Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Sinclair Array
District 3, 18 years old
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It's still dark out when I wake up. I tiptoe to our balcony with a tattered old shawl around my shoulders to shield me from the early morning chill. From this high up, I can see everything happening below; the bundled-up people walking briskly, probably hoping to squeeze in a few extra hours of work before the Reaping; the street urchins digging through the dumpsters for leftovers; the drunks ambling home from the bars, bottles in hand.

It's my favourite pastime, to simply observe, which is generally unsurprising considering the utter lack of things to do in District 3. It's also free, so I can't really complain, and I value the alone time.

My nerves for the Reaping are somewhat eased, which is good. I have to put on a brave front for the twins. It might not be their first Reaping, but they're most definitely still scared, if Tandy's silent whimpers last night were any indication. The thin walls do have some use, after all. It's almost humorous enough to make me smile. Almost, because I remember how I cried at that age.

The minutes pass, sitting with my own thoughts. Dawn breaks, and the city comes alive, or as alive as District 3 gets. Footsteps sound.

"Hey, ma," I say, without bothering to look backwards.

"Sinc." My mother smiles weakly, the wrinkles only serving as a constant reminder of time catching up to her. "How're you feeling? Do you want me to fix you a cup of tea?"

"I'm fine." The watery tea doesn't sound too appetizing now, and our kettle only half works anyway.

"Well, it's your last one, remember? You'll be out of danger after today." My mother, ever the optimist.

"That's only if I don't get chosen today."

She swats my head playfully. "Don't say that!"

"Also, even if I age out, there's still Comso and Tandy to worry about."

Ma's thin smile shrinks away. "Yeah."
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Nolan Maximoff
District 5, 13 years old
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"It was scary the first time, but not anymore," the boy boasts, the gap in his teeth displayed proudly in his wide grin. I hear Mom's words in my head: "Darius Cavendish is an absolute piece of work!" Darius rambles on about how he could probably win if he got Reaped, because he swears he fought off a street dog once with a knife. I'm only half-listening, waiting for Mom and Dad to come to the door so we can finally go.

It's only after five separate renditions of Darius outsmarting and outrunning his opponents (and out-eating them, in one particularly imaginative scenario of a finale) that Mom shows up with Dad in tow, a strained smile on her face.

"Nolan. Let's go," she barks. I happily oblige.

We join the many families streaming to the main square for the Reaping, and my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. I'm not even half as brave or prepared as Darius and his knife skills, what if I'm reaped? What will I do? All the while, Mom is spouting a stream of words I know are meant for me, but I'm preoccupied.

"I know he's our neighbour, but you really need to avoid interacting with him, Nolan. That boy is a horrible influence. I can't imagine the things he's putting in the mind of my sweet baby." She continues this train of thought as Dad nods fervently, unable to get a word in. My eyes burn. I don't want to go into the Games.

Mom finally stops, noticing my tear-stained cheeks. "Oh, my poor boy, my angel. Did you really believe all those things he said?"

"N-no, of course not. I'm just scared."

She pulls me into a hug. "You're never going to get chosen, you know that? Mommy knows it."

How does she know? Maybe it's because of her job. I don't know what she does, but it must be important since we have a nice house and people always call her "Ma'am" and follow whatever she says.

"Besides, you're so smart, so much smarter than Darius. You don't have to worry one bit."

She plants a kiss on my forehead. I feel lighter.
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Felix Fernandes
District 6, 17 years old
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I hate crowds.

It's not exactly a brand-new revelation, but it's what's at the forefront of my mind right about now. I hate crowds.

The 17-year-old section is especially horrendous. The boys are jostling about and laughing at the top of their lungs without a regard for anyone around them.

I take one look at Coren, and I can tell from his lips curled into a grimace that he agrees with me. Coren is probably the person closest to what I would call a "best friend", if only because we're so similar in nature. And right now, we're united in our introversion.

The shouts subside into whispers when the mayor steps forward. He lists off the victors of District 6, which is frankly a little embarrassing, since we've had a grand total of four in 88 years of the Hunger Games.

At least we're not in last. Twelve holds that honour.

Of the four, only two are alive. Maren Pullman, victor of the 54th Hunger Games. A grizzled old lady with hair the colour of concrete and drooping skin, and yet she's still more attentive than our second living victor: Carter Antrak of the 67th Games. His bloodshot eyes are heavily lidded, his wrists scarred an angry red. Another victim of morphling, the bane of our district. I silently thank my parents for having the sense to scare me away from that particular path of ruin. I'm sure they're thinking the same thing from the tangle of people all the way behind.

After five years, the Reaping procedures go from an all-encompassing boogeyman story to a painfully boring bureaucratic process. Pricked fingers, speeches, and rebellion videos pass by in flashes. Finally, the Capitol escort stands from her seat.

Eclectica Price has been the escort for as long as I can remember, and she hasn't gotten any less garish. This year's outfit is a neon orange puffy dress that nearly blinds me and a matching bow that's the size of her head.

"Let's start with the girls, shall we?" Her shrill voice, amplified by her microphone, punctuates the stale air. Everyone has the decency to remain silent, for the eventual tributes, not for the Capitol.

Eclectica painstakingly places her hand inside the bowl and fishes around for a slip of paper, that death sentence for one unlucky child who will never get the chance to grow up.

Pinched between her hideously long painted nails, she opens the paper and leans into the mic.

"Jessa Matte!"

A circle forms in the 15-year-old girls section as Jessa Matte, who doesn't even seem aware of her situation, ambles her way to the stage. Morphling's doing, clearly.

"What a lovely little girl! Now, for the boys." The escort picks out another slip of paper.

I'm lost in thought about poor Jessa who will likely die in the bloodbath to an overzealous Career when Eclectica's lips start moving.

"Felix Fernandes!"

What?

The blood pumping into my head drowns out everything else. It feels like I'm submerged in water, my vision darkening. I try to say something, anything, but only air exits my mouth.

Next to me, Coren gasps, a sound that sends shivers down my spine.

It's me.

Chapter Text

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Easton Wright
District 9, 17
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Breakfast is a silent affair. The scrapes of the coarse tessera-grain bread against cracked plates are sporadic respites from the quiet.

Sibyl’s playing with her food. The anxiety is apparent on her gaunt face, in the way it only can be when it builds up over months, looming over life itself like a storm cloud.

It’s taken hold in me as well; I can feel it. I just don’t have a good feeling about this Reaping. Dad, too. Sometimes, it’s like he’s stuck reliving that day three years ago, forever condemned to have worry lines etched on his face and calluses on his hands. Needless to say, we’ve all been through a lot ever since my mother was whisked away by a tornado.

I think the worst part is not knowing whether she’s even dead; we never found her body. The lingering hope that plagues me at night is more of a curse than a comfort. My mind conjures up impossible scenarios, following different threads of thought like a spiderweb crisscrossing. Some days she’s miraculously survived, starting a new life in some faraway land without us. Some days she’s roaming the vast expanses of barren land beyond Panem itself, slowly dying of starvation and thirst. And some days, she’s still trapped in that tornado, in a purgatory of roaring winds. Flitting somewhere between life and death, a ghost that can never truly be laid to rest.

I remember all of her; the way she would sing lullabies under the soft moonlight when I couldn’t sleep, her beaming face when she introduced me to my baby sister.
Her final goodbye when she left for work on the fields, never to return.

Sibyl might be better off with having fewer memories of her. The ones I have only hurt more with the knowledge that I’ll never experience them again. I suppose it’s only fitting that death is on my mind on Reaping Day.

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The Reaping is starting. I’m pushing through the crowd, and I find what I’m looking for.

“Miss me?”

Marco turns around, and I feel my cheeks flush. “Easton!” His arms wrap around my shoulders, enveloping me in a hug that makes my insides bloom with warmth.

To an onlooker, it might seem like an embrace between friends comforting each other before the reaping. I know better.

He lets go of me, quicker than I want him to.

“I’m scared.” Marco’s breath in my ear.

“Me too.”

His fingers intertwine with mine, giving me goosebumps. I jerk backwards against my own will. “Not here, later,” I whisper. The pained expression on his face melts away, but guilt still pricks at my heart.

“Sorry, I just…. you know.”

His lips give way to the barest hint of a smile.
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Two words. Three syllables, and my fate is sealed.
“Eas-ton Wright!”

I pick at the velvet of the visiting room couch absentmindedly, reliving that moment. Rewind, rewind, pause.
Before, wondering how I’ll make my escape to meet Marco at the old barn after this is over. Hoping it isn’t someone I know.
After, marked for death. Everything cruelly ripped away from me. Sybil screaming unintelligibly from the 13-year-old section, yet it was like she was right beside me.

Watching as a girl from the same section is called next. Ethel Renner cried as she walked onto the stage.

I thought I’d healed. That I’d plucked out all the shards that had lodged themselves in the wound, that it was only scar tissue. I was wrong.

Distantly, I hear a door banging and panicked footsteps. Sybil tears into the room right into my arms, cheeks already wet. Dad follows, a broken man, like he knows this feeling all too well. His shoulders hunched, one hand cupping my face as a solitary tear falls to the ground.

The five words he says chill me to the bone. “I can’t lose you, too.” Sybil’s chest heaves as her uncontrollable sobs fill the room.

