Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games,

as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence,

the decision will again be theirs,

as they are given the opportunity to elect which of their offspring will enter the arena”

*******

            Their grandparents told stories of the first Games. Each one was different, yet the same.

            How the gates were opened for the first time in months. The white uniforms embellished with the seal of the freshly victorious Capitol storming through the streets. Rounding up children to bring to the center of each town. Corralling the distraught parents into a segregated area, far from the children that would be taken off and turned into murderers for the actions of their parents. How they were shoving, trying to push to the front of the crowd to get one glimpse of the small screen that televised the fate of two of their children.

            How, when two of them were chosen from each of the twelve districts of Panem, twenty-four families cried out in agony while the rest spoke with bated breath and wide eyes, thanking fate that their offspring escaped this evil.

That was before the Treaty of Treason was revealed to the districts.

The treaty that would bring back that nightmare of a day every year until the end of time.

Chapter Text

As Bree strolled under the starry sky, she couldn’t help but wonder about her fate. In two days time, her life would either go down a path to almost certain death, or leave her suffering in uncertainty. She honestly couldn’t decide which would be worse.

She sighed heavily, then glanced around in alarm. There was a strict curfew in the district that forbade anyone from being in the streets past nightfall. As spring was in full blossom, the air was pleasant. Bree always enjoyed staring up at the twinkling heavens, their distance coupled with their illumination always helping to clear her mind.Still, as the slight sound of her breath leaving her body rang in the air bringing her back to reality, she felt a slight panic course through her veins.

Bree paused, tensely, and watched the nearby wheat flutter in the evening breeze. If she was found, her family would be punished. One wrong move and every member of the household would be made to labor hard days in the fields without pay. It didn’t matter that she was barely thirteen; in her fruitfully barren home of District 9, the action of even a toddler could mean ruin for an entire family. Children were kept obedient, or not at all. 

The thought caused her to shiver, and she realized that the absence of the sun had drawn away any heat it had shared with the flat plains. She glanced at the surrounding landscape tentatively. Slowly, silently, she waited for the sound of another human patrolling through the wheat fields. She dared not move until her sensitive ears registered the eerie creaking of the crickets, undisturbed by any violent presence.

Relaxing, her eyes returned to the night sky. The featureless horizon no longer held the orange glow of the setting sun. It was far past time for her to have been in bed. Normally, a family of her district would worry, but not show alarm. Maybe they would send one, perhaps two silent parties out to retrieve the lost member, hoping to return them before their rebellion was noticed by officials. They’d stalk through the dark, raspily calling out for a scared child or a lame spouse. Jumping from shadowed field to the sheltered overhang of a deteriorating building, avoiding the beams of light held by the Peacekeepers that patrolled the small settlement. 

But not her family. They no longer worried about her. To send someone after her would be to increase the risk of getting caught, and they knew she was hardly noticeable in even the light of day. It was even possible that they had not realized her absence. 

Her brother and parents would be crawling into bed by now, if they had not already done so. With the days growing longer, it was hard to tell exactly what the hour was anymore.

As she turned to head back to her home, her heart fell. Here, out in the quiet of the night, she could briefly forget her dreary reality. 

But she always had to return.

Her feet quietly carried her out from the field and into the dim glow of the town. First she was greeted by the faint silhouette of one small and rundown brick house, then another, slowly becoming more frequent. There were no Peacekeepers patrolling her edge of town currently, but she was still careful. Her bare feet padded up to the window she had left slightly ajar, for her return. Her family never noticed that, either.

For months now, Bree had snuck out the narrow window of her bedroom -- if the small, cramped space even qualified as one -- and into the quiet fields. At first, it had been to escape, but she eventually found herself genuinely enjoying her risky trips. And though she physically left behind her troubles, they were never far from the front of her mind.

Or her stomach. It grumbled as she hoisted herself weakly into the dark closet she called her refuge and slowly lowered the sliding window to close it. Remarkably, she had actually eaten today. But of course it was not enough. Her parents and well-loved brother, three years her senior, would look on her with poorly concealed contempt as they instructed her each morning to find her own food. Their tiny house reflected the expected status of each family in the poor part of the district; it was only big enough for one child. It was a rarity for the impoverished families to have more than three members. When they did, all of them showed it. You could see it in the gaunt faces of the parents and kids as they worked tiredly in the fields. There was never enough to feed them all.

