she made her way towards the target practice dummies.

Exhaling a deep breath, she arched the hatchet back and swung. The dummie at the end of the track whooshed forward but was stopped soon on its way as the blude cut into its vinyl arm. It kept moving, giving Birch only a few moments to find her next move. And so she did, by quickly grabbing onto another nearby hatchet and sending it whizzing through the air. Only four feet from approaching the tribute, the dummy definitely stopped in its tracks this time as the blade lodged into its chest.

Birch allowed a victorious assurance wash over her to calm her anxiety as she felt the grinding weight of her judges’ eyes hover over her. That was a good shot, and she had to score more.

The girl’s wielding with a hatchet was nothing impressive but it didn’t let her down. Her throws were slightly off balance but they were accurate enough with most hits, landing near-critical areas over the dummies. Her timing was somewhat slow but she compensated with the velour of her strike. Birch was clearly a girl who didn’t know too much of her way around an axe back home, but with intent practice, she definitely got familiar.

Nearing the end of the timer, a button was spontaneously pressed and a pixelated figure from the simulation station sprang into action. Caught entirely by surprise, Birch couldn’t but gasp and chucked her hatchet forward, but it whizzed past the figure.

It seemed as though the Gamemakers wanted to really test her.

Unable to think on her feet, Birch grabbed another hatchet by the rack and sprinted away as the hologram bolted faster towards her. A sharp shard of air caught in her lungs as she hastily made her way to the large, peculiar climbing structure. She leaped quickly onto it, pulling herself up through the bars and the curves.

The girl had made it a good five feet up before the hologram figure chased its way to the base. Having no choice but to evade, Birch scrambled further up the structure but yelped and threw her hands onto the side as the platform jolted downwards and almost threw her off. Her hands gripped tight on the bar, her knuckles, as Birch’s feet dangled off of the platform. She could see the illuminated yellow glow of the predatory hologram flicker closer.

It was coming too close. There wasn’t enough time to propel herself back onto the platform. The Gamemakers were watching and there were only twenty seconds left on the countdown. Birch felt her stomach lurch before she swung her hatched back, aimed, and launched it down.

The blade sailed through the air and flailed against the head of the hologram, the pixels bursting back to nothing, as the hatchet thudded against the safety net of the climbing structure.

Birch had passed the test.

*****

To put it simply, Rory was livid.

Rage was nothing new for him, of course, but when his turn for the private assessment rolled around- his scorned reluctance morphed into refusal. He could barely even will himself to enter back into the doors to the training gymnasium.

They sat there, above him, literally looking down on him. Sipping on cocktails, savouring their bites of roast beef. Their disinterested eyes lighting up only slightly in curiosity as they stared down at him. Waiting for him to do as he was told and perform for them.

Rory crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenched, as he stepped below the viewing platform. The purple bruise from the brute boy from Two, seemed to gloss over his cheek as the fluorescent lights shone over it. He had hoped it would anger the Gamemakers. He had broken their rules with fighting before the Games, after all. He was defiant.

But as the angry boy stood there, not moving and not announcing his name as he was supposed to, the reaction of his masters was not what he had anticipated. Not what he had hoped. They seemed almost… excited. Intrigued. What was this impulsive, brooding lumberjack going to do next?

And Rory showed them exactly what he was going to do next. He collected two cans of paint from the camouflage station, then a group of dummies, then a variety of axes. It took him over half the session’s time to set up, as Sorentius had to squint his eyes and tilt his chin at exactly what the tribute was getting at for so long, what it was he was doing.

Rory finally positioned the dummies on the track, getting ready with his axes as he squeezed his fist and positioned his back in a prepared stance. Two flung forward and wheeled across the track, and Rory did not fail to deliver his usual prowess they had seen the past few days. He contained a commendable prowess with his axe. Didn’t miss a beat, didn’t falter.

As his session drew to a close, Rory had demonstrated exactly what the Gamemakers wanted. They wanted to be impressed, to be excited. They wanted a show. And they got one.

All of the dummies had been seized and slain. Disembodied vinyl limbs were strewn all over the floor, foamy flesh scattered like confetti. The blades of Rory’s axes made their hits in all of the critical areas and he had certainly proven this prowess.

Sorentius Thespane gasped, and he heard a colleague’s martini glass drop to the floor beside him. He rose from his seat, red eyes wide, mouth parted open in astonishment. The practice dummies which were now either buried in the blade of an axe, ripped apart and disembodied – or even completely destroyed – showed what the camouflage paint was for. What the long set-up was for.

A multitude of the dummies were smeared in white, with messy black masks. At-least that’s what the Head Gamemaker could make out from most of what was left of them. Another dummy was covered in streaks of charcoal and black paint. A long blade had torn large, open holes all throughout the dummy body and had left the neck cleanly cut, but not quite. Leaving the head barely dangling off the body, the vinyl skin squeaking. The disembodied head had two red eyes smudged on the face. It didn’t take a whole lot of time to figure whom that was supposed to represent.

Rory simply chucked his axe and let it clatter to the floor as he walked out of the room without acknowledging the Gamemakers. They wanted a show, and they got it. They would just hate it, he saw the way their mouths dropped and they stood still in place. Like deers in headlights.

Seeing their expressions did indeed soften Rory’s rage as he made his way out of the gymnasium, where you could now hear a pin drop.

******

It was quite apparent that somebody had forgot to notify the next tribute that their session would be delayed by a few minutes, as when Lilah entered the room for her assessment it seemed as though nobody was expecting her.

Avoxes were still in the middle of a hasty clean, throwing torn dummy limbs into bin bags and sweeping scattered foam from the floor, wiping off sloppy spills of paint. As she looked up, Lilah could also see the air in the Gamemakers viewing platform was tense. Drinks had been spilled, a hot banquet was ignored. A trembling Avox was on her knees scraping glass shards from around the Head Gamemaker’s feet. The Head Gamemaker himself was angry, his pale face strained and his dyed red eyes narrowed. He was in a panicked conversation with a few of his colleagues, as many of them had gathered around Sorentius in concern and bewilderment.

Lilah stepped right below the podium, looking up at them, but her presence was still left unnoticed. Her face fell with confusion and awkwardness as she cleared her throat loudly to no avail. She lifted an eyebrow and tried to listen in to what the Gamemakers were so worked up about.

Unfortunately, Lilah was not granted the luxury of such an important eavesdrop. Head Trainer Nereidus spotted the girl and loudly announced this to his higher-ups above. Sorentius whipped his head around, in an angry and impatient daze and found Lilah’s face in the gymnasium below. He whispered a few words to his colleague and then sat back down in his seat, flipping open his notebook, as the rest followed suit.

“Uh, I’m Lilah Quilt, I’m from District Eight.” The girl stated, reluctantly, and then moved to collect the resources for her display. A mannequin, three ropes, a few large sticks, and a first-aid kit. She began by tying each of these ropes to the sticks she placed in the dirt pit in the fire-making station as quickly as she could. Eventually, she weaved and intertwined these rips into the pattern of a net which she placed on the dirt pit and began to cover with the soil.

As some perplexed faces looked back her way, Lilah threw the dummy over this spot. The homemade net instantly sprung from the pit and snapped into a tight ball, suspended in the air as Lilah had also tied to the roof of the station. The target was indeed tricked and trapped.

Then, glancing hurriedly at the timer, Lilah picked up a knife and stabbed it into the stomach of the mannequin. Sliding it back out, she turned to the medkit and flipped it open.

“Now, if I myself received this type of injury,” Lilah said, “This is what I’d do.” She released the dummy from her trap and a pressed a cloth against the hole of its vinyl skin, keeping the foam in, and lightly dabbed it with a smear of ointment from the kit.

“I don’t have enough time now to show how I can stitch it up, but for short term,” Lilah continued, “You can disinfect the wound and bandage it up like this.” She spun around the dummy quickly and wrapped a clean bandage around its torso, tucking it into a neat and withstanding band to secure it over the wound in tempo with the buzzer.

Lilah huffed, clutching onto the hem of her shirt. It was finally over. Hopefully, it must have been worthy enough for a score her mentors would approve of. Given how flustered the Gamemakers were when she first walked in, though, Lilah figured they must have appreciated anything at that point.

*****

Oxford was not entirely sure how he would demonstrate what it was that he wanted to in the training gymnasium. There were plenty of supplies at his disposal, sure, but most of them suggested a competence in physical abilities. However, Oxford was more confident in how he could fight with his mind.

He contemplated the risk of asking the question, he thought it was worth to what he could gain. Oxford stepped towards the Gamemakers platform, his hands crossed in front of himself respectfully, and he took the risk.

“May I propose a more verbal sort of demonstration instead of a more physical one?” He asked politely.

Head Gamemaker Sorentius raised a thinly sculpted, refined eyebrow. “Verbal?”

Oxford nodded. “Yes, I would please like to show you more so a presentation, of a tactful map of mine. I have an analytical skill. If that is still alright, sir?” His voice faltered in a quiet disdain at the last word but yet, as it had been somewhere said, you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar.

The tribute’s question was answered by the judge’s slight nod. And so, Oxford began. He dragged a cluster of practice dummies out to right below the viewing platform, followed by an assortment of different weapons he placed by the sides of each dummy.

“I am assuming that both public opinion and your professional impression is doting largely on the Career alliance. Especially Ajax, from District Two.” He exclaimed, pointing to the mannequin at the front of the cluster with a large machete within its grasp.

“I have seen him on the footage of his reaping, and during training. He is very intimidating and very remarkable with his strength and combat abilities, so-“ Oxford’s observation was cut short as Sorentius leant over to directly address the tribute.

“Where are you going with this? This session is about you, not the other tributes.”

Oxford nodded, holding his hand out in bargain. “This ties into my predictions. I’m providing an analysis and deduction of my competition and I will explain how I could beat them. I will prove this in the arena.”

Without another signal of protest, the concentrated boy carried on. “But we all see his fight with the other boy yesterday. He has a short temper that does not balance with his high ego. Just like the rest of the alliance. My prediction is, either they’ll grow tired of Ajax by day five – or he will of them, think he’s too good. He will probably even try to wipe them out himself.”

Oxford picked up the machete by the mannequin at the front and slashed the blade into three of the other dummies by his side. “That outlines a fragile alliance threatened by arrogance. A star tribute who is too reckless to think straight. He’s weaker than he looks.”

“Then that leaves the other high-favoured tributes. The pairs from Districts Ten and Seven seem to be doing well.” Oxford continued, gesturing to the dummies with axes and sickles. “The girl will fare well with sponsors, but prove herself incompetent when it comes to real combat. The boy will refuse any alliance and he himself is very volatile, and capable. He’ll stand as a target and an enemy not only to the Career tributes but also the others. If he’s found, he’ll be brought down soon enough.” Oxford slammed a knife into the throat of the dummy.