I want to let it all out. I want to yell that it isn’t fair, that we’ve been through enough. That I don’t want to leave them. But I need to have some hope. If not for myself, for Dad and Sybil.

I stand up. “I’ll come back.”

Sybil looks up at me, eyes too wide.

“You promise?”

It’s a promise I can’t keep.

“I promise.”

Dad only blankly stares, like he won’t let himself get his hopes up.

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It’s been an hour, almost. Visitation time should be over. I’m steeling myself to meet my mentor and truly go into the Games.

Until Marco appears, box in hand, eyes welling up with tears.
He hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe. I never want to let go.

After what feels like a lifetime, he finally speaks, his voice low and shaky.

“I want you to have this.”

He gingerly cracks open the box. It’s a metallic pendant of a compass, glittering in the feeble light.

“I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but…you know.”

I pick it up and inspect it. “It’s beautiful.”

Marco’s mouth quivers in a watery smile.

We sit on the couch, leaning on each other, until a Peacekeeper tells me I have to leave.

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Cheyenne Campbell
District 10, 18 years old
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The girl in the mirror wears a baby-blue satin dress. She ties a violet ribbon around her waist.
The girl is me.

I’ve never really been one to take much pride in my appearance. Not many in District Ten do, when you have to fight tooth and nail to ensure your survival. I’d be happy to attend the Reaping in any old rag, but Mother insists on me being dolled up for the occasion. For the cameras. Which is why both my parents and my brothers pooled together their incomes to buy me the dress, a pretty penny.

The Campbells are nothing if not proud of their family name.

We used to be powerful. We used to be known. And while we certainly don’t live in squalor, the only remnant of our old money is the large manor we live in.

“Cheyenne! Someone’s at the door for you!”

For me? I can’t think of anyone who would be visiting me now, less than an hour before the Reaping. Not Sora and Trixie, who I’m meeting at the town square.

I briskly walk to the front door, careful not to wrinkle my dress.

Mother, who looks slightly confused, holds the door open to reveal a boy of about ten years old stands there, waiting expectantly. Georgie, the messenger boy from the slaughterhouse.

“Boris wants you there. Needs a half-hour’s worth of work.” He spits onto the ground, prompting a frown from Mother.

“Now? But the Reaping is in forty-five minutes, and I don’t have time to change out-”

“He says he’s got to finish his orders before then. Otherwise you’re out of a job.”

Goddamit, Boris.

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“You understand, don’t you? Mosby’s out sick, and I need to get this shipment out by today.”

If looks could kill, Boris would be as dead as the animals he deals in.

“I’ll pay you double for this round of chickens.” He smiles simperingly.

I nod, but I make sure to slam the door of his office when I leave. Loudly.

I’m practically running on spite at this point. I don’t even don an apron as I commence my work. Knife in hand, I slice through the jugular of each chicken. A quick death, a merciful one. Blood trickles down my hands, an uncomfortable sensation which I’ve gotten used to.

Engrossed in how much I just want to get this over with, the knife slips. Blood spurts out, a fountain of red. The front of my dress feels warm.

Shit, there’s blood on my dress. The one that stains easily. The one that cost more than my monthly salary. The one I’m wearing to the Reaping in ten minutes.

Shit.

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You’ve got to be kidding me.

Not only do I get picked on my last Reaping, but I also manage to walk up to the stage in a very clearly bloodstained dress. The commentators will be having a field day.

The visiting room is oppressively opulent with ornate wallpaper, polished oak wood floors, and a wrought-iron chandelier that probably belongs in the Capitol. It reminds me of how we fatten up the chickens with lavish meals before they’re slaughtered.

My family walks into the room. Shows of affection from Mother and Father, who seem to have accepted my fate. The hugs, kisses, and whispers of “We love you” make my heart clench.

Ray, the perfect eldest son, and his pregnant wife, Leila, are next in line. Ray assures me that my room will stay intact, which wasn’t even close to the top ten things I was worried about, but comforting, nonetheless. Leila swears she’ll name the baby after me, which is too much, even for her.

Last is Henry. My brother approaches me, but stops in his tracks.

“You could win, you know.”

His words waver as he continues. “You have experience with knives at the slaughterhouse, you’re pretty enough to get sponsors-” He looks at me with an emotion I can’t quite place. Pride? “-and you’re tough as nails. Never forget that.”

Father shoots up from his seat. “Do whatever you have to, we won’t hold it against you. Just-” His voice breaks, cracking open a bottomless pit in my stomach. “Just come back to us.”

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Sinclair Array
District 3, 18 years old
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The view outside the train is stunning. Lush trees, verdant and overgrown, a bright green I’ve never seen back in Three. It’s a shame it must be under these circumstances.

The shock hasn’t worn off yet; I recall my name being called, the visiting room, like it was happening to someone else. Like a dream, fuzzy around the edges.

On the other side of the train is my district partner, forlornly staring at the table. Lamin Sonder must be from the Community Home, considering his moth-eaten clothes. We haven’t spoken a word to each other.

A door slides open, hissing under the chugs of the train. Our mentors are here.

Beetee Latier is a legend in his own right. Everyone knows his Games, even though they were a long time ago. His age might be catching up with him, but he’s still respected in the community.

Maia Lowry is a far more recent addition to our list of Victors; she only won five or six years ago. She’s pretty private, meaning no one knows much about her. Except, of course, her showstopping finale that’s almost expected of every Victor from Three.

“Sinclair. Lamin. Join us, please.” Beetee beckons us to a couch in front of a futuristic television.

“We’re sorry that you’ve been put in position, but you have to trust that we only have your best interests in mind. We will do our best to help you survive.” His words are clinical and sterile, refined after years of Mentoring. Maia is stony-faced, her lips pursed in an unreadable expression.

Our Escort chooses this exact moment to waltz into the room, her cloyingly sweet perfume clogging my nostrils. “It’s time for lunch! Ooh, and the Reaping Recaps!” Cortana Ring trills, seemingly ignoring the somber looks on our faces. The servants, who remain completely silent, serve up a veritable feast of foods. Some are familiar, like the tomato soup, although it looks richer than the kind Ma makes. I don’t recognize some, like a platter that has some kind of layered dish topped with brown powder. Chocolate?

“Dig in!” Cortana again. “You must be famished, what with the servings sizes in the Districts.” She presses a button, and the television comes to life.

“Wait.” I look to Cortana. “Could I have a paper and a pen?”

She raises her eyebrows. “…please?” Cortana leaves the room, muttering about Tributes and their unreasonable demands. Maia turns to Beetee, whose lips are upturned in the barest hint of a smile.

“Good initiative. It’s important to know who you’re going up against.” It’s the first thing Maia has said to us. I think Lamin is grimacing next to me. Ha. Someone's jealous.

Cortana eventually returns, and the Reaping Recaps begin.

District 1: Regis Stark and Gemma Bright
Boy is a physical threat, but he seems to defer to the girl. Gemma is the bossy leader type, also trained. Her weapon of choice is likely throwing knives, considering her slight frame and perfect posture. Also a threat, but both don’t seem particularly strategic.

District 2: Othrys Helm and Kendra Greaves
THE BOY IS A HUGE THREAT. Othrys is cunning, he has that hungry look in his eyes. Two trains their Tributes with a range of weapons, so I’d expect him to be proficient with anything. Definitely strategic and smart, will likely go far, maybe even win (even though Two won last year). Girl is a standard Career Tribute, nothing out of the ordinary.

District 3: Sinclair Array and Lamin Sonder
Lamin should be familiar with skating by with the bare minimum seeing as he’s a Community Home kid. If he escapes the Bloodbath, he could survive for a good amount of time. Skinny, though, so he isn’t a big physical threat. Doesn’t have the heart to kill, anyway, from what I’ve seen.

District 4: Albie Barclay and Shelley Thorpe
Boy volunteered, will likely join Careers. He’s strong, but not mean-spirited. I sensed some nervousness when volunteering. Might struggle with the killing part. Girl is Reaped. She doesn’t stand a chance. However, this leaves one spot open in the pack. They may try to recruit an outer district Tribute. Something to consider.

District 5: Noah Maximoff and Piper Argon
Cannon fodder. Both are young. Boy is well-fed, but too young. It’s sad.

District 6: Felix Fernandes and Jessa Matte
Boy is smart, but shy. Might have problems getting Sponsors with that kind of image, which isn’t the worst thing since he won’t have a target on his back. In his reaping, he seems stunned but already formulating a plan. Girl is a Morphling addict. I’ve never seen one personally, but I’ve heard about it. Bloodbath death.

District 7: Ashton Pyne and Holly Sartre
Wow, Seven has a good chance. The boy is cocky, walking up to the stage and waving like he’s a celebrity. Well-built, too. That will get him Sponsors. He’ll be a threat, but I’m actually more interested in the girl. She’s a bit younger, but I can feel her absolute rage emanating through the screen. Certainly one to watch.

District 8: Clive Omori and Periwinkle Seville
Not much of note about the boy, except that he’s skinny and looks like he might throw up. The girl is confident. Not like the Seven boy, though. More like she knows what she’s worth. I could see her doing good, too.

District 9: Easton Wright and Ethel Renner
The boy is a definite contender, at least physically. He’s lean but not malnourished. His district partner is quite young and sobbing desperately. Easton will be sticking with Ethel in the arena, as far as I can see. Might harm his chances.