There was never enough for Bree.

Her father liked to remind her that she was a mistake. That it was somehow the fault of her mother that she was born. Her fault for carrying the baby to term. When he made these remarks, neither her mother nor her older sibling would come to her defense. They no longer even looked on her in pity. Such behavior was simply the norm. 

In time, as her figure became lankier and her face more skeletal, her family became more and more secluded. They never left their house but for work and rations, the latter for which they never brought along Bree. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that as time went on, she received less and less food. First her brother, then her parents began to look the healthiest she had ever remembered them; still not stocky but no longer with bones sticking out at every angle. It was obvious: her family was starving her so that they may live, free of her pestilent existence. 

The matter only got clearer a week after the reading of the card.

The whole scarce population of the district had gathered to watch the gossamer projection of the current president on the sleek but decaying side of the justice building. People stood, paralyzed in suspense, as the newly elected young man came into view. His artificially puffed lips pursed as he opened a small envelope, and pulled out a dainty card. Upon hearing the revelation that the tributes would be voted on by the citizens of nine, Bree was not at all concerned. 

Seven days later, her perception of reality changed forever, when she overheard her parents talking about how her father had not only publicly offered Bree up as an easy vote to become a tribute, but that he was betting heavily on it happening. A small choking sound escaped her lips. The conversation was still seared into her brain.

“What use is pretending?” her father had admonished. For once, Bree’s mother had protested his antagonistic ravings, not really defending her but also not going along with them.

“She’s still our--” 

“Is she really?” her father’s gruff voice cut off. “You know there isn’t enough. We can’t keep going like this. Eventually they’ll see her and we’ll get put in the stocks. It ain’t worth the fight. Besides, I already placed my bet.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Wouldn’t be worth it.”

“No,” she barely whispered. She couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about how a full stomach meant more to her family than she did. How even if the townsfolk voted for someone else, like the local petty thief, Grenatta, her family would still be out a large sum of wages, meaning she would be privy to likely no food at all. How if she were to be chosen as the tribute, their lives would be so much better. How, to her family, she was worth more dead than alive.

“No, what?” 

The harsh whisper took her off guard. She had positioned herself sitting against the wall on the small hay-filled “mattress” that covered the whole floor of her room, so she thought she would’ve seen, if not grazed, the form sitting not two feet to her left. She could make out the outline of a short, hunched over figure. It took her a moment to recognize the voice that had spoken. 

“Barr,” she hissed between her teeth. “What are you doing in here?”

There was a pregnant pause before his heavy sigh shattered the silence. “I-- Bree,” he stuttered. “I need you to know that I didn’t mean--” Shaking his head in the darkness, he rose quickly from his cross legged position and cleared his throat. When he finally spoke, any vulnerability that had hung in his voice had disappeared. “I’m sorry.”

Bree’s mouth slowly fell open and she tried to speak, but had no words to say. Just as he had uttered the last word, he had opened the skinny door and left, closing it quietly behind him.

Never, in her memory, had her brother shown her any sympathy. He would always take their father’s side if there was ever a dispute or a scolding. As years passed, he became more and more like his father, no longer needing to follow along in order to torture his little sister. So why had he now… expressed his condolences? 

“What good will that do me?” Bree muttered. She wanted her muted voice to sound resentful, to reflect the years of torment that had been heaped upon her head, but instead she heard a slight wobble and was soon fighting back tears.

If her brother was telling her this now, surely that could only mean one thing.

As silent sobs began to wrack her body, Bree accepted that her fate was one of certainty.

She had a one in twenty-four chance of survival.

Chapter Text

Aspen glanced nervously at his sister between swings of his axe. The sun had just begun to peak through the holes in the thick foliage of the forest. He no longer had to watch as carefully when he chopped into the thick wooden trunks. He’d been doing this since he was twelve. It was second nature.

So was his concern for his best friend.

Rowan was haphazardly cutting down a neighboring tree with steely precision. She hardly spoke while she worked, seemingly caught up in the movement of the all too blunt blade chopping into the wood. She somehow always hit the exact same spot, no swing ever deviating from the growing crevasse in the wood. Their strikes moved almost in harmony, but no longer at the same speed. A year ago, when Aspen was sixteen and his sister seventeen, their strikes had moved in sync. Now, as he continued to tower higher and higher over her head, the young man’s superior strength had become more noticeable. He could be chopping faster than he did, but he knew his sister had a slight complex. She liked to be best at everything, and didn’t like being outshone. She insisted his development did not bother her but he still caught her glancing up in slight alarm at his height whenever they stood close together.