“Lleyn and Bronco from District Ten are very close. He will likely protect her as much as he can, get himself killed doing so, and then she’ll die later on. So that’s them out.” Oxford flicked another knife to the mannequin’s stomach. He stepped out of his immersive graph and back towards the panel, as the Gamemakers were actually listening to him with unreadable expression on their faces.

“And I know what the likely tactics of all of them will be. The Careers will fight tooth and nail. Three will try to outsmart the field and plant traps, Six will hide and ambush. Seven will climb and slash. Eleven will lurk by and stab.” Oxford declared, “But I know what they’re banking on. I will sabotage whomever I can come across. I can bargain and I can trick, and I can trap. Steal food from the Career tributes to create tension, lead Seven’s anger to a trap. Program Three’s plots against them.”

He held his arms towards his diagram of dummies on the floor. “I can strategize how their downfall can become my victory.”  

Oxford knew that he had to put his money where his mouth was. He had all twenty-three of his competitors down, and now he would prove to the Gamemakers that he knew what about them could actually prove himself as the star tribute. The victor.

*****

Zea had no idea what she would demonstrate in her private session with the Gamemakers. It had been a topic of discussion over the dinner table with her mentors, and when she was huddled in the corners of the training gymnasium with Clearfell. Yet still, she had no idea.

She could list all of the stations she had frequented – both combat and survival. She now knew how to ignite a small campfire with twigs and batteries, how to dress a simple graze wound, how to jab a knife in the right direction and how to dodge a hit. Even so, Zea still felt like she had not picked up any skill well enough to determine her score, and thus her sponsors.

So, Zea decided she’d stick to what she knew in her roots. She grabbed a bundle of wheat, a few corn stems, a rope, and a dagger and got to her demonstration. It didn’t take too long, as she simply held both the stacks of wheat and corn together with the rope and took some time to intricately slice into them. This is what they did out by the wheat and the corn fields, to fend off predators from the crops. Although the Wheatley family had the privilege of most of their work taking place indoors of the bakery, they used this very tactic to scare away the raccoons from the meagre patch of vegetables that grew in their garden.

When she was done, Zea held out each manipulated bundle towards her masters on the panel. She had cut at specific angles with each one so there would be a sharp point. Yet of course, these small edges were as sharp as blades but hidden in plain sight. Zea gently poked the tip of her finger at the jut of a corn stem, drawing back a prickle of red blood.

“I, er, I could use something like this as a trap. M-maybe even a weapon.” Zea stammered, standing up as she slammed the corn stem against a dummy, and the wheat sticks against another, as the sharp edges piercing vinyl skin. “I- it would be a good way to take advantage of the landscape.”

With four minutes still left ticking, but her demonstration demonstrated, there was little more to know. Sorentius Thespane got the picture, he wasn’t entirely disappointed or disinterested, but he didn’t need to see any more. “I see. We may end your session now.”

Self-doubt leering at her chest, Zea meekly nodded and made her way towards the exit. They might not have been blown away, but she stuck to their rules in a way that left her with her own dignity and her own beliefs.

There was no display of savagery or aggression, only preparation and defence. The power of defence was a tactic and a philosophy that Zea knew was understated but must have been appreciated. Must have been respected. Zea convinced herself that was what could get her by.

*****

The simulated hologram glitched and zapped away into thin air, seeing as Clearfell’s scythe had made contact, and he turned and thrust himself forward to fight off another. The figure lit over the boy’s arm and then honed onto his chest. The lights in the station flicked to an orange glow, as a robotlike voice announced: “Simulation Attempt 1 Failed. Injury sustained. Score: 5/10.”

Clearfell bit his lip in frustration and then the bite simmered over to unease as his judges hovered over him. He could not afford to come short in this display, not now. He pressed the button for another round, swallowed a deep breath, and steadied his legs.

A hologram pounced out from the side. He whipped around and swerved, the blade of his scythe jutting through the target’s neck. Another ran forward from a couple of metres away. Clearfell had just enough time to drop to his knees and avoid the incoming dash of a hologramic sword, but he pelted his scythe from underneath up, striking the hologram through the ribs.

Hardly even having had a moment to catch a breath, Clearfell yelled out as he rapidly jumped out from the floor and had to spring himself back up and run from the sudden pursuit. The blinks of light behind him were fast, inching towards him. When he felt it right behind him and the threat of another fail presented itself, Clearfell’s hammering heartbeat couldn’t allow anymore. In an instant, he dropped down onto the floor and he felt the hologram vibrate over him and collapse down also.

Clearfell extended the tactic as he quickly took hold of his scythe, pounced over and swung it at the target. It swiped through the head of the yellow pixels until they just buzzed away. Clearfell darted his head around, panting, expecting another challenge his lungs couldn’t bare. The simulation station was empty, and it dimmed under the green light that emanated.

“Simulation Attempt 2 Passed. Score 8/10.”

The announcement puzzled Clearfell. He had a strong, leanly toned body due to his labour in the fields. It helped him know how to swipe with that scythe well, too. But that was the furthest extent in what was District Nine of him, that he had learned. That urgency to stab fast, and that thrilling beat of his heart was all new. It was all now. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

The faces leering at Clearfell on the viewing platform seemed pleased enough, tickling a sense of calm to him, but there was still more time to the session. Just about three minutes. After feeling such a fast, rapid sense he figures he needed something more grounded. More calm. As Clearfell crossed over to the camouflage station, even if it didn’t matter much as his display, he picked up the soil and started covering.

As he smoothed down the mud over his skin, Clearfell thought this way he could be invisible too. Wouldn’t that be the best way to be, in the arena? Unseen? Untraced? Hidden. He began to spread a layer of leaves when the buzzer sounded.

The peculiar urge to ground himself to the camouflage station perplexed Clearfell. But it didn’t matter anyway, could have scored him a couple extra points in variety. Still, Clearfell liked the calm it consumed him in.

He left back up towards the nineth floor of the Tribute Tower, strangely docile.

*****

Lleyn couldn’t care less what those vultures up on that platform thought of her.

If it was up to her, she have picked up one of those long spears on the rack and sent it launching right up at that ugly Head Gamemaker’s smug, plastic face. But of course, Lleyn had too much to lose if she were to act on such burning desires. She didn’t care about what they thought of her, and she detested having to perform for those nasty fucks- but she had no choice. Not if she wanted any chance of seeing Rex again.

Rex’s little face is what Lleyn kept glued in her mind, a touch of warmth to her icy heart throughout the entire week. It was what had kept her going, and it was what she hoped would thrive her forward during that session.

So, the young mother let her memory guide her body as her assessment commenced. The thought of feeling her son’s weight around her arms as she held him, is what pushed Lleyn to land an angry, hard strike in the pit of a dummie’s chest. Reliving the sound of Rex’s innocent giggles is what pushed Lleyn to rise from the floor, swerve and pounce back at Nereidus with the swipe of her sickle blade to the armour of his neck. Imagining the warmth of that sweet little boy’s soft head against her chest, feeling his breaths when they’d huddle in bed as night fell: is what helped Lleyn earn the collision of her fist against the Head Trainer’s stomach.

She groaned and jumped back as Neredius’s baton whacked across her elbow. She lifted her arm to aim another hit with her sickle but he shoved her backwards with his shoulder, causing the tribute to yell out and fall flat onto the matts. Lleyn glanced at the clock, seeing that her time was almost up. She could not afford to finish her fifteen minutes knocked back on her ass.

Then, a strange strength consumed Lleyn as she instantly jumped back up from the floor and charged at Nereidus. Leaping onto him, the trainer was caught by surprise as he stumbled backwards and threw the tribute off of him. When she fell, Lleyn slammed her sickle blade into the armour over Nereidus’s leg. She then stood back up, and whacked it as the sickle clanged over his torso.

Nereidus then caught Lleyn’s arm as she went for another swing, twisted it backwards, and thrust the baton over her spine. The timer rang. Lleyn looked back at him and then at the Gamemakers and released a guttural sigh of frustration.

Sinister thoughts began to pollute her brain. What if she didn’t fight hard enough, try hard enough, to earn a chance at getting back to her son?

*****

The arrow whistled and smacked against the target with a loud thud. It was only two inches from where a heart would be on the mannequin, and probably Bronco’s best shot ever yet. He let the bow tense against his shoulder as he draw the arrow back in the string, squinting his eye for another shot. And so, Bronco landed a decent one as the next arrow pierced into the mannequin’s side.

Next, Bronco pressed a button as a dummy shot forward from the tracks. Without missing a beat, the boy slid the bowstring back and fired. The arrow flew right past the target, which was charging ahead closer and closer.

Bronco’s eyes widened at the sudden miss, as he positioned another arrow against the bow with haste. He squinted, letting his weapon tense and weight in his arms. The dummy was only five feet in front of him now. Bronco took a shot. The arrow sliced into the marking of the target’s vinyl collarbone.

Setting the bow and quiver of arrows back down onto the weaponry rack, Bronco huffed as he realised he still had over six minutes remaining. He had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the sheer tediousness of the assessment, at how bored he was getting of the fear and the anger that tormented him as the Gamemakers gawked over him. Ready to diminish his name to a score and a body full of blood for their entertainment.

However, it was good to know both they know and now both Bronco knew- that he wasn’t half bad. He had a real shot at this, he was quick on his feet and he would not back down with a fight. If these parts about him were what would keep Lleyn safe, Bronco continued the act.

He wielded a sword in his hand, it was light but lengthy in size and curved down the middle. He clutched the handle tight as he stepped into the simulation station. Two bright yellow figures spawned across the floor. Already programmed to take any tribute down, they didn’t waste a moment to pounce.

Bronco pounced back. He wasn’t flawless and he wasn’t without need of more practice, but Sorentius Thespane’s puppet still gave a good show. The whooshes of blade to end life, to Bronco, were practically muscle memory. He charged across the floor and fought shakily, but he fought well. The curved sword charged through the pixels, slaying his targets just enough to earn a green light and the satisfied nods of his judges.

Bronco realised he wasn’t half-bad in his nature for these Games, not at all. If he was to be that “dark horse” the city seemed so excited over, then so be it.

******

In all truth, Fauna wasn’t scared at all. Every nerve that gnawed at her chest as she made her way towards the gymnasium had dissipated once she realised she had nothing to be nervous of. Galloping in the trees like a bird in flight was second nature. It was nothing she didn’t know how to do, how to do excellently, both back in the apple orchards and in the tree suffocated in the sunless and rainless basement of the Training Gymnasium.