District 10: Barnaby Chase and Cheyenne Campbell
Both are strong. The boy is fit, nothing much more of note. The girl is more interesting. Her dress is bloodstained, so she must be a worker at the slaughterhouse. Means she’s good with knives. Being “trained” with a weapon is a pretty big advantage, I’d assume.

District 11: Umber Elderberry and Thistle Fierra
Neither seem like huge contenders: they’re both so thin you can see their bony frames through their threadbare clothes. Maybe they’re good with plants and nature, but other than that, I don’t see them going far.

District 12: Nigel Hess and Annette Clifford
Similar story with Twelve. The way they’re coughing up coal dust during the Reaping, I’d be surprised if they even lasted until the Games.

The food is divine, and neither of us can finish what’s on our plates before the broadcast ends.

Beetee stands. “We’re almost done, but there are just a few more matters that we need to take care of. For starters, do you two want to work together?” He looks like he knows the answer to that question already, eyebrows arched.

We both shake our heads, and it’s the first thing we’ve seen eye-to-eye on.

“Alright then.” He clasps his hands. “I usually mentor the male tribute while Maia mentors the female one. Are you two okay with that?”

“Mhm.” Lamin just grunts.

Cortana shows me to my room, and Maia follows us so that she can start her mentoring. She takes her seat on a chair, while I sit on the bed. Seems inappropriate when talking about life-and-death matters, but I’m going to enjoy whatever luxuries I can.

Maia takes a deep breath. “Alright. What are your thoughts?”

“On?”

“Your competition.”

Hm. I take a moment to process my thoughts.

“The careers are threats, as always, but the boy from two, in particular, is a big one. Outlier contenders would be both Tens, both Sevens, the boy from Nine, and potentially the boy from Six.” My fingers drum absentmindedly on the bedframe. It helps me think. “My picks for allies would be the boy from Six and the girl from Eight. Neither will attract too much attention from the Careers, but seem capable enough.”

“So you’re planning on having allies?” Maia asks.

“Are you advising against it?”

“No- I mean.” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t have any and still made it, so allies aren’t necessary. But that’s really up to you.”

“Okay. I also noticed that the career pack is one short. They’re likely to recruit an outlier, and I think it’ll be the Ten girl.”

Maia looks at me quizzically. “Explain.”

"I think they’d prefer a girl for a balanced gender ratio, and the Seven girl would more likely bite if they asked. Even still, the boy is an option, but it really depends on whether he lives up to the hype he’s created. The Nine boy is too attached to his district partner, and the boy from Six isn’t as outwardly useful. Essentially, they want someone they can manipulate. Someone to do their bidding for them, and eventually dispose of them. So that recruit has to be malleable.”

My mentor seems impressed. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“I have to if I want to survive.”

Chapter Text

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Felix Fernandes
District 6, 17 years old
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The visitations were gut-wrenching, knowing it was the last time I would see my family and friends. The Reapings were terrifying, seeing the hulking volunteers and fierce outliers.

I haven’t yet decided how I feel about my mentor.

I try to remember the rumours that circulated round the district. She was an addict too, I think. Until she got clean sometime around the third Quarter Quell. There must have been some reason, but it evades me. Six has done somewhat better in the Games after that, but no one has won. I’m not a fan of those odds.

In the present, Maren circles us like we’re exhibits in a museum. Or like we’re carcasses to be pulled apart by vultures. I don’t know which is worse. Jessa clings to my arm.

Maren finally stops. “Okay. I can work with this,” she declares. She takes a seat across us on the couch, and looks to me.

“Officially, Carter is your mentor, but as you can tell, he’s…out of commission. So I’ll be mentoring both of you. Now,-” Maren points at me, “-any skills I should know about?”

“Um. Now?” What I really mean is, In front of Jessa? She’s technically still my competitor, as I have to remind myself. But. I wouldn’t mind sticking with her in the

Games. “Well, I was in the fencing team in my school.”

“Are you any good?” Maren asks, a smirk on her face.

“I guess. My coach says my defense is great, but my offense needs some work.”

“That’s fine. Don’t tell anyone else, let them underestimate you. And don’t go anywhere near the weapons during training.”

It’s sound advice, and I foolishly start to think I have a shot at this, if I play my cards right.

“I won’t burden you with a lot more advice. For now, you both can head to your rooms, and I’ll have a chat with you separately.”

Eclectica leads us to our bedrooms. Jessa hasn’t said a word, simply staring blankly at the snaking hallways until she’s deposited at her room. Our Escort drops me off at mine, and practically skips away.

The room isn’t huge by Capitol standards, but it sure is luxurious. The walls are an elegant warm wood colour, and the bed feels like I’m sleeping on a cloud.

That’s when reality sinks in for me, as I sink into the sheets. I’m going into the Games, and I likely won’t be coming back. I’ll never live the life I wanted to, forever trapped at seventeen years old. I grip the pillow like it’s my lifeline, and I swear the walls are closing in on me. The breaths that I expel are rapid and shallow, my chest tightening like there’s a clamp around my ribcage.

Two quick knocks sound in succession. Let’s get this over with. I slide open the door to reveal Maren.

Without so much as a glance at me, she marches into the room and pulls out a chair for herself.

“Listen here. I know this is shitty, and frankly I’d be more worried if you weren’t having a breakdown now, but you have to pull yourself together. You have far better odds that our past few tributes, and I won’t let that go to waste.”

I sniffle, and crack a faint smile. “Do you say that to all your tributes?”

She flashes a quick grin in return, and for a moment, I see my late grandmother in her. “No, silly.” Her lips straighten. “You have to understand that Six goes into the Games with not many advantages. We don’t train our tributes like One, Two and Four. We don’t have innate exposure to nature like Nine, Ten and Eleven. We don’t have enough knowledge to set traps like Three and Five, and at least tributes from Eight are good with their hands. We’re underfed and pumped with Morphling. So, when someone like you, who’s sober, decently fed, and has some fighting experience, comes along, we can’t afford to squander that opportunity.”

“That might be true, but just because I’m better than the average tribute from Six doesn’t mean I suddenly stand a chance against anyone else,” I counter.
“You’re not wrong, but all we can do is try.” Maren straightens. “Alright, that’s enough sad talk for an old lady like me. What’s your strategy?”

I’m taken aback by the sharp turn in conversation, and I take some time to reorient myself. “Um, I want to focus on the survival stations during training since I don’t know anything about nature.”

“I knew you were smart,” Maren jests. “And what about the Bloodbath?”

“Pick up whatever’s nearest to me and run like the wind.” I don’t plan on getting caught in that mess, but having zero supplies is just a slower death. Maybe a weapon if I’m lucky. “But…”

I sigh, as if to expel my anxieties. “…I have no clue what I’m going to do after that. Like, I can’t imagine myself in there.”

“Hmm,” Maren muses. “That could be a problem.”

The door opens, and Eclectica peeks in.

“I don’t mean to intrude…” she begins, despite entering the room uninvited, and also probably eavesdropping on our conversation.

“But I think you could do with some allies.” She grins.

Maren nods. “She has a point. With other people on your side, you won’t need to completely shoulder the burden of decision-making.”

“Yes, exactly. Also, you’ll have a sense of purpose in the arena with an alliance.” Eclectica swoons dramatically. “Honestly, it’s so incredibly tragic when tributes just wander aimlessly without reaching their fullest potential.”

Because the most tragic part of the Hunger Games is obviously the literal children not playing it up for the cameras. I decide to keep this to myself, though, since Eclectica isn’t completely wrong.

“Alright, on the topic of allies.” Maren juts her head in the direction of the other room. Jessa?

“No offense, but…”

“Oh, don’t worry about the morphling part of it. I’m going to give her the withdrawal meds now. “ Maren mimes a syringe. “That will alleviate the worst of the effects. And I believe you can trust each other, being from the same District.”

“That’s great, and I’ll think about it, but can we circle back to the withdrawal meds? I didn’t know that they gave those to tributes,” I say. “Did you get those during your Games?”

Maren frowns. “No, they only changed that after the 72nd.”

“What happened during the 72nd?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you about it.” Maren winks.

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Nolan Maximoff
District 5, 13 years old
-------------------------------

“I’m scared.”

The words slip out of my mouth before I can reel them back in. You’re not supposed to say that, berates the voice in my head. You can’t act like a baby. But it’s true. The Capitol is imposing. Even now, outside the window, I can see the towering buildings that glisten in the midday sunlight, stretching vertically in a way that makes my hairs stand on end.

Rocco sports a too-wide smile, the edges quirking. “Hold on, I think I left something in my room. Let me get it, then we can talk.” He moves to the next train car, which holds the other half of District Five this year: my district partner and her mentor.

It’s like no one wants to be near me. Piper’s screaming when Electra asked if we wanted to work together was proof enough.

“I’m not babysitting for what might be the last few days of my life!” She stormed away after that.

And now, my mentor is finding any excuse he can to get away from me. When I put my ear to the wall, I can even hear his hushed whispers with someone else, which doesn’t sound like he’s getting something from his room in any way.

“Please, Electra. You know I have no experience with kids.” I can barely hear Rocco’s pained voice over the chugging of the train, but I can tell he’s speaking to his fellow mentor.

“Well, you’d better get some if you plan on being a mentor,” she retorts, not unkindly.

“Come on, Electra. You have grandchildren, and I have no idea how to deal with kids of that age.”