Usually, as they worked in the thick forests of District 7, Rowan would aggressively chop until her tree was downed, then move onto the next. Today, though she never missed her ever growing divot in the bark, she swung slower and with less verve. Her usually menacing gaze directed at the tree was now wide eyed, as if in shock that each swing resulted in a loud chop! that shook through the morning air.

Aspen stopped midway through his own tree to watch her more closely, but she instantly steeled from the lack of adjacent sound and turned her head towards him, her face once again a mask of cold focus. When she saw that he was standing unmoving next to a tree that had yet to be finished off, she also paused. This was the usual signal that one of them had something serious to say.

Rowan’s eyebrows drew up in a look of concern. Aspen considered why he had stopped. He had nothing to say. But he felt as though something needed to be said. She always acted as if no one ever noticed her, but deep down Aspen knew that was not true. She just didn’t want to be noticed. 

Aspen knew he might not get any answers out of his closed off sibling, so he started with something light hearted. “You’re missing your swings.”

“Am not, doofus,” she countered, and turned back to her tree. Always no nonsense when she was out in the woods. She was about to swing again when Aspen walked over to her in three long strides, and put a restraining hand on her axe. She looked up and saw that his hardly serious face was marred by concern.

“What is it?” Aspen asked. Though avoidant most times, if he showed he was serious she usually would give him an honest answer. As Rowan bit the inside of her cheek, he was reminded of the other times she would do that. She was nervous.

Normally, such an expression would occur when they were at home. Their parents would arrive, drunk and stumbling, causing her to shut herself in her room and leaving Aspen to deal with them. She could act tough all she wanted but when it came down to it, she avoided conflict. No, he was always the one to greet them.

Their parents weren’t cruel. They told them they were loved, put food on the table, even occasionally brought them gifts. A cube of sugar here, a new shirt there. Then there were the larger, more conspicuous presents. A gold chain, a hunk of butcher’s meat. The odd knife. Both their children knew they couldn’t afford such indulgences. The frequency of officials raiding their home and taking them to the whipping post in the center of town was enough to tell Aspen and Rowan that their parents rarely acquired their possessions legally. It didn’t help their parents conceal the truth from them that they were the talk of the town.

More often than not, both mother and father would not be home, either stumbling through the streets to find another drink, or tied to a post. Their children had to provide for themselves, and as such, both started working in the woods at the age of twelve. Aspen had grown accustomed to playing up his individualism, showing adults and peers alike that he was a bright kid, helpful, witty, and compassionate. It helped him to gain some actual friends at school, and some adults who they worked with genuinely liked him. He tried as hard as possible to become his own person and avoid the immediate association with the criminals that brought him up. But at the end of the day, they eventually came home. Unlike his sister, he would actually be pleasant toward them. He had learned early on that being nice could help you out. He was sure Rowan knew this as well, but she just couldn't be bothered. She was closed off to everyone but him. They knew each other better than anyone, so Aspen could tell something had deeply bothered his older sister.

Rowan watched him hesitantly. Her face revealed she was even more nervous than he had previously thought. 

“Is it because the Reaping’s tomorrow?” he asked. She immediately darted her eyes away. Bingo. “What is it?” he repeated.

After a moment, she spoke. “They’re voting on who goes.”

“And?”

“And I don’t think they really care what a bunch of teenagers have done in the small time they’ve been alive.”

Confused, Aspen took a step back. “What do you mean? That has to be how they’ll choose. I mean, what else is there?”

She didn’t respond. Instead she lifted her head to look him in the eyes. He knew, in the back of his mind. But he wouldn’t admit it.

“How then?” Aspen said quietly. If she could think such terrible things she could say them.

“I’ve heard people talking,” she began. “Everyone knows, Aspen. They’re at the post almost every week.”

“So are a bunch of people.”

“They’re drunk every time they’re not stealing.”

“There are too many drunks in this district to count.”

“Dammit Aspen, listen! Haven’t you noticed how adults won’t meet your eyes when they talk to you? I’ve watched them. You stroll into the market and chat with them while I buy our food, and they won’t even look at you! Haven’t you noticed?” She steamed. Aspen stood there, not allowing shock to register on his face. He had noticed. But he didn’t want to think it.