Yes, the Gamemakers’ eyes clung all over her like sticky sap that would leak out of damaged bark if she slid too close. But it really was no different. All Fauna had to do was exactly what she had been doing for half of her life, and for practically the entirety of her training.

And she did it with expected ease. She shot herself up the large, sturdy tree with the efficiency of a squirrel. The base was difficult as always, but by now Fauna had learned to straddle and slide her way up until she could clamber up the branches. Over the course of only a few minutes the girl had scurried her way up near to the highest canopy, hardly breaking out a breath.

Once Fauna stuck her head out through the foliage, it was she who was now looking down at the Gamemakers, at the masters and the judges of her fate.  From her high position clutching on a sloping branch, it was hard to make out what their impressions were. It was also hard to see the timer, but Fauna felt that she had been pretty fast in her ascent and she remembered what Aunt Seeder had instructed her that morning: “Use up every minute of that session to show them how good you are, sweet. How embarrassed they should be that they’d ever underestimate you. How much you have to offer.”

And so, Fauna did. There was time left, and she could use it to illustrate her talent. She took a few moments to steady herself on the branch in the high canopy, hearing it whine under weight. And she took the risk. She leaped out of the tree and propelled herself to the other model tree beside it.

Fauna felt her lungs drop as she pounced through the air but she quickly threw her head sideways and braced out her arms as she landed on the outlying branch of the other tree. The girl’s body slammed slightly onto the tough wood and she had to scramble to secure her arms and legs around the branch so she wouldn’t fall.

But it was done. It was over a five foot jump, and she could have easily gone flailing and dropping through the foliage over to the matts on the floor. But she didn’t, she had made it.

The Gamemakers had clearly seen this too, as when Fauna looked over at the black-clad group on the platform a few faces had been left aghast.

It was done. Fauna had made it.

*****

Huck, on the other hand, was not feeling quite so confident once it was his turn next after his district partner’s session had ended.

His aim was off, his prowess was hardly substantial, and his patience was paper-thin. Huck inheld a groan of humiliation as his thrown spear practically only wavered in the air and whizzed right past the dummy target. A low bellow of chuckles sounded from the Gamemaker’s viewing platform and most of the Gamemakers turned to each other for conversation and a refill on their drinks.

Picking up another spear and holding it out by his side, Huck shook his head and tried to concentrate. He had remembered something about an expert mentioning to establish a solid aim and to throw where the aim was. Yet clearly, his re-enaction of the advice had come to no avail. However, taking a glance back at the judges, Huck’s face strained.

He turned to the dummy, ten feet away. He felt his arm tense and buckle slightly under the spear which he had lifted to head-level. The boy placed his leg forward and prepared his stance, his dark eyes etching into the red circle target over the dummy’s chest. Huck withdrew the spear slightly backwards and then launched it into the air.

The blade finally pierced the mannequin, but it only grazed its abdomen and went clattering down to the ground in tempo with Huck’s unrestrained groan. Her cursed out loud and stomped over to the next rack to pick up a knife. The boy had barely touched the handle before a voice spoke up.

“I believe we have seen enough. You may leave the session.” The Head Gamemaker’s voice declared as without another second spared on the tribute, he turned around and watched an Avox fill his glass with sparkling champagne before cackling at a colleague’s remark.

Huck chucked the knife back onto the rack with a clank and stomped out of the room, shaking his head and cursing to himself. If only they’d seen how great he’d deal and sell for Big O, Huck thought, then they definitely would have given him a top score.

*****

Dahlia basked in the warmth and glow of her creations.

As every tribute, she had only been assigned a maximum of fifteen minutes for her private assessment with the Gamemakers. But she had utilised her time rather productively and rather efficiently.

The small girl stood in the middle of four small campfires. Each one had been constructed and ignited from an array of different materials and resources. The first simply from dry wood and leaves. The second from flint and stones. The third from cotton balls and batteries. The fourth from wool and glass. Ultimately, it didn’t matter- they all burned the same.

Budding, growing clusters of flame that could all blend into one fiery dance. They were the warm colours of orange and yellow that Dahlia would see on the embers in Greasy Sae’s house, illuminating her olive skin against the harsh fluorescent lights of the gymnasium. The fires trickled around her soiled and rusted hands, the smoke filling up the room.

The Gamemakers waved their hands as the earthy smoke began to cloud their vision, as a Peacekeeper rushed over and sprayed the four campfires over with water to extinguish the flames.

But it didn’t matter. Dahlia left the room pleased that she had shown them something real of her, something she knew must have been boring but a fire anywhere could become useful, and in Twelve, as she knew; a fire could also be dangerous. She left pleased that the orange glow had swept against her and marked her hair with that familiar smoky smell she missed so dearly.

*****

The last tribute session with the Gamemakers was left to Salem. His burdening stress was halted to an anti-climax as once he entered the room, his judges seemed only a few moments away from snoring. He could see it on their refined faces. They were bored, they were tired. They had been here for too long and were just itching to go home.

“Salem Larkspur. District Twelve.” He announced as he stepped below their platform. Most managed to whip their heads around and peer at him whilst others had given up with their attention spans entirely. What excitement, what thrill could they see from a scrawny Twelve nobody, anyway?

Well, that nobody didn’t quite sink into the shadows. Salem was rapidly fast, whooshing his hands over the branches and the rope he had brought out towards the front by one of the model trees. His hands burned at the effort, prickling with splinters and straining at hard pulls but still, Salem did not slow down. Over a matter of minutes, the tribute had built one of the several clever snares he’d shown off all throughout the three days of training.

He pushed a mannequin forward, as it twisted and slouched at the impact of a wooden spike that impaled it through the leg, which had seemingly sprung out of nowhere. Then, Salem stood back. Out of the low-hanging foliage above the trap, a set of knives tied together into a secure bundle shot out from above. Each blade ruptured into the foamy flesh of the dummy’s head with a pop.

Salem, his hand tremoring behind his back with stress, allowed himself a breath of relaxation at the successful display of his snare ambush. He wished Haymitch was there to see it, to laugh obnoxiously and clap and cheer him on.

To his disappointment, when he looked back, nobody cheered. Hardly anyone on the panel was paying the tribute any mind, engrossed in their own conversations. A few even possessed the audacity to have their backs turned, picking at what was left of their banquet.

But Head Gamemaker Sorentius Thespane didn’t move his red eyes away, not once. He hardly ever allowed himself to break away from watching each of his puppets. His lips curled into a greedy smile. Salem was the last tribute to attend the private assessment. He was the last building block, the final touch, the last puppet to perform.

Sorentius had seen everything he had needed to see over the day. His notebook had been filled with pages of notes, notes that would be translated into the code of the arena by the end of the week.

Notes that would manifest into his puppets’ reality.

Chapter Text

Dinner on the second floor of the Tribute Tower was a rushed occasion, particularly for Tildessa and Ajax. The two career tributes paid little attention to what lay on their plates and the chatter of their team. They were too tense, too impatient, too excited.

Tildessa could barely even pick at the succulent lamb stew before her. It smelled divine. The meat was tender, the sauce was thick, the plums were juicy. But her bites at it felt hollow and distracted. Her eyes kept glancing at the clock on the wall, waiting for the training scores to be announced. She certainly wasn’t anxious or fearful of her result; not at all. Tildessa knew she had done exceptionally, but she just couldn’t wait to see what the Gamemakers made of her session.

Tildessa’s district partner, Ajax, mirrored her anticipation. His foot tapped impatiently on the marble floor, and his calloused hands tensed over his polished cutlery. He only swallowed mouthfuls of his stew to pass the time. It wasn’t as though he was nervous either. He would have squashed the Head Trainer if it weren’t for his armour. And Ajax saw just how pleased all those faces above him looked. But a need for validation did not go hand in hand with patience.

“The scores are being announced now. They’re live.” Severus declared as his golden eyes flicked to the watch on his wrist. “Everyone over to the lounge, now!”

The tribute pair didn’t have to be told twice. Tildessa and Ajax were the first to hurry over to the couches before the TV, as the screen zipped awake to reveal Caesar Flickerman’s elevated face. He was clad in his usual manicured wig and sparkly suit, with his signature charismatic smile. In his hands he clutched a stack of papers.

“Good evening, dear Panem! I am delighted to provide an exciting update on the progress of our round-up of tributes this year.” He beamed with perfect white teeth towards the camera. “As you know, after three days of careful and consistent evaluation our tributes concluded their training with private sessions with the Gamemakers. Of which, they would be ranked on a scale from One to Twelve.”

Brutus crossed his muscular arms over his chest as he glanced over at his tributes. “I expect no less than the higher end of the scale, or I’ll kill you before you make it to the arena myself.”

Ajax scoffed. “They can’t have been disappointed.” He said with a cocky grin, turning to see Sapphire’s face projected on the screen beside Caesar. A loud sing of the host’s voice aligned with the number 10 that flashed over her head. Elixion’s face followed, rewarded with the number 9.

“Not doing so bad, your friends, are they?” Ondine remarked as she bit into a cherry that she plucked out of her bubbly cocktail, “You will all be a deliciously unstoppable team.”

“They’re not our friends.” Tildessa stated flatly as she turned towards her stylist. “And I’m going to watch them in the arena. They’re strong, but they’re sly too.”

Lyme nodded and pointed to Elixion’s vanishing face on the screen. “Precisely. They’re not your friends, they’re your enemies. And you keep your enemies closer.”

“And Tildessa Slate from District Two,” Caesar’s voice blared through the speakers as the girl whipped her head towards the TV and gripped her knuckles into her knee, consumed with impatience. “With a score of… Ten!”

The room lit up with a proud cheer. Lyme even clapped and spared a half-smile towards her tribute, entirely unsurprised. Tildessa allowed a triumphant smirk to cross over her face as she saw the white numbers on the screen. She had indeed done exceptionally, as had been reflected with her score. She thought to her father and Mercia sitting on their small couch back home, how her father must have approved.

“Ajax Howard…” Caesar’s face tutted in suspense as he slowed his words, looked down at the paper in his hand, and back at the camera. “With a score of eleven.”

The proud cheer in the room only shone even brighter. Ondine even jumped from her seat to clap her hands loudly, spilling half of her cocktail in the process. “Sponsors will be falling over each other to dig their dimes into the pair of you!” Severus gushed, as Brutus howled and clapped his tribute on the back. Ajax simply laid back against the sofa and spread his arms, faced unmoved, as he released a content smirk. He knew that they would see his power.