“Fine.” Electra grunts. “But next time, you’re on your own.”

I hear footsteps, and I hastily return to staring at the window like I wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation just a second ago. The door slides open, and Electra walks in.

“Hey.” She kneels, making us about the same height. “I heard that you’ve been having some feelings about this whole thing.” Her words are dragged out, which makes them strangely comforting. Like a lullaby.

“I’m scared,” I repeat.

“That’s normal. What about this are you scared of?”

The other tributes. The arena. The cold metal at my throat convalescing with the warm metal coating my tongue. I go for a safer option. “That I won’t ever see my mother again.”

“And my father,” I add, so he doesn’t feel left out.

“Well, do you remember what she last said to you?” Electra caresses my hand.

“She said she loved me. And that I was smart.” Not in so many words, though. It seemed like she had given up, tears streaking down her face, so I reminded her that she told me I could survive since I was smart. She just nodded and pulled me into a hug.

“There you are. I’m sure you’re a brave boy.” She ruffles my hair. “Rocco and I are here to help you, always remember that.”

The clickety-clack of heels permeates the air. Our Escort peeks into the room. “We’ve arrived at the Capitol! You’ll love it here!” she exclaims shrilly, waving her hands in an exaggerated fashion.

Electra sighs pointedly and takes my hand. “Let’s go.”

I follow her to the door. There’s a small crowd of people at the station, clapping and cheering. Some of them have cameras and microphones. All of them are dressed in garish colours that makes the scene look like a painting if I squint.

“Are those journalists?” I ask.

Electra glances down at me. “Yes, but you don’t need to answer their questions.”

I nod. We make our way down the steps carefully, and a chorus of ‘Awww’s sound. Lights flash. People stick out their microphones and toss out questions.

“How was your ride from District 5?”

“What are your first impressions of the Capitol?”

“How do you feel about being one of the youngest tributes this year?”

That last one latches on my mind. It confirms my observation during the Reaping Recaps. But I’m a brave and smart boy. Right?

I make eye contact with the lady who asked the question. She wears an extremely frilly dress that boasts colours like neon green and hot pink, and her mouth is rounded in a perfect ‘o’ when she realises that I intend to answer her question.

“I might be one of the youngest, but don’t count me out!” I say in what I hope is a confident voice.

The lady scribbles something down on her notepad and attacks the cameraman next to her with a barrage of “Did you get that?”s. More people start asking questions, adding to the cacophony of voices.

Electra drags me to the waiting car with a polite smile which droops once we get inside. She wipes her brow and stares at me. I shrink, shying away from her gaze.

“Did I do something wrong?”

She grips my arm. “No, no, you didn’t. It’s just…” Electra glances out the tinted windows of the car. “Some attention is good, but you don’t want to make yourself a target.”

Ohhh. “I understand.”

-------------------------------
Easton Wright
District 9, 17 years old
-------------------------------

I turn the pendant around and around, taking it in. Even now, as I sit here with only a paper-thin bathrobe to cover me, I examine Marco’s final gift.

It’s silvery, glinting in the neon lights of the prep room. The metal is thin, but it weighs down on my heart. It depicts a compass, with the needle pointing…

“East,” I mutter to myself, and smile.

Someone from my prep team saunters into the room; Ilythia, I think her name was. She sees me staring at the pendant. “My, that’s beautiful! It’s obviously only silver-plated, but pretty, nonetheless. Is it your token?”

“Yeah.” My voice is gravelly after a long period of disuse, like old machinery groaning and rumbling. It feels like the pain in my thoughts has slowly seeped into my words, percolating into every aspect of my existence.

The numbness radiated from the knot in my stomach. I felt nothing when they dumped me in scalding water, or when they plucked me clean like a chicken. The raw reddishness of my skin pulses with sporadic aches that I barely register. But I want to scream when this oblivious Capitol lady asks me about my pendant. How dare she?

I can’t though, just like I couldn’t defend myself when the prep team remarked that I had a nice body. That it was a shame I was a tribute, going into the games, like I was just an object to be handled carelessly.

But I have to stay in line. For my own sake, yes, but also for Dad and Sybil, who depend on me. For Marco. For Ethel, who I have to protect. So I bit my tongue and gritted my teeth, not saying a word.

Ilythia re-enters the room. When did she even leave? “Your stylist is here. You’re so lucky to get Titania as one!” she gushes.

I don’t feel lucky, but how much worse can it get?

Ilythia steps aside as who I assume to be my stylist enters the room. Her hair is dyed a sky blue, and her dress is somehow weirder, with a hodgepodge of patterns and colours that makes me feel like I’m concussed.

“It is I, Titania!” She strikes a pose. “My work has always been legendary, and that will not change today!” she cries. District Nine is my home, but I hold no false belief that it’s noteworthy in any way in the Hunger Games. So being assigned to Nine doesn’t exactly bolster her credibility. Also, the dress.

“Fear not, I will make you stunning for the parade. The crowds will chant your name!” she reassures me somewhat melodramatically. Titania unveils my costume with a flourish.

It’s little more than some gold accessories and a few pieces of cloth. Maybe I’ll freeze to death in the chariot before even entering the arena.

“How am I supposed to…wear this?”

Titania throws her head back and laughs like I’ve just told her a joke. “Well, we will put the outfit on you, but I’m sure you can pull it off! You have a great physique, why not show it off?”

I want to vomit and rid my memory of this day. Instead, I chuckle good-naturedly and let her and my prep team drape the white cloth over me. It goes around my waist and over one of my shoulders, leaving the other shoulder, part of my midriff, as well as any skin below my knees to the mercy of the evening cold. I shudder at the thought.

Ilythia fastens a gold belt, and places a golden headpiece that looks like a wheatstalk on my head, along with golden cylinders that go around my biceps.

I turn to the mirror and the outfit is somehow not a disaster. It's simple but sophisticated. I just wish it showed less skin.

Titania suddenly gasps, strutting over and snatching my pendant from around my neck. She grips it in her elongated fingers, knuckles turning white. “Oh dear, this simply won’t do. It completely clashes with the gold accents!”

Rage burns, bubbling pits of anger rising to the surface. They took everything from me, and now they want my last reminder of home too. I’ll never let them. I’ll…

Stay in line. For everyone I love. The rising pressure in my stomach deflates.

“Fine.”

Titania grins, gold-plated teeth bared for all to see.

Chapter Text

-------------------------------
Cheyenne Campbell
District 10, 18 years old
-------------------------------

I can already imagine my family sitting in front of the television, slack-jawed at my parade outfit. Because their beloved daughter is dressed as a milk maid, far below her station as a Campbell.

The costume itself isn’t that bad, a faded blue apron hanging over a simple white dress. It does, however, remind me of my Reaping dress a little too much for my liking.

I look to my side at Barnaby. My district partner is dressed as a old-timey milkman; we both even have milk bottles as props. I grip mine in my hand for dear life; we are, after all, riding in a very fast chariot. Both of our outfits are a pristine, blinding white, and I was under express orders from my stylist to keep it that way. I don’t even want to imagine what would become of me if I didn’t; after all, I’ve experienced the wrath of a wronged clotheshorse before in Sora, my friend back in Ten.

Nostalgia, or some twisted version of it, tugs at me.

I suppose the outfit could be worse; I could’ve been a cow.

The wind distorts and warps the rabid screams of the Capitol spectators, but I believe they’re cheering for Nine. The boy’s outfit showed off more skin than it covered, so that checks out.

Barnaby seems to be thinking along the same lines. “At least they’re not looking at us, right?” he remarks with a subtle grin.

“I hope not.” My words are lost to the wind.

As we enter the City Circle, the voice of President Ambrose Cardew fills the air, booming with authority.

“We thank you, tributes of the 89th Hunger Games, for your sacrifice. May the odds ever be in your favour!” He raises a glass of a presumably alcoholic beverage from his balcony, towering above all of us.

At least he kept the speech short.

We stay relatively quiet on the ride back as I collect my thoughts about the general situation.

Barnaby is pretty nice; we connected on the train ride. I knew of him back in Ten, I think we had a few mutual friends. He has a younger brother, and he’s built up some muscle from the heavy lifting he does. He could be a good ally, but we haven’t really talked about that yet. It seems a bit soon to be planning when I don’t know anything concrete about the other tributes. For now, I’m just glad I have someone to share my worries with.

On the other hand, I was surprised when I was introduced to my mentor, since I was under the impression that I would be mentored by our most recent victor. Kat Ronnet won about five years ago, which meant her experience would still be somewhat fresh in her mind, and she could provide me with advice. According to Barnaby, his mentor revealed to him that Kat’s parents had recently passed away in a tragic accident, so she’s taken some time off from mentoring.

Instead, I got Adder Cormac of the 76th. He’s fine, if a bit distant. Hasn’t said much to me in the way of strategy or advice. Ten must be under some kind of curse, since I’m pretty sure Adder’s sister also died in the Hunger Games a few years after he won. He’s been known to patronise the local bar and stumble his way back to the Victor’s Village most days, but he seemed sober enough on the train.

At that moment, the chariot stops, and Barnaby steps off. “M’lady,” he croons while bowing exaggeratedly, a smirk on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.

“You’ve got some dirt on your pants,” I deadpan, taking his outstretched hand and exiting the chariot.