“You know. I know you do. People have even started talking to me. They come up to me, try to make small talk. You’ve seen it. They’ve already decided and there’s nothing we can do.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Rowan. Why would they go for us? We’re hard workers. We’re not criminals. Just because mom and dad are doesn’t mean we’ll be punished for it,” he countered optimistically.

“We have been all our lives though, Pen.”

He knew. He had always known. But he couldn’t accept it. He had to be the optimistic one because his sister always saw the worst in every situation, every person. Her nonchalant hopelessness had tinged his childhood and adolescent years, and he always promised himself that he would have enough hope for the both of them. People saw him as a little ray of sunshine next to Rowan’s dark brooding, but he had always had that side to him too. Aspen just refused to show it. He had to show her that there was always hope. Not everything was a worst-case scenario.

He didn’t have anything to say to her declaration. After about a minute of them just staring at each other, Rowan’s face once again glazed over with cold determination as she turned back to her tree and began rhythmically swinging. Aspen stood, watching her for a while, before huffing and returning to his work. He would act unbothered. If he didn’t, she would suffer. He could never let her see him break, when he was the only thing she was holding on to.

As he chopped, he thought of all the people he had encountered the last week. She was right. Every time they had gone into the market, or dropped off their axes at the workstation, people avoided them. This wasn’t unusual for people to avoid her, but they would usually give an idle greeting to him. His friends at school and long-standing acquaintances in the market would still speak with him, but with an edge to their voices. Of course he had noticed. 

Rowan, although quite cynical, was usually right about people. He didn’t associate with persons she disapproved of. She liked to say that people will never accept someone after they make a bad first impression, and their births had been bad impressions. The weight of her longtime saying hit him hard, this time, and he stopped swinging and hunched his back in defeat.

Instead of stopping as he expected, Rowan continued in her arduous task, attacking the tall tree with fervor. The cold expression on her face did nothing to mask the line of tears staining their way down the side of her already dirt crusted cheek.

Chapter Text

Simpletons. All of them. 

Darius let his gaze spread over the crowd that had been assembled in front of District 2’s monstrous justice building. He stood among the batch of about ten people, male and female, who were vying for the chance to represent their district in the first Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. 

For the first year since he remembered, it was the adults, not the children, that were visible from the foot of the stage. Since children would not vote, they had been herded to nearby streets to watch the event from large screens. The population of Two was too large to fit in the already crowded streets. He, aged eighteen, along with a handful of his fellow voluntary adolescents, stood in front of the crowd of mostly disapproving adults. 

Twenty-five years ago, the rebellion that had torn the nation was squashed, and the districts made to pay for their uprising. The elderly and middle aged were the parents and grandparents of those that would participate in the Games this year. They would always go on and on about how “You didn’t see the horrible things the Capitol did to us,” and “You should be ashamed of yourself. Why would you choose to participate willingly?” 

Darius didn’t care for their small-mindedness. 

Almost nine years ago, District 2 had had its first volunteer. It was unheard of for an individual to give up their life for the miniscule possibility of being the lone victor in a pool of sacrifices. Parents would tell their children of the horrors of the war, the trouble the rebellion brought them, or how, if the districts had been victorious, their lives would have been so much better. How could they not see that there was no problem with how they lived?

They were all idiots, 

Every year, the Capitol presented a chance for someone to improve their life and quality of living for their entire district. Of course there had to be a risk involved. This was, after all, supposed to be a punishment. But -- to those who could see the opportunity-- it was a blessing. Not only could you make a name for yourself in your home district, but in the Capitol itself. Patrons of the large city would flock to wait on you hand and foot if you were good enough to be the victor in the pageant of death.

Darius smiled in anticipation.

Being from the part of the country that provided most of the officials and soldiers, anyone from Two had a distinct advantage in a Game that involved violence. Their parents, too naïve to grasp their children’s future aspirations, would teach them of their trade. They grew strong and deadly, gradually becoming the favorites to win the Games each year. Most years, his district was the one to reap the spoils of the lone victor, especially since that first volunteer created a tradition. The strongest of them would come forth and volunteer, giving their District the best chance at winning.

The adults didn’t understand. Couldn’t accept that mere children could choose a better life for themselves.

Just as Darius was doing now.