Indeed, it was power that the fierce tributes from District Two possessed.

***

Seeder was scared of the score that would fall upon her niece. She knew that President Snow must have been aware of her rebellious involvements, her crimes against the government. She thought her subversive indiscretions had gone undetected until Fauna was reaped. It couldn’t have been by chance, by coincidence. Her niece’s fate as a tribute in the Hunger Games must have been a punishment to Seeder.

The victor chewed down on the inside of her cheek as the other tributes’ results played by. Her eyes darted back and forth between the TV as the district numbers ascended, and her niece sitting next to her. Seeder was terrified. What would the Gamemakers have ranked Fauna? They must have sabotaged her. An extremely low score that would annihilate any chance of sponsorship. A very high one that would mark her a target with her competitors and put her in danger.

All Seeder could do was wait and see. She turned to her niece sitting next to her on the couch. The thin girl had her hands clasped around a mug of hot ginger tea, clutching the handle tightly as her turn neared. Her eyes glazed over in self-doubt and then fear as she saw high scores flash.

“Huck, get over here.” Chaff ordered sternly as he waved over his tribute. “Ten had just gone, it’s your turn now.”

“Mm-hmm.” Huck mumbled in response as he stalked over from the dining room, munching on a glazed pastry. “Can’t wait for this shitshow.”

Fauna’s face ignited on the screen. After some brief filler commentary from Caesar, he straightened the paper in his hand and stared at the camera. “And now, concerning Fauna Lotus from District Eleven,” Caesar spoke, his speech in tempo with the widened eyes of Fauna and her aunt. Seeder placed a firm hand on her niece’s shoulder and Fauna’s eyes were glued to the screen, her knuckles strained over her mug handle.

“With a score of… seven.”

Fauna’s mouth dropped open in shock. Her grip on her hot mug loosened, and she stared at the glowing numbers over her head on the TV in a daze. Seeder shrieked in delight, wrapping her niece in a tight hug and kissing her deeply over the forehead. “Well done, my sweet. Well done. This is real good, they ain’t been hard on you.”

The mentor was filled with an ecstatic sense of relief. It was, however, tinged by a prick of confusion. Why did the Gamemakers provide Fauna with a decent score? Why was there no sabotage? For now, Seeder didn’t know. And for now, she would relish in this victory.

“Finally, this district is getting somewhere.” Plotemy Theodosia tutted, helping himself to a vine of fresh grapes from the coffee table. The escort huffed in a content manner, which turned to an annoyed one as Terephine plucked a grape from his vine and popped it into her mouth.

“Now, now, Plotemy. Let’s not be sly.” The stylist playfully berated, smiling over at Fauna. “This is a cause for praise.”

Huck’s turn was up next. He hardly shifted in his seat as he looked over at the screen and finished the last bite of his pastry. He didn’t care what the Gamemakers thought of him, what they scored him. This was all irrelevant, anyway. The actual Games were unpredictable, and he’d way his way through.

“Now Huck Parsley, with a score of three.” Caesar announced.

With a loud gasp, Huck piped up from his seat and tensed in his feet. “A three?” He cried, tensing his hand into a fist. “Hell no, that’s no fair. This is rigged!” It was apparent he did care what they thought of him, after all. How could they dare to embarrass him like this? Huck knew he was better than a low, shitty three.

“Are we sure we’ll still be doing any of that praise?” Plotemy tutted, picking apart his grapes and throwing a side-eye over to the bewildered tribute.

“What did you show them, Huck?” Chaff questioned with a tense frown. The boy scoffed and rolled his eyes, kissing his lips. “I threw some stupid spears, what it matter? That Head Gamemaker bastard just made this shit personal.” Huck spat, turning his face away from the number on the screen.

Fauna leaned forward and locked eyes with her district partner. “It’s not so bad. The boy who won the other year got a three.” She offered reassuringly.

The offer was refused as Huck muttered to himself and stormed away to his room.

***

Salem thought that Haymitch was weird sober.

Not a bad weird, really. It was just unfamiliar, it was strange to see his mentor without a drink in his hand and his words slurred. He wasn’t as abrasive, or as surly either. Haymitch was actually focused.

“All right, about time. We’re going to be celebrating my two Twelves.” The mentor grinned as he stretched his arms around his tributes. It was similarly peculiar for Dahlia to see Haymitch so giddy without the smell of liquor on his breath. It brightened her that he was now so confident about her, and about Salem.

“Indeed we are!” Effie gushed, bringing over two glasses of champagne which she handed over to each tribute. She almost handed the glass to Dahlia then gasped and retracted it. “Oh, sorry, my mistake. You’re too young, dear. But if you like I can ask for some mocktails for you.”

Haymitch released an unrestrained laugh. “Seriously, Effie?”

The stylist placed a hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes at the mentor. “And what is so entertaining about me not serving alcohol to a minor, Haymitch? She’s only thirteen.” An air of sass flared in her voice. “We know you like your liquor but the children don’t.”

“The kid’s being sent to a death match in two days. I think she’s allowed some champagne, huh?” He rebutted with a playful chuckle, taking the glass from Effie’s hand and giving it over to Dahlia. “She deserves it, too. Been working hard here, you have.”

Dahlia shrugged her shoulders modestly. “A five isn’t that good, though, is it?”

“Believe me, with Twelve’s track record, a score of five is plenty.” Plato remarked as he adjusted the lapel in his suit. “Sponsors definitely will not be forgetting that. Thankfully.”

“And you too, huh?” Haymitch grinned as he nudged Salem over the shoulder. “A seven sure isn’t bad. We’re doing pretty alright for ourselves this year, guys. Pretty damn alright.”

Salem allowed himself a small smile at the approval and took a measured sip of his champagne. He harboured a quiet gratefulness for Burdock. If it weren’t for their occasional teachings in the meadow, Salem was sure he would have been entirely useless in his assessment.

Dahlia coughed and winced at the sour sensation of her alcoholic beverage, feeling like an imposter as it tasted so expensive. “I only lit a few fires though,” She stated with an unconvinced droop of her voice. “I don’t know what I’m actually going to do in the arena.” She shuddered at the realisation that day was looming ever so much closer.

“Oh, you’ll be fine, dear. Nobody’s going to catch you.” Effie exclaimed with a dismissive wave of her hand that caressed her tribute’s arm endearingly. “You’ve got this covered. Just believe in yourself! Self-love can achieve boundless things.”

Plato raised his drink. “Hear, hear!” The escort chuckled as he and Effie clinked their glasses together, seemingly very proud of themselves. Dahlia’s unconvinced face scrunched in a further puzzlement. Salem couldn’t help but exchange an identical expression with her and then stare over at the Capitol pair in disbelief.

“In not so simple terms,” Haymitch carried on the stylist’s sentiment with a roll of his eyes as he leaned forward towards Dahlia and then glanced back at Salem too. “Neither of you are stupid. You’re both resourceful, you both keep yourselves together. Believe me, your survival instincts will kick in and carry you through. Stick with each other and really, I think you’ve got a shot at this.”

Salem smirked. “Yeah, we like you better sober.”

***

Ion was relentlessly impatient. Every tribute that came before him only heightened the tension in his chest, and every few sentences Caesar Flickerman spared for humorous or suspenseful commentary brought out a deep sigh from his mouth. He distracted himself to pass the time by flexing the metal fingers on his prosthetic hand.

Volta, on the other hand, wished that the time for their scores never came. She was no fool, she knew that she was pathetic in her session. Not that she gave it a great deal of care. All of her energy, all of her focus was reserved in her desperation for morphling. It had been almost five days since her last hit. She didn’t even remember the last time she had gone so long without it.

“Volta Tydal of District Five…” Caesar’s eccentric voice rung out through the speakers in the lounge. Her mentors glanced over at her with concern, waiting to hear her score.

Volta almost froze in place at the sight of her own face on the TV screen. This portrait that was being displayed of her… she looked different. Her skin looked healthy, no more of that pale strain. Her hair was glossy, her eyes ordinary and void of the bloodshot taint. Whatever editing they had manipulated on her, she looked normal. Volta was caught in a bittersweet awe, as she ran a hand through a strand of matted hair. That’s how she used to look. That’s who she was, before her life collapsed.

“With a score of…” Caesar paused for a moment and couldn’t help but release a wince. “One.”

Hydron simply shook his head and huffed in disappointment. Porter opened her mouth to speak, and find something to say. She couldn’t think of anything.

Damocles almost choked on the milk sausage he was scarfing down his throat. He coughed and slightly spluttered, withdrew the sausage from his mouth and shot a baffled look towards Volta. “Did you even try?” The escort hissed.

The girl hung her head down in a half-shame and shrugged. Damocles was not satisfied with this response.

“A one? I don’t even-“ Damocles lifted his podgy hand up and spluttered in bewilderment. “What am I supposed to do with that? A one is irredeemable.”

Hydron didn’t even bother with voicing his critique, as his face said it all. Porter whom was herself lost for words, finally scrambled something in her brain to offer to her damned tribute. “You certainly will be remembered now, so that’s something.” She said, “And if you prove yourself better in the Games this… this score could not be so bad.”

Nyx nodded hopefully. “And with the dress I have planned for your interview, Volta- they’ll not care anymore. You’ll look too fabulous.” Everyone in the room turned and shot him a look. He raised his hands up in defence. They couldn’t blame him for trying, he thought.

“And Ion Suzuki,” Caesar stated with a slight bow of his head, “Bringing some faith back to District Five… with a score of six!”

Ion’s impatience vanished and was replaced with a sense of pride. He knew his efforts were not in vain, and he was just as good as the rest of his competitors despite his disadvantage. A smile curled over his face as Nyx jumped up excitedly and patted him over the back.

“What a score, boy! We all believed in you.” The stylist gushed and wrapped an arm around his tribute’s shoulders. Porter continued the sentiment as she grinned and shook his hand. “We did, Ion. You are really proving yourself. This is good.” She smiled over at Hydron. The stubborn mentor granted his tribute a slight nod of his head in respect.

“Thanks, guys,” Ion held back a happy tear. He was invigorated at the prospect that he really did seem to stand a chance. That he wasn’t weak, that he wasn’t forgotten.  “I wasn’t sure during the assessment. And this is good for sponsors?”

Porter nodded. “It’s great, Ion. You’ve already set yourself apart and now with a decent score and if your interview goes well- I don’t see how you won’t be favoured. At-least by some.”

With a cackle of excitement, Nyx slapped his hands together. “Alright, splendid! I’ll order us a big cake- you deserve it, Ion!”

“At-least you’re something I can work with. Praise Snow.” Damocles muttered with a venomous roll of his eyes.