“Shit, you’re right.” He tries to dust it off half-heartedly, to little effect. “My stylist is going to kill me.” Barnaby smiles sheepishly, and for a second, I almost forget that we’re in the Hunger Games.

-------------------------------
Sinclair Array
District 3, 18 years old
-------------------------------

The glass is heavy in my hands, the liquid inside a murky green. I’m working up the courage to take a sip. Surely it can’t feel worse than the outfit I’m wearing, which is exactly what I imagined Capitol fashion to look like. The skintight bodysuit is not only uncomfortable to wear, but also obnoxiously bright, with a reflective metallic hue and neon blue accents.

I was walking back to the Tribute Centre after that awful parade when I noticed the table, off to the side. Almost like it was intentionally hidden. It held nothing except a number of glasses filled with drinks.

Twenty-four, to be exact.

So no one can blame me for assuming that they were for us tributes. But why?

“Hey. What’s that?”

Oh, no. Another tribute. This could be something important, and I wanted to keep it under wraps. I turn around, and it’s the girl from Eight. (Periwinkle, I tell myself. I have got to stop naming people based on their district.) Her dress seems to consist of one long cloth wrapped around her body, with a ring of it behind her head. It’s tacky, but she somehow pulls it off effortlessly. Of course, it’s a light violet in colour.

As my stomach gives way to a bottomless pit, I remember that she’s on my shortlist of allies. This is my chance to make a good first impression.

“Hey. Periwinkle, right?” Hopefully I sound relaxed and laid-back.

“Just Perry is fine,” she trills, flouncing over to the table and grabbing a drink for herself. “Three, right? Sinclair?”

My heart thumps in double-time. She knows my name! Which is more than I can say for some people back home. I nod, running my fingers over the glass.

“Have you tried it yet?” Perry glances at her own drink and grimaces. “Looks like sewer water.”

“Nope. Let’s hope it only looks like it.” I raise my glass. She giggles and does the same.

“Cheers.” Clink. We both tip our heads and down our drinks.

My first thought is, This must be what a cow tastes every day. The grass flavour is overwhelming, coating my tongue with a lawn’s worth of it.

“Ew,” Perry groans. “It really does taste like sewer water, moss and mud and all.”

Silence. Our eyes meet.

We both start laughing hysterically. Perry doubles over, clutching her ribs. I have to lean against the wall to stop myself from falling down.

It feels good to let those pent-up emotions out, even if it’s in the form of manic cackling. I vaguely sense the footfalls of other tributes, but no one seems to notice us.

Finally, Perry stands back up, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That wasn’t worth it at all,” she remarks, plucking out her hair accessories and letting her jet-black tresses cascade downwards.

“Capitolites are weird. I can’t believe those were meant to be refreshments,” I say. For a few moments, the silence builds up, pounding in my ears. Perry broaches another topic. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve never been one to initiate conversations.

“How was your train ride?”

I stop to think. “It was fine. The view outside was nice, but the rest of it…” I shrug my shoulders. “Don’t really get along with my district partner either, which doesn’t help.”

“I get it.” Perry says. “Mine is a bit much for me. Too sunny.”

“Not that he’s a bad person,” she adds quickly. “He’s just really naive and optimistic. You know the type.”

“I do.”

Perry crosses her arms and surveys our surroundings. “It’s pretty empty out here. Must be getting late, we should head back.”

I let out a low, assenting “mhm” and we walk leisurely to the lifts. I step out on the third floor, and we say our goodbyes. Perry waits for the doors to close.

Something comes over me. “Hey, we should meet up at training tomorrow,” I blurt out. Immediately, I wince. That’s way too forward for someone you’ve just met, I chide myself.

“I mean-” I start. “Y’know, try out the stations. Strength in numbers, and all.”

Wow, great save.

Surprisingly, Perry’s eyes light up as she jams her finger in the button to keep the lift open.

“Yeah, that would be great.” She grins. “It’s a plan.”

-------------------------------
Felix Fernandes
District 6, 17 years old
-------------------------------

It turns out that Jessa is a completely different person without morphling weighing her down. She’s still soft-spoken and zones out at times (the meds don’t totally cure the addiction, but they do erase the worst of the symptoms, as Maren explained to me), but her wit and light-heartedness shine through now. There’s a stabbing pain in my heart when I realise that the real version of her was trapped under the chains of addiction all this time.

We chatted throughout the parade and the walk to our rooms, both about our lives back in District Six and about the Games. Jessa was surprisingly forthcoming about her addiction; as we stood in the chariots like statues by virtue of our unwieldy hovercraft costumes, she divulged to me that her mother had been using while pregnant with her. She said the technical term for it was congenital addiction, and that it's actually the main reason why so many children become addicted.

You might learn something new everyday, but they won’t all be fun facts. Dimly, I realise that I’ve been fortunate enough to have never needed to know about this. My parents were cautious enough to shield me from that.

The both of us are sitting on the couch in the District Six suite, wolfing down a dinner of some kind of baked pasta with cheese on top.

Jessa stabs the food with her fork. “This is so good,” she says in awe, her mouth stuffed with melty cheese. “I could eat this every day.”

“You’d probably die of high cholesterol by the end of the month,” I retort. “But it would be worth it.” I help myself to another slice.

The door opens, but it’s not Maren. Carter stumbles through the hallway, knocking over a vase in the process. It shatters on the ground, sending shards of blue-stained crystal all over the dining area. He ambles along like nothing happened, and from closer, I can see the fresh scar marks along his forearms. But they’re not from the broken vase.

Eclectica bursts into the room, fuming. “Carter! How many times have I told you not to break the furniture!” She goes up to him and, her arm around his shoulder, leads Carter to his room. “If you really want to continue this disgusting habit, at least try and keep the decorations intact,” Eclectica mutters under her breath.

She sees us and her eyes widen ever so slightly, like she forgot we were here. “You two stay where you are, I’ll get an Avox to clean this mess,” she instructs sternly, reminding me of my bossy principal.

That’s all it takes for me to fall back into despair, sucked into that vortex of regret and finality. I can’t stop thinking about what I will leave behind. My parents. My friends. My teacher, always supportive and encouraging. I think about my classmates, who probably didn’t even notice my absence; so silent and closed-off I was. If I got another chance, I would’ve done differently, I resolve.

But there are no second chances here.

“Have any of you seen Cart-” Maren walks into the suite, cutting herself off at the sight of the shards littering the floor. Jessa points in the general direction of Eclectica and Carter.

“Oh.” She sighs, as if expelling her emotions. Maren stays like that for a few seconds before turning to us. “If you’re done with dinner, you should get some sleep,” she says, in a tone that strikes me as maternal but not quite. More like how your aunt would speak to you.

I glance at my full plate and at Jessa’s. “I’m done. Not that hungry anymore,” she declares, downcast.

We move to our rooms as the voiceless servants remove the remnants of the vase.

“Good night, Felix.”

“Night, Jessa.” She smiles weakly and shuts the door.

Something tugs at me. It’s not so much curiosity, more an attempt at empathy or understanding.

I go up to Maren, who’s sitting at the table, fingers pinching her forehead. She looks up at me.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, but I have a question.”

“Fire away.” Maren leans back.

“What happened to Carter?”

“The Games,” she replies, ominously.

“Was he addicted before his Games?” I think back to Jessa, and Maren herself.

“No. Let’s just say..” Maren’s face turns ashen grey.

“We all have our own demons to deal with.”

Chapter Text

-------------------------------

Easton Wright

District 9, 17 years old

-------------------------------

When I wake up, I feel like I’ve been transported to a different plane of existence.

It’s the small things. The silky, soft blankets so unlike the worn grain sacks I would use back home, fraying at the edges. The marble floors. The ornate designs on the ceiling. Every atom in my body is screaming, rebelling against its displacement.

The curtains are drawn, but slivers of golden daylight shine through anyway. I drag my feet to the dining area, where Reese is waiting for me.

What can I say about my mentor? He’s pretty old since he won sometime in the 40s. He’s taken on a tough-love approach to mentoring, which you’d think he would reconsider after only bringing back one victor in some forty-odd years. Evidently not, although I wouldn’t dare say that to his face. He’s indifferent at best and volatile at worst, so I’m relieved when he greets me with a disinterested “Sleep well?”.

I give a non-committal grunt in response, trudging to the sink to get a glass of water. The less I speak with him, the better, I reason. 

Maisie walks out of Ethel’s room. “You woke up just in time for breakfast,” she informs me with a quick smile. If Reese is frost and fire, the extremities of the emotional spectrum, Maisie is the neutral zone, grounding and warm. A counterbalance.

She then addresses the both of us. “Ethel will join us in a little bit. She’s not feeling so good now.”

A chill spreads through my body, wild and uncontrollable. I picture Sibyl in the place of my district partner, and grip the edge of the counter till my knuckles turn white.

Reese stands up. “Time for some mentoring,” he announces, his steely gaze directed at me. I follow him to the couch in front of the television screen, barely stopping myself from letting out an irritated sigh. The last time he “mentored” me, it consisted of his incessant ramblings on valour, strength and bravery for the better part of an hour, in the closed quarters of my train cabin.

“Sit,” he orders, with all the sternness of an army general. I oblige.

Reese picks up the remote and fiddles with it for a bit until the screen comes to life. “The 5 Most Popular Tributes in the Parade,” the headline reads. The small boy from Five, who the program tells me is in fourth place, is shown, donning a sky-blue suit and waving to the crowd excitedly.