Since the twist this year was that the parents would vote on who would enter the arena, a select few of the promising warriors of the District had been petitioning, publically, to be allowed to enter the arena. With no volunteers this year, none of the intelligent few wanted the tributes to be left to chance. Some adults agreed with them; why shouldn’t they go, if they wanted to? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone? Mostly though, they disapproved. So, in order to be chosen, Darius had elected to play a game of cat and mouse with both groups.

When someone disapproved of his decision, he acted rudely to them, trying to get on their bad side and ensure a vote, if only because of spite. Those who agreed were a bit harder. He was amiable toward them, but still viewed them as inferior. He had to convince them that he was the best choice to go into the arena. Impressing them with his strength and skill was not an issue. Standing several heads above any of the other contestants, Darius’s hulking form was an obvious choice. How could he not win? But he still had to be political. Polite. He almost rolled his eyes.

He turned his head to look at all of those thinking they might become the victor, and almost rolled his eyes again. Most of them had elected for one specific strategy. Minerva, a short but beefy girl, had chosen to dazzle the masses with her smile and upbeat demeanor. Rupert, the loner of the group, was hunched in the shadow of the stage, glaring out into the crowd. He was playing up the “most hated” thing.

What a bunch of simpletons.

Occasionally, an adult would berate Darius for doing this, another congratulate him or ask him something. Everytime, he answered with a cocky smile. He bet that the cameras observing the small group would be trained on him for most of the event. He’d be the Capitol favorite even before his name was called.

Behind him, Darius heard the sound of large doors creaking open. The line of anxious competitors turned and watched as the mayor of District 2 strode across the stage to the microphone.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said with a flourish. “If you’ll all please quiet down, we can get started.”

The attractive mayor, many years younger than his predecessor, could have been mistaken for one of the potential tributes. He had only been elected six years ago, much to the chagrin of a large sum of the population. He, being young, did not remember the war, and as such did not base his decisions on the bitterness of being on the losing side of it. Darius liked him. As the mayor read out the same speech that they had all heard every year, Darius’s smile did not wane. He listened intently as the young man enthusiastically recited his speech. How the people rose up against the Capitol that loved them, fed them. How their desperate attempt to overthrow the superior Capitol had been squandered, thank goodness. How, as punishment, the districts would give up one girl and one boy every year to signify the choice they had made. And how even more so, this year their choice was significant. 

“On this, the twenty-fifth year of the Hunger Games,” he continued, “the male and female tributes will be elected by the members of their districts.”

At this, the district representative from the Capitol, a paunchy, golden-skinned man, began clapping politely. Behind Darius, most of the crowd begrudgingly applauded. The few members of his group slapped their hands together and hooted victoriously, soon to be joined by a number of the crowd.

The mayor held out a hand to signal quiet as the representative stepped forward. 

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

More applause. Another signal for quiet.

“As you all know,” he said in a highly accented, frilly voice, “The female tribute will be selected first.”

As the bloated hand reached into a clear glass bowl containing a single slip of paper, the street was silent. He retrieved the slip and opened it, painstakingly slowly. 

“Marcella Cleeve.”

A tall brunette made her way out of the line up in front of the stage and confidently sauntered up the steps, grinning smugly all the way. When she reached the representative, she leaned down and gave him a coy kiss on his golden cheek, her lips coming away with gold powder on them. She’d been playing it coy. Smart.

Darius felt a tingle go down his spine. This was his moment. As the short man was composing himself, fanning his face clandestinely with his sausage-like fingers, Darius parted from his fellow contestants and mounted the steps of the stage. While he heard confused stuttering from all sides, he watched as the mayor’s grin intensified. Darius took his place on the opposite side of the representative as Marcella. 

The golden man sputtered, obviously still flustered by Marcella’s advance. “And what are you doing, young man?”

“I figured I’d make it easier for you. Seems like you have your hands full.” That got a laugh from the crowd.

"Young man--”

“Read the name,” Darius said, almost menacingly. 

When the stout man would not budge, still sputtering, the mayor came forward and reached into the second glass bowl. He turned the paper to the cameras and read aloud the name he had known was on the paper.

Chapter Text

“Windsor Factor.”

Lin watched from beside her district representative as the name of her boyfriend rang out over a dead crowd. How could she have possibly gotten this unlucky.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Not real, not real, not real.

She closed her eyes tight and repeated the affirmations in her head. 