Volta shuffled in her seat uncomfortably. She watched the scene of thrill and pride unfold in front of her. Of course it did, how could Ion not look like a saint right now in comparison to her status as a pathetic disappointment? She stood up and sauntered over back to her room.

Amidst his triumph, Ion looked over and felt his smile fade as he saw his partner sink away into the hall.

***

The apartment on the eighth floor was draped in a quiet calm as night fell. The pretentious lights were turned off, the extravagant furniture was dimmed, the bustle and holler of the city on the other side of the windows had simmered down.

That was the way Lilah liked it. It reminded her of serene evenings back home. After a long day of work at the warehouse where all she heard was the clicking of sewing machines and yells of attendees. Or worming her way through the clamour and holler of Tack Town.

Yes, it was the quiet she liked back home when her father was out. She and Lucet would lay on the roof-top of their high rise and stare at the sky. They’d talk about their mother, they’d talk about what must have been beyond the sky and beyond Panem. They’d talk about anything. All they’d hear was their own voices and the whistle of the wind.

So, Lilah seized that opportunity as she stepped through the sleepy apartment. She held a warm mug of hot cocoa as she held her cardigan over her chest, squinting at a faint light in the dining room. She stepped towards it and caught Oxford sitting by himself at the dining table.

“What are you doing?” She asked softly, approaching him. Oxford hardly looked up at her and pointed with his pen to the stack of papers he was scribbling on the table. He exhaled  a tired sigh as he begrudgingly answered. “Compiling any further predictions after the training scores were released. I was mostly right, but a few tributes really hit it out of the park, which I did not expect.”

Lilah took a seat opposite Oxford and swallowed a sip of her hot cocoa. “I mean, yeah, some of them did great. Better than us.” She adjusted her curly hair away from her face and moved it behind her neck. “But like Velvet and Cecilia said, that’s nothing to stress over. Some victors did bad before their Games and then, obviously, the other kids who did so good… didn’t make it out.”

Oxford nodded and twisted his mouth in concentration as he studied a detailed graph he had drawn. “Yes, but sponsors is what matters here. We both got sixes for our scores, others got nines and elevens. They’ll be starting off with an audience and sponsor advantage.”

“What does it matter, Oxford?” Lilah sighed, “Why dwell on it? Nobody knows what will happen when we’re actually in the arena. We’ve grown up watching these Games. Literally anything could happen. This isn’t something you can plan and predict.”

She grabbed onto her mug angrily and chugged the remainder of her cocoa, ignoring the heat of it. “We’ll all be running for our asses in there.”

Oxford tapped the tip of his pen against the mahogany wood of the table. “Yes, that is true.” He nodded, “But these Games aren’t just run entirely by chance. Nothing here is honest, and nothing here is fair.”

***

“I better not be disappointed, you hear me?” Glaucia brusquely demanded as she pointed to both of her tributes with her cosmopolitan glass.

Rory rolled his eyes and huffed. “In that case, I think you’re gonna want some refills with that.” He replied slyly, nodding over towards the Capitol escort’s drink.

She gasped in horror. “What exactly do you mean?” Glaucia stiffened in her lounging chair and outstretched a long spiky black fingernail towards Rory. “I will not tolerate any further humiliation. Your behaviour reflects on me, too.”

“Pfft, guess I’m taking you down with me.” The boy muttered and turned away from Glaucia, ignoring her angry glare.

Rory was sure that the Gamemakers would score him even lower than that addict girl from Five, if that was even possible. He wondered what they would do to him after his stunt during his private assessment. Punish his loved ones back home? There was nobody left to hurt. Arrest him? Cut his tongue out? His eyes darted over to the elevator doors of the apartment, expecting a whole squad to burst in with guns and a pair of handcuffs at any given moment.

However, that option seemed unlikely. Surely, they’d still need a male tribute for District Seven. And the whole city, the whole nation; had already seen him. They’d probably take him out early in the arena, Rory reckoned. His retribution for his mockery of the Gamemakers would be a guaranteed horrible death for their entertainment. He chuckled at the consideration, as it hardly seemed much worse than what would have been in store for him automatically as a tribute anyway.

“It’s your turn now, you’ve got this.” He heard Oaklan exclaim to his district partner as the District Six tributes were displayed and Birch’s face popped up on the TV screen. Well, he supposed he’d see exactly what they cooked up for him soon enough.

Birch pinched herself on the arm in a nervous tick. She really was not certain of what the Gamemakers had made of her assessment. She’d missed a few throws with that hatchet, and she really wasn’t that good with the ones she had landed. A maze of second guesses and self-doubts flooded her mind as Caesar built up the suspense to announce her score.

She thought back to her last twenty seconds of the session. The hologram was catching up, fast. She had no time to pull herself back on the platform that she had almost been thrown off of. The swing of her hatchet sliced right through the hologram’s head. Even Birch had to admit to herself that was a pretty cool move.

But was it just pure luck? And the Gamemakers saw right through it?

Birch had been so absorbed in the stress of her overthinking that she had missed Caesar’s declaration of her training score. Her mind finally registered it as she saw the number seven glow in a bright white font on the screen. She released her nails from her arm and breathed out a deep sigh of relief.

“See, what were you so worried about?” Oaklan smiled and nudged her on the arm, “You’re hitting all of this out the park.”

“Yeah,” Blight chuckled and passed her a glass of vodka lemonade, “It’s cuz of all this booze I’ve been feeding you. It’s the secret to success.” He winked as they clinked their glasses together, and Birch laughed. She shot a grateful smile towards both of her mentors.

“Thanks, I feel a bit better now.” She said, taking a sip of her drink and allowing herself to take pride in her score. She supposed even if it was luck back there in that gymnasium, it had carried on.

She thought about what Aspen was doing that very moment. He must have been watching the broadcast, probably even with her parents if they finally swallowed their stubbornness to let the lumberjack “who wasn’t good enough” for their daughter, inside to their nicer home. He must have been gripping onto the identical engagement ring on his finger, proud and hopeful. Her mother and father must have been actually held into some close embrace, finally permitting each other some form of intimacy. Hopeful that their daughter could make it home.

“And now we reach Rory Elmwood from District Seven…” Caesar’s eyes widened as he looked over at the paper before him. And Rory smirked. They had probably scored him so low he had no chance of redemption. And Rory didn’t care, not one bit, if he got to rub his hatred in their faces. Let them throw him to the lowest of the low, let them punish him-

“With a score of eleven.”

What?

Everybody in their room whipped around to face the shocked tribute, their mouths hung open in disbelief. “Dear almighty, I don’t even know what to say.” Zelenus stuttered, raising his hands in shock as his gem-specked eyebrows lifted over his face in amazement. “Rory, that is fantastic! Why didn’t you say you blew them away?” The stylist leaped from the end of his loveseat and clapped his hand over his tribute’s back. Rory hardly moved, seemingly frozen in place.

“Damn, congratulations.” Birch exclaimed in a dumbfounded admiration. Her partner turned to her, lost for words, face fallen.

An eleven… this didn’t make any sense. What Rory had pulled was more than borderline rebellious. He saw their faces once they realised what his crafted mannequins had meant. He heard their cocktail glasses drop and shatter to the floor as he stalked out of the room.

“Well, I must admit- I am not disappointed. I worked with a tribute who scored an eleven?” Glaucia gushed to herself in awe as she played with the straw in her cosmopolitan, “I’m going to be known, I’m going to be booked for everything.”

No, no, no. Why would Sorentius Thespane score him so high? Why weren’t his dyed red eyes bursting with pleasure as he watched Rory’s tongue be sliced off right now? Rory was trapped in a paralysis of confusion. None of this made any sense.

“The rascal strikes us with surprise, huh? Let me grab a whole case of champagne.” Zelenus beamed, hurrying over to an Avox stood silently in the dining room. Oaklan and Blight practically pulled Rory from the couch and out into the hallway.

The mentors exchanged looks of what seemed to be nothing less than grave concern over their faces. “What did you do, Rory?” Oaklan asked, his voice low. The tribute simply shrugged, blinking as if this was all some strange daze. “I thought I pissed them off. I don’t know why they gave me an eleven.”

Blight’s jaw tensed. “Pissed them off?” His usually jovial tone that had paired with his intoxication had entirely evaporated. “This ain’t a joke. Don’t you get how serious this is, you idiot?”

Rory rebutted with a shake of his head, tilting it nonchalantly. “But the Gamemakers gave me the highest score.” It was certainly not what he had wanted, definitely not what he had expected. But Rory failed to place why his mentors looked so scared. Was this not a surprising case of good news?

“Exactly, after your fight with that career, that eleven is a target on your back. They’re not granting you the fact that…” Oaklan lowered his voice to a whisper, “That you defied them. You’ll be a spectacle now to the audience, and a target to everyone in the arena.” The truth spoken out loud for the bugged mics didn’t matter, as this was no secret. Rory’s crime had already been witnessed, and with that exemplary score; already punished. At-least it was the first part of the punishment.

Rory pursed his mouth shut. His shoulders stiffened. He understood now. He thought he wouldn’t care, but he wasn’t so sure now that reality was hitting him square in the face.

Blight dug his fingers into his forehead and sighed, placing a heavy grasp onto his tribute’s shoulder. His eyes were unmoving.

“This is the exact opposite of a blessing in disguise.”

Chapter Text

Elixion was very much enjoying the preparation for his formal interview. There wasn’t even very much to prepare, really. Most of what the time consisted of was talking about himself. Bragging. Things that he very much did not mind.

“So, we have your strategy ready?” Delphine Carus asked, shuffling the cards on her lap that she had written down during the three hours she had spent with Elixion. She was to deliver the promise of her tributes, curate their stellar image, to fuel the excitement for the Games. As District One’s Capitol escort, Delphine could not have wished for a better job.

“What strategy?” Elixion chuckled, “Not much to plan or think over, right? I just tell them how much of a hot shot with a knife I am. Tell a few jokes to Caesar. I think my face can handle the rest.” He finished his sentence with a confident wink, grinning without any concern for the festivity that lay ahead that evening.

Delphine giggled, smacking him playfully on the bicep with her cards. “Now, now, this is exactly the look we’re going for with you. Cocky, strong, charismatic. Handsome.”

Elixion nodded. “Right, so we’re all set here then?”

“Not quite,” The escort pointed with a manicured finger as her violet-glittered lips pouted. “Now all of this is marvellous, really. Be yourself, and brag till your eyes roll out! Sponsors will already be through the roof because of your impression at the chariot parade and your training score.” Delphine then handed over a card at the end of her shuffle to Elixion, which he took in his hands and glanced at. The inlaid diamonds in her porcelain skin shone over the reflected daylight as she smiled wide.