Still not sure what the point of this is, I continue watching as the video shifts to the One girl in third. Her shoulder-length blonde hair nicely complements her sleeveless dress, studded with all manner of precious gems. She blows kisses to the audience, effortlessly exuding grace and confidence.

The screen changes again and- oh. Blush creeps up my neck as I try not to physically recoil at seeing myself on the television. Reese turns to me. 

“They like you,” he says gruffly. “You have a decent shot. You’d better not waste it on some runt girl.” 

It sounds more like a threat than mentorly advice, although it probably is one, coming from Reese. But he’s not completely wrong, I begrudgingly admit. Ethel would take up a chunk of my attention in the arena, and it could be the difference between life and death.

“Do you understand me?” he asks, enunciating each word carefully.

I nod curtly. 

He juts his head towards the dining table, laden with food. “Eat your breakfast. You’ll need to fill up before the Games.”

I suppress the urge to salute and march away like a good little soldier.

A door opens. Ethel stands in the doorway of her room, eyes rimmed with red and sniffling. She holds a stuffed rabbit, a patchwork of fabric scraps, tightly to her chest. Her token, she told me on the train.

Maisie walks over to her and, squeezing her arm affectionately, leads her to the dining table. The complete difference in mentoring methods doesn’t escape my attention. Ethel pulls out a chair slowly and sits down. (The television prattles on in the background, announcing Periwinkle Seville of District 8 as the most popular tribute, as of now.)

Ethel looks up at me, and a flicker of a smile passes on her face. 

At that moment, I come to a decision. I will stick with Ethel, despite what anyone says. I will protect her, and that’s a promise.

-------------------------------

Nolan Maximoff

District 5, 13 years old

-------------------------------

“Listen up, since twenty-three of you will not be alive in a few weeks or so, and how you spend your time here could be make or break.”

That shuts the rest of the tributes up. We stand in a loose semicircle facing the head trainer, Scrippus, who is tall and lean, based on what I can see from the back. Drops of sweat form at the back of my neck even in the air-conditioned training hall. All the others tower over me. Even ignoring the Careers, who could probably squash me like a bug, the boy from Six is lanky like a weed, the boy from Nine is almost as tall but is reasonably more muscled, and the boy from Ten is stocky and broad-shouldered. 

I’m at a huge disadvantage, I realise. I remember from the Reapings that the average age definitely skewed older. The only tributes as young as me are the girls from Nine and Twelve. Nine is attached at the hip to her district partner, and I feel a twinge of jealousy at this. Twelve is staring into empty space, her face blank with tear-marks running down her cheeks. Neither will be helpful.

Mom told me I should find allies, but I don’t know if I will get any. My lungs constrict, squeezing the breath out of me. Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck even in the air-conditioned training centre. No one to save me. Alone.

“..and most importantly, don’t hurt the other tributes,” Scrippus warns. Oh, he’s done talking, and I’ve missed most of it. Who’s going to want to ally with me?

“Training starts now. May the odds ever be in your favour.” The crowd disperses. Predictably, the Careers saunter over to the weapons glinting like they’re taunting me. The others spread out to the survival stations. 

It takes me some time to realise that I’m the only one who hasn’t moved, and that I should at least make myself useful. So I pick a station at random, and head to fire-starting, glancing nervously around me.

Fire-starting is, thankfully, sparsely populated; there are two others besides me, along with the trainer. One is the boy from Eleven, I think. He looks up from his pile of sticks and flashes a quick smile. The other is the boy from Three, a sour expression on his face as he furiously rubs two rocks, to no avail. I decide to steer clear of him. Hesitantly, I take my own spot on a patch of fake ground. The trainer (“Hadrian”, his nametag reads) is robotic, teaching me what types of wood burns easily and which hold lots of moisture, and what arrangement to construct the campfire to maximise airflow, with utter efficiency. At the end of an hour, I manage to strike a stone with a flint, creating  a small but functional fire.

At that moment, it feels like the spark lit something in me as a warm feeling settles across my body. I really achieved something, even more than some tributes older than me. I recall the Three boy who threw his sticks to the ground and yelled in frustration after struggling with his fire, or lack thereof, for a good thirty minutes. Hadrian showed the most emotion I’d seen him display so far with an irritated scowl.

Where to next? I’m vibrating with anticipation. Maybe I do stand a chance, after all.

Edible plants was pretty crowded at the start of training, but it seems to have thinned out now, so I scurry there. The boys from Eight and Twelve are murmuring animatedly amongst themselves, pointing at the plants on display. The girls from Three and Eight swipe on tablets on adjacent seats. The pair from Nine mill around aimlessly, the boy half-heartedly picking up herbs and putting them down. Now’s as good a time as any for me to learn, when people are focused within their own groups. 

As I get closer, I notice a leaderboard for the edible plants test, which must be what the girls are taking. The pair from Eleven are neck and neck for first place, with the girl barely edging the boy out with a 97% accuracy and 95% accuracy respectively. Below them is Three girl at 93%.

The trainer (“Theandra”, this time) at edible plants is much nicer than Hadrian. She hands me a jagged leaf, letting me run my fingers across its rough and bumpy surface. “This is the echidena leaf,” she explains. “It’s not very filling but works in a pinch if you’re hungry. More importantly, it boosts your body’s natural defenses against infection.” Theandrea now points at some kind of reed which looks like a cattail. 

“That might look like a cattail, but it’s not,” she warns. “It’s a genetically modified variant called a vipersnatch. It stores poison in the sap in its spike which is fatal if ingested. Symptoms include vomiting, an exaggerated thirstiness, and muscle spams.”

“They were used in the 76th,” Theandra adds as an afterthought. “Three tributes died to them.”

I shudder. Sounds like a horrible way to die.

We get through sorrel (edible, can be identified by clusters of arrow-shaped leaves) and milkweed (toxic to humans in large amounts, with pinkish berries) before Theandra lets me have a look around on my own. I walk around the displays like I know what I’m doing, gingerly inspecting the plants. By the end of an hour, I think I have at least a vague recollection of which plants are edible and which are not. I move to the tablet area to take the test.

The first plant that comes up is blueberries, which I confidently swipe to “edible”. Hopefully the rest of the test is as easy. I get to the next one, and the next, and although they aren’t as straightforward, I recall enough to categorise them. I finish off my last answer (dandelions, edible) and wait for the results. 

The screen loads agonizingly slow. I feel my chest expanding and contracting, the blood roaring in my ears. I get my score.

87%.

I scramble over to the leaderboard, where I’m tied in fourth place with Ten boy. I did it!

-------------------------------

Cheyenne Campbell

District 10, 18 years old

-------------------------------

The knife is natural in my hand, like the shape of my hollow fist fits the handle perfectly. I swipe at the dummy in front of me, tearing open its chest. I sidestep and sink the blade into a shoulder.

Shit, it’s stuck.

The trainer tuts. Rina is lithe and graceful, and yet I can immediately tell that she could probably beat someone twice her size in a knife fight. 

She pulls the knife out which makes a sucking noise. “Remember, only stab when you have access to vital organs or their dominant arm.” Rina mimes dragging the knife across a throat. “Otherwise, you slice to weaken your opponent from blood loss.”

I’ve been at the knives station since training started. Something about it calls to me, the familiar part of a strange place. Barnaby trained with me for some time but left for edible plants. (“What’s the point of training with weapons if you die to some berries?” he asked.) I stayed.

I grunt affirmatively as Rina hands me back the knife. As it turns out, using knives on defenseless animals is different from using them in combat. But Rina says I’m doing good now, and with some more practice, I could even stand toe-to-toe with a Career. (Not directly, of course. Training for the Games is still technically illegal.)

Well, speak of the devil. The boy from Two saunters up to the dummy next to me like he owns it. He gives me a smile, baring pearly teeth, the corners turned up in a knowing smirk. The boy plucks  a knife, and with a flourish, begins to attack the dummy in front of him.

Every strike is methodical. He barely even breaks a sweat as he circles the dummy with slashes so quick I can barely follow them. He ends with a stab to the heart, and a bow. “Great wristwork,” Rina comments appreciatively.

He doesn’t break eye contact with me, his piercing gaze impossible to look away from.

“If this is some kind of intimidation technique, it’s not working,” I say, mustering up all the heart I can.

He faces me properly now. “Quite the contrary,” he assures me, in a voice smooth and slippery. “We noticed you training,” he continues, pointing to the weapons station where the rest of the Careers are, “and, as you can see, we’re one person short.”

“So, maybe we can help each other.” He grins cloyingly sweet.

“What, you want me to join the Career pack?” I ask, half incredulous and half confused. This is an insane opportunity. Being a Career means limitless food and supplies in the arena, along with added safety in numbers. My own mentor joined the Careers and won, I recall with a jolt. 

I teeter on the edge of an answer, thinking of all the Ten kids who were killed by a Career. Whose lives were cut short by someone who volunteered for this. Did I want to associate with them?

And what about Barnaby? I know we didn’t speak about being allies, but could I just leave him hanging like that? Although… He seems to be getting along pretty well with the Eleven boy at edible plants.

I hesitate.

“Do whatever you have to, we won’t hold it against you. Just. Just come back to us.”

I nod.

“Perfect!” says the boy from two, saccharine. He holds out his hand. “Proper introductions first. I’m Othrys.”

“Cheyenne.” I shake his hand. 

“Well, let’s meet the rest of the group.” Othrys takes long, purposeful strides to the other Careers. I follow him, chest puffed out and trying not to make a fool of myself.

Othrys introduces me to the pack. “Gemma and Regis,” he announces first. Gemma is stoic, but that isn’t enough to mask the twitch in her mouth. Thankfully, her district partner is more outward with his displeasure, his eyebrows furrowed and his bulging arms crossed. I make a mental note to steer clear of the Ones. I don’t want to spend what could be the last few days of my life engaging in pointless social politics.

“Kendra.” Othrys’ district partner steps forward and gives me a cordial handshake. “I trust that we will work well together,” she states in clipped tones.

“And finally, Albie.” Albie gives me the warmest welcome so far with a friendly wave. Fours are considered the outliers of the Career pack, so he probably hasn’t had the greatest experience with them either. Maybe I can trust him.

As we stand, enveloped in the thick, awkward silence, the bell signalling lunch cuts through. I  breathe a sigh of relief. We head over to the nearest table, claiming it for ourselves.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I idly poke at the broccoli, chewing slow and steady. The food is, of course, flavourful and nutritious, but the air is stiff and heavy. No one has said a word since we started eating, averting our gazes from each other.

Finally, Gemma speaks up, lifting her head from her lunch. “So, you have experience with knives?” she asks, businesslike.

It’s a stupid question, and I’m not in the mood, but I entertain her for the sake of the conversation. “Yeah. Worked in the slaughterhouse back in Ten,” I reply in a similarly neutral tone.

“And I guess you’ve had…experience-” I emphasise the word knowingly, “with throwing knives,” I say. A wolfish grin spreads on Gemma’s face. “Damn right I do.”

Back and forth. Ball in my court. “Must be surreal to actually be here after all those years of experience.” 

Inhabit the archetype. Be the cool girl. Calm, collected, sharp. 

“It is,” she replies, her smile softening. She looks to her right at Regis. “It really is.”

He grunts. “My brother was a tribute three years ago,” he says. “I came here to avenge him. To bring glory to our district.” Regis’s downcast eyes never leave his lunch.

Kendra chimes in. “My neighbour volunteered last year. She died in service to Panem. An honour.” 

Morbid, much?

It seems we’ve started some kind of sharing about people we know going into the Games, since Albie goes next. 

“I knew of the victor from two years ago. We went to the same school,” Albie says, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “Oh, and he’s my mentor now,” he adds brightly.

Albie jabs his fork in Othrys’ direction. “What about you? You Twos always seem to be connected to a victor,” he jokes. Othrys hasn’t spoken, and I can see now that his lips are curled in a grimace. He looks up darkly.

“Fuck off, I don’t know anyone,” he snaps. Othrys stabs his fork into the vegetables, making them ooze juices in a way that reminds me of human blood.

The mood has shifted. Everyone is frozen. 

I cut the tension. “If it helps, I do,” I volunteer. 

“My uncle was a tribute, a long time ago,” I reveal. I’ve never told this to anyone, and the words exiting my mouth don’t feel like my own. “He almost won, too. Second place. My father doesn’t like talking about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Albie mutters.

“S’not like I was born yet, anyway. Just unfortunate.” My throat is dry and scratchy, like I pulled some secret part of me out along with my words.

Chapter Text

-------------------------------

Sinclair Array

District 3, 18 years old

-------------------------------

Training has been fairly uneventful. Until now.

A squabble has erupted. Verbal, of course, since tributes can’t hurt each other before the Games, when they’re forced to. 

Make it make sense.

Holly from Seven is screaming at Regis from One. Loudly. 

“Good for her, honestly,” Perry mutters under her breath. I smirk.

Holly is on the younger (and shorter) side, but that doesn’t stop her from leaning as close as she can to Regis without touching, fists curled. The girl’s pent-up emotions have finally found their way to the surface after simmering silently for so long.

I smile inwardly. From the Reaping Recaps, I had already clocked Holly as a threat. I just didn’t expect her to pick a fight with not just a Career, but the largest one, two days into training.

Shelley from Four cowers behind Holly. They must be allied. The other Careers are grouped up, arms crossed and whispering amongst themselves but otherwise looking more amused than angry. Including the Ten girl, I see. Another of my predictions coming to fruition.

“Your days are numbered, Seven!” Regis thunders, red-faced. The threat reminds me more of a schoolyard quarrel, his voice lacking any kind of self-restraint.

Holly shrieks unintelligibly. She turns around and plucks a throwing axe, then faces Regis and reciprocates his smoldering stare.

Everyone has stopped whatever they were doing, watching the spectacle with bated breath. Even the Gamemakers on their balcony, lording above us, are enraptured.

Holly, who just a few seconds ago was yelling with rage, wordlessly flings the axe. It embeds itself into the centre of the target. 

No one moves, but Regis breaks the silence. “You’re dead,” he says, lowering his voice by a few octaves. “You won’t survive the first minute.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” says another voice, substantially higher in pitch. The Seven boy, Ashton, saunters up to the Career, self-assured. It would be almost comedic if I didn’t know he meant what he said wholeheartedly.

For all his muscle, the boy has no finesse or strategy of any sort. His idea of combat was desperately hacking at the arm of a dummy, based on what I saw of him training. Sure, it would probably kill some poor underfed outlier, but a Career would disarm him in a breath. I know his type, even back in Three. Huge ego with nothing to back it up.

 Regis turns his venomous gaze to Ashton. I turn to Perry and give her a knowing glance. The stupid boy has pointed all the attention towards him. Perry chuckles.

“Shut the fuck up!” Regis spews. “You’re not fucking joining us, so scram!”

Ashton scampers away.

Holly and Shelley take this as their cue to leave as well. The tension diffused, everyone returns to their own activities. 

Perry and I look at each other and shrug. I get back to my snare, tying the final knots. 

I’ve been keeping an eye on the other tributes over the past day. I mentally run through my observations.

Gemma is mainly at throwing knives. Regis uses a spiked chain mace. Othrys trains with a sword, but he must have a long-range option he isn’t showing. The way he periodically glances at the spears next to him confirms this. Kendra follows her district partner to the stations, but can hold her own in a fight. Albie uses a spear as both a close combat and ranged weapon. Cheyenne has been at knives entirely so far. Those are the Careers.

Other alliances have sprung up during training. 

Of course, there’s me and Perry. We’ve been to about half of the survival stations till now, but Perry has tried her hand at spears, which the trainer told us is the easiest weapon for a beginner to use semi-proficiently. She’s getting there. I don’t dare to pick up a weapon.

The boy from Five, Nolan, hangs out with Eight and Twelve: Clive and Nigel. What value they see in the young boy, I’m not sure. I remember Perry telling me about Clive’s optimism, and realise that they might not be thinking too hard about this. The trio have been at shelter making since the start of the second day of training.

Shelley and Holly are also allied. Shelley was Reaped, an anomaly in Four. While there aren’t always volunteers, I remember reading that Four Careers do it to protect the younger and weaker children. In that case, why did no one volunteer for her? It’s a perplexing situation.

The Sixes are sticking together, as are the Nines. Felix and Jessa are at fire-starting, and Easton and Ethel are studiously poring through books at the terrain station.

The boys from Ten and Eleven are in an alliance too. Barnaby and Umber are far more active than the rest of us, guffawing from the wrestling station as the Ten boy wraps the other in a headlock. 

Lamin wanders from station to station, alone and not performing particularly well at any of them. An irrational sense of satisfaction surges inside me.

Piper from Five is across us at traps. Her snare doesn’t look half-bad.

Ashton is back, shamelessly, at axes. If he still feels any lingering embarrassment from his previous exchange, he doesn’t show it. 

Thistle, the girl from Eleven, is someone Perry and I are considering as a potential ally. She’s small in stature and all bones, but her edible plants score topped mine, and she gave us some pretty helpful pointers. She would be a refreshing presence to be around, but we’re still thinking about it.

Last, and probably least, is Annette of Twelve. The tiny girl hasn’t done anything noteworthy; right now, she’s on top of the climbing wall, curled up in a ball and sobbing quietly. 

“Good job,” the trainer says, a cursory glance as he walks past. I snap back to reality and realise that he’s talking about my snare.

“Thank you.”

“I think you both are ready for more complicated traps,” he states. He holds up a coil of rope, unfurling it while giving us an overview of the trap.

“Now, you want your rope to be nice and thick, since this trap is meant for humans,” he instructs, his voice steady and soothing. “For that reason, you’ll need a counterweight, like a large rock, or…” He demonstrates while simultaneously giving us a running explanation. With a fluid motion, he sets the snare down, displaying the final product.

“I don’t suppose either of you want to test it out,” he jokes, eyes glittering with good-natured humour. We shake our heads. “Now, if you did, you would be hanging from your ankle, wondering what the hell just happened,” he explains. “The trap itself doesn’t harm, except for some wooziness ‘cause of all the blood going to the head. You’d have to make the killing blow yourself…” 

His words echo in the hollow of my head, the rest of his sentence fading into a low buzz. 

It’s not the killing part that I’m worried about – I’d known since my name was called that I would have to kill to win. There’s a reason why I didn’t practise with weapons. I’m not even close to athletic, and I’m not going to embarrass myself by showing that weakness. 