“But let’s get sentimental. A heartthrob for your story. You mentioned you have a girl back home, yes?”

The boy then chuckled in response, his cocky grin melting to a lovestruck smile. “Yes, my Gem. She’s a real catch, you know? I will make her my wife one day.” His thoughts rung back to their beautiful evenings in each other’s arms, in each other’s beds. The dreams they yearned for together. “I’ll propose to her with the biggest, flashiest ring in Panem once I win. I’ll take care of her like nobody else can.”

Delphine beamed, “Precisely! That’s fantastic. Mention that in your interview tonight!” She snatched the card from Elixion’s hands and scribbled on it further with her pen. “Oh, the audience adores a perfect lover boy.”

*****

The thudding against the marble floor of the lounge was caused by the impatient tapping of Lleyn’s foot. “More prancing around in their costumes, more pretending to smile for those vultures.” She spat, “I’m not doing it.”

Bronco sighed and placed a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “You know you have to, Lleyn. So quit throwing a fit, it’ll be easier if we just get this other with.”

Lleyn twisted her face back at him and scoffed. “I’m supposed to just get even more humiliation, as if what we’ve been through already isn’t enough- over with?” Bronco huffed and tensed his arms over his chest, taking a look at the clock on the wall. “Yes,” He said gruffly, “If you want people here to like you, if you want to live, then yes, Lleyn. You just get it over with.”

The mechanical doors to the elevator of the apartment whirred open as Xerxes entered with a bored but dutiful importance. The escort positioned a lounging chair opposite to his tributes sitting on the loveseat and tucked his crimson handkerchief into the breast pocket of his blazer.

“I have requested to coach you both together,” Xerxes announced, “And that is because I believe your images will complement each other, establish a solid rapport with viewers. You come as a matching pair.”

Bronco nodded, void of any complaint to the idea. They were close after all, and it made sense. Lleyn simply sighed and looked over to a vase in the corner of the room.

“So, will we be interviewed tonight together?” Bronco asked. Xerxes answered with the shake of his head. “No, you will still have your time separately. However, I want you to mention each other to Caesar. Talk fondly of each other.”

Lleyn scoffed sarcastically at the suggestion. “I thought you Capitol people wanted to see our guts spilled, right? What do you care about some anecdotes?”

“We care a great deal. Well, the audience does. They need somebody to root for.” Xerxes replied in a simple manner, "And if they care about you, they’ll want you to win. From a basic marketing perspective, likeability draws in views which draws in sponsors. And, in the arena, you need those.”

Bronco leaned in and whispered in Lleyn’s ear. “You’re gonna have to work on the likeability part, then.” She shot him back an annoyed look that he couldn’t help but laugh at.

“Okay,” Bronco considered, “So what should we say about each other?”

The escort turned to Lleyn, whom was still sulking on her end of the loveseat. “You have a child, yes? A little boy?”

Lleyn answered his question with gritted teeth. “Yes.”

He switched his gaze over to Bronco. “And I’m assuming you volunteered for Lleyn, correct?”

Bronco straightened his back and set a hand gently on his best friend’s knee. “To protect her, yeah.”

“There’s our angle. A fierce mother willing to do anything to get back to her child. A loyal friend willing to do anything to protect those he loves.” Xerxes rested a finger on his chin as he plotted the idea in his mind, his aged face lighting up at the fact he was pleased with himself and with the tribute situation he was provided with.

“These personal backstories are perfect for audience sympathy. Everyone will be invested in such human motivations- they can identify with you. As a parent, as a friend. If you demonstrate your devotion and your connection on that stage, nobody will be able to turn away.”

Lleyn snarled, her hand gripping into the cushion beside her. A wave of sickness and disgust purged through her.

“I’m glad our lives can be of such entertainment to you.”

******

Cyprian tried to pool together and retain everything that he and his mentor Idaho had discussed and planned out for the past three hours of their coaching session. Many words had been thrown around. Likeability, appeal, intrigue.

Each one only sent a jitter of nerves Cyprian’s way. He was an artist, not a performer. He could spill his talent on the page but when it came to even thinking about himself as the muse, Cyprian reckoned he had nothing to tell and nothing to do.

“Like Spart said,” Idaho mentioned as he paced around his chair at the empty dining table, “You were raved about by sponsors at the chariot parade. Not only because they liked your face. They liked your charisma too, kid. That smile won them over.”

Cyprian considered his mentor’s words, that echoed back to Spart’s yappers during her coaching earlier during the day. The Capitol escort said that simply, his face had won the audience over. That he was drawing them in through his energy alone, and all he had to do was charm and amuse. She had made it sound so simple, so natural. But Cyprian didn’t even realise what it was at the parade he was doing. He just didn’t want to look weak, not for his father.

“Listen, you’re not doing bad at all.” Idaho exclaimed as he pushed a plate of sandwiches over to his tribute, “This whole thing is just a social game. And I think you know more how to play it then you realise.”

“I guess I can try,” the boy half-heartedly mumbled. The interview was only going to be three minutes long. If he just had to pull some attention his way, crack a few jokes, show off his face - and most of that job would be handled by Asidiarla anyways - how hard could it really be?

Idaho shook his head. “You’ve gotta do more than try. You want them to remember you, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” the tribute reluctantly replied, “But I want them to remember me for who I really am. I can’t just holler myself out there because I’m not that good an actor. I’ll look stupid.”

“This is all a performance. Don’t you see, kid? It’s a stage.” Idaho huffed, “Listen, the look we’re going for with you is understated. You’re not jumping over everyone’s heads to tell them how great you are.”

The mentor pulled out his chair and finally sat down, scooting it forwards so that he could extend his arms on the table and lock his tribute in a direct eye contact. “That’s what’ll make you stand out. You’re not begging for everyone’s approval. You work that smile and that charm, talk about what it is you can do- they’ll be coming to you.”

Cyprian digested Idaho’s words, shuffling in his seat uncomfortably. “You mean what I did during my assessment, or how I can draw?”

“Both. The audience will need something personal they can connect you with. A reason to like you, a reason to remember you. To root for you with.” Idaho carried on, “Something that comes from the heart. That you’re more than all the metal and machinery of where you come from.”

The thought puzzled Cyprian. But wasn’t that all he was, to the Capitol? A mere representation of District Six? A pawn to be messed with, to be violated for the cameras. Whatever that came from his heart surely didn’t matter, as long it was his heart itself that they get to see. Ripped out from his chest, preferably.

He got to thinking. “Well, I sit on this rooftop with my friends sometimes. We just hang out and smoke, sometimes I draw. And there’s an old railway track by the paint factory, and when it rains the oils spill into puddles that create colour. I sketch them, when I can.”

Idaho smiled. “Okay, we’ve gotten somewhere. That’s it.” He slammed his fist into the wood of the table in excitement, “Good. That’s some poetic crap they’ll be eating up. You have any idea how many punks in this city think they’re artists? Crave what they call “art”? They’ll yearn for that right there.”

Cyprian chuckled in a light sense of assurance. “Really?”

“Yeah, they’ll love it. And I hate to tell you, kid, but it has to be done. You’re gonna have to practice that winner smile till your lips fall off.”

The boy groaned. “Can we skip this? Spart already rambled about spotlight etiquette.”

Idaho shook his head. “No can do. Now, I’m a sponsor. Catch my eye.”

With an effort, Cyprian stretched his mouth wide in that alluring grin that seemed so successful during the parade. He tried to memorise it until it became stained on his face for the cameras tonight, until every muscle in his face began to ache.

*****

Damocles Euterpe was fed up.

He was fed up of his job as District Five’s Capitol escort, and he was certainly fed up of the tragic tribute had had to deal with. His face frowned in an angry despair as he watched Volta try to follow his tips.

She cursed as her feet buckled, grabbing onto the chrome mantel in her bedroom. She tried to adjust her feet back in the high-heels that her escort had insisted she practice walking in, but another step only resulted in another pained wobble.

“Do I really have to walk in these? It’s impossible.” She cried, withdrawing her foot from the shoe and tending to her swollen ankle.

Damocles pursed his lips in restraint. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and spoke. “It is not impossible, you are just too baseless to model them. All the ladies wear heels, so keep practicing.”

Volta spluttered an anguished sigh and slid her feet back in the halls. Steadying herself, she attempted another walk across the floor. Only a few steps in, she buckled and her ankles twisted. Her feet were beginning to hurt almost as much as her head when the sunlight burned through the window.

It made no sense to walk with such things, she thought. Why were they not even? Why was she walking with a stick under her feet? As another high-heel collapsed in her attempt and she had to reach for the wall for stability: Volta thought she had learned a new desperation. She wanted out of these heels just as much as she wanted another hit.

“I can’t,” She called out with a tired breath, kicking the heels away and moving her feet about to bring away the ache. “There’s got to be something else.”

The escort’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “For you? There is nothing else.” Damocles stormed over to the panel on the wall to order himself a meal, and when looking back over at his useless tribute, a strong drink.

He strutted over towards her. “You got a one in training. You had drinks sloshed at you during the parade. You’re a lost cause, and quite frankly, I am wasting my time.” Damocles huffed and turned away from her, dismissing the tribute in her own bedroom as he watched the panel for an update on his order.

Volta’s face fell at the comment, as she fiddled with her fingers in front of herself. For the first time all week, she realised the gravity of her situation if she didn’t try. “There’s got to be something I can do.” She called out with a wavering vace.

Damocles rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you.” He looked her up and down with an obvious air of disgust, and then ignorance, as he began to tweak his onyx wig in the reflection of the mirror. “The best I can do is get you acceptable for your interview, but you can’t even style heels! You were dozing off when I was giving you tips of what to say tonight!”

Swallowing the torment of her withdrawal, Volta pushed her feet back into the high-heels. “Okay, I’ll try act like a lady, like you said. I’ll be nice to Caesar.” She gritted through the pain in her ankles as she braced a step forward, steadying her pace as she attempted another walk across the room.

“Praise Snow that now you have come to your senses and realised what’s at stake. My reputation.” The escort rolled his eyes as he turned his back to the tribute and continued to inspect his appearance in the mirror. “Don’t embarrass me.”

*****

“It’ll be fabulous, darling, just fabulous!” Vera Prince burst in excitement, flicking through a rectangular device in her hands which shone holograms of her fashion designs. “This shade of blue with her complexion?” She pointed over to Glitch’s face and caressed her cheek. “Stunning. And I have these earrings that absolutely everyone in the auditorium will be reaching over the stage to steal. It’ll be marvellous, I assure you, Beetee.” The stylist gushed, pushing the ideas of her work towards the overwhelmed mentor.