Anxiety rears its ugly head right when it’s most unwelcome.

“...now it’s your turn to try,” the trainer finishes, then leaves us.

I’m still reeling. I turn to Perry.

“Traps are good, but you have to fight to win, right?” I muse, as unaffectedly as possible.

Perry perks up. “Not necessarily. My mentor won with a trap. So did Beetee. You just have to get lucky.”

I suppose Maia did win with a trap, even if it wasn’t the traditional kind.

Now, that’s a thought.

-------------------------------

Felix Fernandes

District 6, 17 years old

-------------------------------

“Hey, is this seat taken?”

The question is more of a formality, since there are no empty tables available. Alliances, or at least the facades of alliances, have formed in the past day and a half of training, and I’d rather take my chances with the nice boy from Nine than, say, the surly boy from Three or the firecracker from Seven. 

He looks up, eyes wide and blinking furiously like I’d just woken him up. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he says, waving his hands in an apparent gesture of assent. Jessa and I sit across Easton and Ethel.

I start on lunch, which is a thick, melty cheese dish that makes me drool as I scoop heapfuls of it into my mouth. 

Easton is deep in thought, picking at his meal half-heartedly. 

Although I’ve never been the best at small talk, I decide to give it a go.

“So, how was training?”

Easton looks up again, startled, like a deer in the headlights. “It was fine,” he mumbles. “Tried out some weapons.” He smiles weakly at his district partner. “Ethel’s getting real good at plant identification.”

She blushes.

Jessa pipes up, “We found something huge.” She looks at me and tilts her head, prompting me to explain.

“We were at the Games History station.”

This seems to grab Easton’s attention.

“Oh, I didn’t see that. Maybe we should check it out.”

“Yeah, anyways. We were watching the highlights of the 69th games. Guess who the Victor was.”

Easton thinks for a moment, then deflates. “It’s Two, isn’t it?”

“Bingo.” I shovel the cheese into my mouth as I continue. “But not just any Two.”

Ethel excitedly raises her hand. “Ooh, ooh, can I guess?”

“This isn’t school, but sure.”

“Ummm.” Ethel scrunches her face. “I only remember the guy from last year. Eye-chor!” she trills.

Easton laughs, clear and bell-like. He ruffles her hair playfully. “Ichor,” he corrects. 

The Games are mandatory viewing, so it was impossible to ignore the Two boy ripping through the tributes. Our boy last year found himself on the wrong side of his sword within the first few heartbeats after the gong. The girl survived the Bloodbath but died in a cave-in, holding hands with her ally, sobbing until her very last breath. 20th and 13th place. Beyond that, I didn’t pay attention to the Games except for Ichor exiting the arena with the blood of six people on his hands.

“But that was last year.” 

He turns to me now, with a substantially more serious expression. “Who was it then?”

I take a deep breath. “Valerian Helm.”

The Nines stare at me quizzically. “Am I supposed to know who that is?” asks Ethel.

Jessa chortles sharply, fingers pointed, accusatory, at me. “Ha! I told you no one would understand you!”

I wave her off, more excited to share my discovery. “Anyway, you know Othrys? Big, bad, Two.” They nod, still seeming unsure of where this is going.

“Well, his full name is Othrys Helm.”

Easton’s face lights up. “They’re related?”

“Mhm,” I say, smug.

“But why hasn’t the media said anything? Normally they flock to legacy tributes like vultures to a carcass.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, too, morbid metaphor aside.”

The rest of the lunch goes by uneventfully. We trade theories about Othrys, and the conversation shifts to Holly’s outburst. Eventually, when we get up and shake hands, he pulls me to the side while Jessa and Ethel talk.

Gone is the lightness of the past hour; the skin on Easton’s face is pulled taut in a grim expression.

“Hey, so I’ve been thinking. We have similar goals here, we both want to protect our partners. So, I think we should have a…” He pauses. “Not necessarily an alliance, but–”

“Like a non-aggression pact?” I suggest.

“Yeah. We’ll help each other in the arena when we can.”

“Deal.” Even without his verbal proposition, I knew innately that I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to attack him in any way. Maybe Careers are heartless enough to kill someone they’ve eaten lunch with. But I’m not like that.

We go our separate ways. Jessa wants to perfect her camouflage; something about shadows and texture. I head to the obstacle course.

I smile, a fleeting moment of joy that belongs to me. Just because I can’t work with weapons doesn’t mean I can’t train my agility.

There are no trainers at the obstacle course, unlike any of the other stations. The leaderboard, flickering, places 2M in first at 1:57:22, 7F in second at 2:09:56, and 2F in third place at 2:16:03. It seems that the secret legacy tribute is a slippery one indeed.

I run the course, and for the first time since I was Reaped, I finally feel like I’m in my element. If I don’t think hard enough, the spinning top-like obstacle could be a rapier, swung in a wide arc. The bumps that spring out of the floor could be spears landing at my feet. The narrow, zigzag balance beam could be a sideways dodge, an artful weave. 

Wait. I stop in my tracks a hair’s breadth away from the sensors that indicate the finish line, glancing at the timer. 

1:55:91. I wait.

1:59:73. Bide my time.

2:04:55. Shouldn’t draw attention to myself.

2:08:84. I’m fine with third place.

2:13:79. I place my foot over the line.

-------------------------------

Nolan Maximoff

District 5, 13 years old

-------------------------------

I decide that I don’t like wrestling, so I sit and watch as Clive and Nigel tumble around on the mat. Clive seems to be having fun; Nigel doesn’t.

“Join us, Nolan!” he says, with Nigel in a headlock looking thoroughly bored.

“No thank you,” I reply. Mom always told me that playing rough was beneath us; being in the Hunger Games doesn’t change that.

“Suit yourself.” He pokes Nigel. “Round six, let’s go!”

“Six rounds too many,” he mutters.

My mind unfocuses as I go back to yesterday. Clive assured me that I was an integral part of the alliance. I would forage and find food, they would fight. They wanted me because of my edible plants score. I didn’t hesitate to accept then.

Now, I wonder what I’m even doing here. We’ve been at wrestling for at least an hour. Clive chose it. Yesterday, Nigel wanted to try water collection, so we went there. Why don’t I get a choice?

I try not to pout or show it on my face otherwise. Clive is chuckling, he’s got Nigel pinned on the floor. It would be more evenly matched if Nigel actually cared, I think.

Ten more minutes of sweaty wrestling go by before Clive says he’s bored. They help each other up, and walk towards me.

“Where to next?” he asks.

“Let’s see, we still have a few stations left…Games History, Terrain, ranged weapons…” Nigel muses.

“I like the sound of ranged weapons,” Clive says. “Could get my hands on a bow and arrow.”

“We could go for swimming. The arena could be aquatic.” Nigel crosses his arms.

“Okay, but. Ranged weapons are cooler.”

“Do you want to be cool, or do you want to–”

I want to choose. “Can I choose?”

They blink, turn to look at each other, then back to me. “Oh, of course,” Nigel assures. 

“I want to do camouflage.” 

Clive pats my back. “Camouflage it is.”

As we walk over, the two are still arguing about who gets to decide the next station. We find that camouflage is semi-occupied; the Six girl is painting her arm. Dappled greens decorate her exposed skin, reminding me of the lichen that grows on trees back home.

“That’s so cool!” I burst in admiration, breaking off from the group.

The girl, Jessa, has a dreamy, faraway look on her face. She seems nice, I think I can trust her.

Her eyes focus on me, and her lips stretch slowly to form a smile. “Thank you.”

Oddly, after glancing around me, I realise that there’s no trainer here. I ask Jessa about this.

“Yesterday the trainer told me that no one comes here at all. In fact, I was the only tribute to visit, according to him. Said he might as well not show up since people think this,” she points to her colourful arm, “is useless.”

I look at Nigel, who is smearing orange paint onto Clive’s shirt without him knowing. “Yeah.”

“But,” Jessa dabs a deeper emerald green onto her hand, “I think it’s the most useful skill of them all.”

I can’t help but ask why.

“If no one can see you, no one can hunt you. You’re safe.”

I nod, and dip my fingers in a bowl of a red pigment made from berry juice. The paint is thin and watery, but it clings to my skin well.

“Plus, you can even disguise your shelter with this. That’s what the trainer told me yesterday, at least,” Jessa adds.

We sit in silence. Jessa tends to her own arm, somehow making it even more vibrant and lifelike with each paint stroke. I start on a bark pattern on my leg, like what’s shown in the book. In the absence of a trainer, the book guides me through the steps. Mix a base colour, make darker and lighter tones, add depth and texture. 

By the end of an hour, I have a crude but functional tree camouflage on my leg. Jessa is happy to give feedback.

“Don’t use pure black for the shadows, maybe a dark blue would be better. Oh–a bit of a blind spot here, next time use a mirror or something.” She giggles. “But other than that, it’s pretty good for a first-timer.”

I blush. “Thank you for the help.”

“Anytime.” She waves, verdant arm catching the light in a way that makes me forget it’s just paint.

I return to my alliance. Both of them are, surprisingly, working dutifully on their own projects; Clive has a stony arm and Nigel a sandy leg.

Clive lets out a low whistle. “Wow, Nolan. That’s so good.”

“You’re in charge of camouflage now,” Nigel says appreciatively.

Maybe I do belong.