Beetee reluctantly nodded and nudged the tablet away. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Vera, but I must resume my coaching session with Glitch. We still have important strategy to discuss.”

Vera waved her hand dismissively and giggled, pointing to trimmings on the dress on the hologram. “Oh, you have that sorted. What we need is to make her look insatiable. Your strategy must align with my artistic vision, yes?”

Her straight-set, spayed blonde hair looked like a set of curtains stuck around her round face as she flashed Glitch with a toothy grin. The bright yellow lipstick smeared on Vera’s pouted lips smudged as she laughed, her striped sherbet-yellow and silver-grey dress perched over her podgy frame in a wide stretch. The stylist was as bright as her clothing, and she was absolutely not budging.

“What you have designed looks just fine,” Beetee stated in a monotone voice, “You will dress her in the real outfit in just two hours, after all. So please, let me coach.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get out of your hair. I am going to make you shine again, dear. My outfits didn’t win you best dressed in Capitol Couture for nothing!” Vera cackled and gently shook her tribute’s chin in excitement, skipping out of the room. Beetee exhaled a breath of relief.

“I’m glad she’s so confident about this,” Glitch exclaimed, rubbing her hands together nervously, “I’ll be a total wreck. I have no idea what to say, or what to do.” She dreaded the thought of where she had to be in just a few hours. The chariot parade was daunting enough, but at least she didn’t even have to say or do anything. Just stand there, really. Now she had to actually woo the audience, who she knew really would not care for her in the slightest.

Beetee nodded and placed his hands together on his lap. “I know this is scary,” He said, “But I’ve mentored many tributes over the years. All different from each other, but with the same fear.” He took of his eyeglasses and began to rub the lenses with the hem of his shirt.

“Fear is normal, it is rational. It is human nature. A primitive response.” Beetee rubbed until there wasn’t a speck of dust left on the lens. “But you cannot let it guide you, seize you. You need to keep a level head, Glitch. Not only for your interview tonight but for the arena. You must push fear to the back of your mind and let the instinct of survival that comes with it, to lead.”

Fiddling with her hands still, Glitch was somewhat moved by her mentor’s speech. She knew he was right, she knew she had to keep a level head. It’s what she had done, after all, when she had to, when she was scared. When some of the girls at school began tripping her in the hallways and pulling her hair. When Zinc caught the flu last year and he was so ill they thought his anguished, spluttering breaths at night were going to be his last. When that Peacekeeper punched her in the face with the butt of his gun because she was moving too slow at the factory.

She had kept a level head. Pushed fear away to handle those situations properly. She didn’t cry, and she swapped those girls’ math assignments to fail them in that class. She didn’t panic, and she sneaked over to the apothecary in the merchant sector of the North Side to feed Zinc those herbs that made him all better. She didn’t yell, and she got on faster with her tasks so that Peacekeeper wouldn’t bother her again.

“But… I’m not in the position to even afford hope, am I?” Glitch dropped her head down, “I fainted at the Reaping. I only got a score four for Training. All I can be is scared.”

Beetee leant forward, his dark eyes unblinking through his spotless eyeglasses. “Ah, but you can, Glitch. If there is one thing we can afford here, it is indeed hope.” The mentor’s eyes swam to the memories of his son. He had wanted to forget, to cease the existence of his grief, but he refused. Ampert deserved to be remembered.

 “I have lost more than you can imagine. This… place, it is simply hell. But hope is that light at the end of the tunnel. What you can’t afford, Glitch, is to let fear take over.”

Glitch allowed her mentor’s words to find their meaning. Her hands relaxed, her head steadied on her shoulders. And she decided to no longer be that trembling, terrified girl on the screen who still cried out for her mother.  Fear could not take over.

*****

Calypso was not happy about partaking in the further depravities the Capitol were subjecting him to. The mere thought of having to pretend to cackle and joke with Caesar Flickerman in front of a leering crowd, to pretend to enjoy his position as a tribute in the Hunger Games was sickening. Chuckle and charm in a fancy suit that probably cost more than what his father would make on the sailboat in a decade. Smile and flaunt for those bloodthirsty eyes as if he had never been happier; when he could very much be dead by tomorrow morning.

No, Calypso was not happy to partake at all.

“So, I believe it would be best if you could talk about what you’ve come to love most in your time here in the Capitol. It’s maybe best to gush and get the viewers on the side.” Seraphina offered, shuffling through a stack of coaching cards on her lap. “Okay, pretend I’m Caesar and answer as though I am him. “ She budged on her seat on the lounging chair and cleared her throat. “Calypso, what has been your favourite thing here in the Capitol?”

“Nothing.” He simply said.

Seraphina squinted her eyes but persisted in her imitation of the talk host. “Oh come on, there’s got to be something. The food, the luxuries. The clothes?”

Calypso couldn’t help but break into a short spout of laughter. “The clothes, the clothes you people wear?” He had to suppress a snort and a slap on the knee. “Do you want me to lie through my teeth? Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

“Calypso, this is serious.” The escort huffed and smacked him on the leg with her stack of cards. “You must resonate with the audience. A great way is to compliment them, relate to them. For example, I think District Four is beautiful. Isn’t that just simply nice to hear for you?”

The tribute raised his eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yes, I really do. I’ve never seen the ocean before, not in person. It’s amazing. You see those waves move, you feel the breeze blow by you. It was like I was actually with the Earth.” Seraphina explained, thinking back to that glorious hour she stood on the sand before the Reaping ceremony commenced. “It’s different, nothing like what’s here in the city.”

Calypso smiled sadly. “Yeah, it is. I love those evenings out on the water, when you can smell the sea. Just go for a swim. Sometimes if we’re lucky, me and my dad see some dolphins hopping around.”

Seraphina’s eyes widened in awe. “You do?”

He nodded. “Yeah, when I was a kid I was obsessed with them. I always wanted to play with them but my parents said no, it’s too dangerous. But I didn’t listen. I’d sneak away to look for them anyway.”

“And did you find them?”

Calypso chuckled. “A few times, yeah. The first when I was ten. My dad was too busy catching fish on the boat but I saw a whole team of dolphins over by the water. So I jumped out and swam over. They’re smart creatures, you know, real smart.” He thought back of the fond memory. “They played with me, like, literally looked after me. Let me pet them, let me hold onto them as they swam. It was… magical.”

“That does sound magical. I bet you must have been over the moon as a child.” Seraphina said, listening to her tribute’s memory and being rendered powerless to naturally match the genuine smile on his face.

“I was. Managed a few more swims with them over the years but, they’re just so slippery. Got a mind of their own.” He replied, chuckling. He locked eyes with the Capitol escort. “So you actually liked Four, then? Didn’t see it as some dirty wasteland to house the barbaric district folk?”

The last phrase struck Seraphina. It was similar to countless others she had heard when the topic of the districts appeared in conversation. Funnily enough, those sorts of stereotypes was the last thing on her mind when she visited District Four, and the last thing on her mind as she worked with her tributes. Marina and Calypso. She had grown so comfortable in their presence. Marina was warm and hilarious, Calypso was icy but he held this safe allure to him. Barbaric savages?

She shook her head. “No, I was actually admiring your folk over in Four. I saw the way everyone was in the Reaping. Trying to keep in high spirits, talking to each other, wishing luck. It was a sense of community.” They had certainly seemed more pleasant, more real than the social displays she had seen in the Capitol. Everyone was so shallow and superficial. Competing with one another, talking sweetly to one’s face then slandering their name behind their back. So, yes, Seraphina did like what she had seen in District Four.

“But, erm, enough about me. This coaching session is about you.” She laughed awkwardly. “Back to what you’ll cover in your interview, you mentioned dolphins-“

Calypso cut her off. “Forget the prep, Seraphina. I’m not doing that.” He had been more engrossed in their discussion than he had realised, and his anger for the approaching evening had simmered down. Seraphina didn’t squeal or glamourise or degrade like he had seen of those other Capitol caricatures. She meant what she said, and she was not so different as he had first thought.

“This could very well be the last evening of my life. I don’t want to waste it blabbering about meaningless shit.” He declared, sitting up on his lounging chair and looking over at the escort. “Can’t we just talk, like people? Human to human. For a bit.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “About real stuff.”

Betraying the better part of her duty, Seraphina set the coaching cards aside and cleared her throat. “Okay.” She said. Calypso smiled. “Okay.”

“What’s your favourite colour?” He asked.

“My favourite colour?” Her face stunted in confusion. He nodded. “Well, I like blue. Light like the sky. And you?”

“I like blue too. But darker, like the ocean when the sun sets.”

Seraphina grinned. “Well, erm, what do you like to do?”

“Watch my mom cook, watch my dad work. I like to swim. My best friend and I used to wrestle just for fun. He’d beat my ass every time.” Calypso’s mind wandered to Thames for a moment. All those squabbles and laughs and minutes he’d take for granted.

Seraphina chuckled. “I’m sure you weren’t so bad, you seem like you can hold yourself down.” Her eyes briefly flitted to Calypso’s bicep which was peeking out of his shirt sleeve.

“And you? Apart from all those pretentious parties full of luxury I’m sure you Capitol folk get into.”

The amused escort rolled her eyes. “I enjoy reading. I used to drown myself in it between classes at The University.”

“You studied there? What did you learn?” The concept of education further than school baffled the tribute. What would they need any more learning for? Back in Four, school itself was a backburner as everybody practically started working at fourteen.

“Marketing and Public Relations. It’s what got me into this job actually, this year. Right as I graduated.”

Calypso frowned. Not at the fact he had no idea what her degree was or what it meant, but that she really did not seem to have an understanding of what her job as District Four’s escort really was or what it entailed. “Why did you get this job? Why would you want to work for the Games?”

Seraphina shrugged. “It’s the most famous job in the country. They wanted a fresh face, so they asked me anyway. Probably because of my mother’s connections, I guess.” Her voice dropped at the mention of her. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her mother.

Her tribute picked up at the bitter edge of her voice. He perked back up with what he now knew she enjoyed. “So what sort of stuff you read?”

Romance, mostly. Some of the poetry or the stories I’ve seen in those archives, from before Panem… are outstanding.”

Calypso tilted his head in curiosity, watching the smile curl on Seraphina’s plush lips. Watching how she’d play with strands of her soft hair. Fingers would run through that hair like silk. “What’s the best one you’ve read?” He asked as he shuffled his chair slightly closer.

Seraphina did not need much time to provide an answer. “This one’s real old, but it couldn’t help but just tug at my heart. Romeo and Juliet. They were from two different worlds: Rival families that would never accept their union. Their love was forbidden, but still it, it burned through.” She explained, playing with the hem of her skirt, “But they could never be together, not in that world. That society.”

“So what happened? Did they make it?”

“No, not really. It was a tragic end. There was no way they could love each other in that world, it just wasn’t allowed.” Seraphina answered, interlocking her fingers over her lap as she straightened her skirt. “But they vowed to be together in death, in a way.”

Calypso listened. He didn’t speak, but he watched Seraphina tell the tale. The tender look in his eyes couldn’t help but pull her in a strange flutter. It was a pleasant weight that fluttered at her belly as he grinned and looked into her eyes. He couldn’t explain it either, help but felt sucked into the pretty Capitol escort’s orbit. It had been like a whole layer of ignorance and malice that had been glued to her porcelain face had been stripped off.

He could see that she wasn’t ignorant, and she wasn’t malicious. She was kind, and she was beautiful.

Seraphina didn’t want to leave the lounge to make way for Calypso’s next coaching session with his mentor, and she didn’t want to turn back to her cards.

*****

Fauna had decided to stop being angry at her aunt.

Whatever it was that Seeder had inferred to her that night on the train and couldn’t explain now, it didn’t matter. Fauna realised she had something nobody else in her position as a tribute did. Someone from home, that she loved, with her in this nightmare. To comfort and to guide her. In this way, she was lucky and she was privileged. And she wouldn’t let her stubbornness make her forget it.

She laid on her aunt’s shoulder, letting her stroke through her braids as she would do any day back home. This was a comfort twenty-three of her competitors could not have, and would never feel again. The embrace of her families. At the gravity of this, Fauna held tight onto Seeder’s frame.

Seeder chuckled. “Now, now, my sweet. Ain’t you old enough to be embarrassed of cuddling up to me like this?”

Fauna giggled softly. “Yes,” She admitted, grasping onto her aunt’s hand. “But I don’t care.”

Hardly any of their coaching session had been about mentoring. They just buried themselves in each other’s warmth, in each other’s comfort. This was something the Capitol could not take from them. Not today.

A question hovered over Seeder’s mind. With her wide smile fading at the unshakeable thought, she asked it. “Have you ever watched my Games, my year?”

Her niece nodded. Memories of seeing her aunt’s young face scorched by sand and blood flooded back to her.

“I don’t want you to see me like that, my sweet.” She stated sadly. Fauna turned over to her and frowned. She saw a distant, pained look glaze over Seeder’s eyes. “You saw what I did? I did things I ain’t proud of. Horrible things. That place… it changes you. Even when you’re out, you never stop playing.”

Seeder cleared her throat and straightened her chin. She looked at her niece without breaking her gaze. “But I hopes it still, made you learn a thing or two. What it takes to survive in that arena. What you need to do.”

Fauna curled her hand against her own chest as a shaky sigh escaped from her mouth. The girl grounded herself in the covers of her bed. She did see what it took, what her aunt had to do to make it out alive. “But I ain’t as brave as you, auntie.” She cried, “And I ain’t ready. I could never be ready.”

With a firm grasp on her niece’s shoulder, Seeder evened her tone.

“Believe me, you’ll have no choice but to be.”

*****

“I said keep still, I need to fix it.” District Nine’s stylist insisted as he held his tribute’s face in place with his free hand. Zea sheepishly and awkwardly tensed her face to keep herself from moving, which proved almost impossible as her entire body was convulsing with nerves.

Plingus Ethershot needed every detail to be perfect. He was not going to allow his tribute to walk out on the stage, under the spotlight, looking anything but an immaculate manifestation of his stylistic vision. He wiped away a small corner of Zea’s golden eyeliner and meticulously re-applied it until it fit his standard.

“That incompetent prep team, what exactly is it they are being paid for?” He muttered angrily, “I have to do everything myself.”

Zea chuckled nervously, “I think they did pretty good, I like what that lady with the glittery cheeks did with my hair.” She pointed to the pressed curls that draped her brunette head of hair, offering some solace to her stylist who was clearly stressing as there were only five minutes left until Caesar Flickerman was to be out on stage and commence the Formal Interviews Event. “I’ve never worn it in curls like this. It’s cute.”

Plingus rolled his eyes. “Anybody can use a curler, and this does not make up for the fact they slacked for the most important night of the year.” He groaned in frustration and tweaked up the finishing touches of his subject’s eyeliner.

Hearing the other tributes begin to shuffle in line outside the door of the dressing room, as they were assembled for the show, brought a quiver to Zea’s glossed lip. Her leg began to shake within her dress.

“Oh, calm down, will you?” Plingus scoffed, “You’re going to mess up your eyeliner, I’m almost done!”

Even the cruel tone of her stylist’s voice didn’t help to subdue the anxiety that was possessing Zea as the clock neared to the beginning of the hour.

He withdrew the eyeliner and bringing his tribute over to the wall-length mirror to examine the finishing product of Zea’s appearance. “There, you look stunning. It’s as though I plucked you straight out of my mind.”

Zea didn’t answer, and Plingus could still feel her shaking beside him.

He doubled down. “Listen, you know what your mentor said- you’re just putting on the best version of yourself. The lights in there will be so bright you won’t even see anyone in the audience.” The stylist then decided to add a tip of his own. “Picture them naked.”

Zea couldn’t help but release a laugh. Actually, the thought did help to ease her stage fright.  She was used to having eyes on her back home. Many friends would watch as she talked, strangers would smile in awe as she sang. Sure, the audience was Capitol, but if she held that same quality to her maybe it would not be so bad?

The girl was no actress and no comedian, she was aware of that. But Zea was kind and she was delicate, so she convinced herself, hopefully she’d not be scaring any sponsors away.

She exhaled a deep breath and stared back at the alien reflection of the gorgeous, refined girl in the mirror. This would certainly not be the hardest part, not yet. Zea built the courage to collect herself.

“Thank you, Plingus. The outfit you made for me really looks great.”

Plingus grew a half-smile and with no time to spare, he motioned her out the door as the show’s soundtrack began to blare. “Don’t disappoint your makeover with some silly fear. Go on, shine out there for me.”

*****

The car for District Seven’s team whizzed by the long, polished roads of the Capitol. The destination of the auditorium was only ten minutes away from the Tribute Tower, but for Rory, the ride seemed to elongate drastically.

He and Birch sat in a tense silence in the backseat. Neither of them felt like talking to one another, not that they had exchanged many words at all in the past week anyway. The exhaustion of the approaching evening and the terror of what lay ahead for them in the morning was already striking a toll.

Whizzing by a grand street comprised of intricately embellished buildings of chrome and glass, the car took a turn and parked in the back lot of a taller one that towered against the others. It was of a neat red brick, adorned with great carvings on the exterior walls and a triangular stained glass roof with colourful murals. It was the auditorium, the theatre. The venue for the Tribute Interviews. The front entrance was being swarmed by excited attendees.

The car doors were thrust open as a squad of Peacekeepers led each tribute out of the vehicle and inside the building. As they crossed through the passageways, Blight hurried over to his tribute.

“You remember what we talked about, today, Rory?” He asked in a frantic voice.

Rory shrugged, wriggling his wrists in the restraints. “Yup. And I’m not doing it.”

Blight’s frantic voice heightened, as he grasped onto his tribute’s arm. “What?

The mentor glanced through the hallways that led to the small spaces that functioned as brief dressing rooms for the tributes before the show. They were already being filled up with other teams, an established clamour was already bustling through the backstage area. Blight had little time.

“I’m not cooking up no story for them to enjoy. And no lie about my score to make them swoon. I told you, I wasn’t listening during coaching. I’ll tell that wig-headed freak exactly why it’s so high.” The ignorant tribute simply stated, turning into the dressing room as a Peacekeeper removed his cuffs and stepped away.

Blight turned to Zelenus behind them, whom was hurriedly tapping on his tablet to get ready for the show. “I need a minute with him first. Could you get me a drink?”

The stylist obliged to the request and Blight slammed the door as Zelenus left. He turned and stalked over to Rory. “Are you stupid?” He spat, “Do you not realise this is the tiny chance you have to make sure the Gamemakers ease up on your rebellious ass tomorrow, even a little?”

Rory shrugged again. He slouched on the chair by the vanity. “Sure. I don’t care. I’ll be dead either way.” He said, “And I’m not dying knowing I tried to be some Capitol suck-up. I’m dying as me. And I’ll die happy knowing that they know I hate them and they hate me.”

The mentor shook his head, squeezing his palm over his face as he rubbed his temples. He whisked out a flask from the breast pocket of his blazer and flicked it open to take a large swig. He then stepped over to Rory, leaving little space for him to sulk away.

“I appreciate what you’re thinking, alright? What you’re doing. I do.” He declared in a low voice.

Rory’s hardened face slightly softened. “Then why do you care so much that I kiss up to them? They’re not gonna let me live.”

“That’s not what you’ll be concerned about. People you love… they, they could be in danger too.”

Rory scoffed. His fist tensed on the table of the vanity and he tutted in disgust at the sight of his manicured appearance in the mirror. The pristine tuxedo, the slicked hair, the tidy face. “Well, unlucky for them, there’s nobody left that I love.”

Blight paused for a moment, gripping onto his flask, but shook his head. “Believe me, kid. These are not people you wanna mess with. Your little revenge fantasy- trust me, it’s not worth it.”

The tribute considered his mentor’s words yet his expression did not change. And clearly, neither did his mind.

“Okay, if you don’t care about yourself then think about us.” Blight’s voice was grave. He took another long sip of his smuggled booze. Rory turned to him with a raised eyebrow of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you don’t wanna fuck around and find out. We’re your mentors, we’re responsible for you. This could reflect on all of us, not just you.” He said, setting his hand on Rory’s chair so he was looking down at him and so the tribute had no choice but to see the scared look that tremored behind his eyes. “They could take this out on Birch, too.”

Rory’s jaw tensed. He looked away from his mentor’s unwavering gaze and down at his shoes. His fist tensed even harder. They were this sadistic? They wouldn’t even allow him to face the punishment of his defiance honestly? Face it alone without collateral damage?

Pinches of regret began to spike into Rory’s mind. He had seen how his partner tried her best at training, how she still watched her token with a desperate hope. How she played up to the Capitol’s game, let them package her in a box of a disgusting leering lust. It would be selfish to take her down with him. Birch didn’t deserve that.

He released a deep breath, and ruffled his hand through his neat slicked hair, so roughly that nothing was left but a mess atop his head.

“Fine.” He gritted through his teeth, “I’ll play nice. But I’m not sucking up.”