After what felt like a lifetime, Lin felt a strong, wiry hand enclose her own. A hand that was all too familiar. As another soft hand slid down her cheek, catching a tear, she opened her eyes. Soft, coal black eyes gazed back into her own. They, too, were wet. 

It was real.

“No,” she barely whispered while the audience politely clapped. Windsor gave her a small yet obviously saddened smile as the first tear made its way down his cheek. Lin felt her face collapse as her body began to convulse with the power of her sobbing. She vaguely heard someone saying something about shaking hands when she tightly wrapped her arms around Windsor’s torso and wept bitterly. Before he could wrap his arms protectively around her, more arms were pulling at her, separating the two of them. 

“No! No! Windsor! No!” Lin screamed. She felt the owner of one pair of arms harshly encircle her and lift her, from behind, off of her feet. His quick movements into the bulky door of District 8’s justice building made her dizzy. Just before the door closed behind them, she leaned over and vomited. Through the now closed door, a disgusted groan could be heard. It made her feel even more sick. She continued to empty the contents of her stomach as the guard released her roughly.

There was a ringing in her ears. It was deafening. It sounded like the high pitched laughter of her baby sister, twinkling excitedly as Lin spun her around in the air. She always laughed with her. It was funny to watch the expression on the toddler’s face as it morphed from fright to glee. If only her sister could see her now. She wouldn’t be so gleeful. 

The ringing in her ears was replaced with actual laughing, and she began fighting for air. There was a pressure on her chest, suffocating her. Were they already trying to kill her? Weren’t they supposed to wait for the Games for that? She’d never heard of a tribute being replaced after they were reaped but had it ever happened? 

The cold stone below her dug into her knees as they slightly bounced on its surface. What were they doing to her? Can you kill someone by bouncing them? Or were they just trying to restrain her?

“Shut up!” someone yelled cruelly. Lin didn’t know who they were talking to. She searched for the speaker, and found a Peacekeeper staring down at her. She continued to convulse. No one was touching her. She was moving on her own. The laughter she heard was coming from her own straining voice.

She felt something lodge in her throat. The laughter was abruptly cut off as she realized what was happening. Her air supply was dwindling quickly. She had choked on her own vomit. Panicking now, she clutched desperately at her throat, trying to get oxygen into her lungs. She heard shouting and saw in the corner of her vision Windsor being hauled off into a room down the hall.

Once again, a Peacekeeper roughly grabbed her from behind and lifted her off her feet. He began squeezing her tightly at intervals until finally her throat contracted and something putrid smelling shot from her mouth. She took in a halting breath. Then another. 

Her eyes stung and she could barely see. Of course, she was crying.

The hands that had just saved her life continued to hold onto her and she felt herself being carried. Lin closed her eyes and quietly cried, unaware and uncaring about what was going on around her. How could it all go so wrong? She thought back to when it was all so right.

She had been walking down the street with a couple of her school friends, chatting absentmindedly. They were all on errands for their mothers, to buy new fabric or clothing for the coming winter. Lin’s prissy parents would not have their children seen in anything that could be even jokingly considered rags. They were quite happy with their position in society, not quite wealthy but “Well off,” as they would put it. Their district worked in textile factories making clothes for the Capitol, and both her parents were lucky enough to have high management positions. She had never gone a day hungry in her life.

That had all begun to change the day she bumped into the scruffy but handsome boy she got to know so well. That, if in a roundabout way, landed her here in the first place. Lin and her friends had just left the general store, chattering excitedly about the new ribbons they’d purchased, trading colors back and forth to see which suited who best. Lin was walking backwards through the street, examining a ribbon in her friend’s hand when she bumped into something and fell in the mud covering the surface of the paved road. 

“Watch where you’re going,” one of the girls had said.

Thinking she was talking to her, Lin answered, “I was busy.”

“So was I,” said a voice next to her on the ground. A steady hand helped her to her feet when he was upright. As she got up, she observed the young man in tattered clothes her parents would turn their noses up to, just as her friends did. One of them even pretended to gag. 

“Sorry, m’lady, didn’t mean to get in your way,” he’d said with a smirk. “Couldn’t help but notice but I think you just fell for me there.”

Blushing profusely, Lin muttered a low apology and hurried home with her friends to change out of the sodden outfit before her parents got home. After that, she found herself making regular trips to main street, more often than not bumping into a dark-eyed stranger.

The Peacekeeper that had been manhandling her set her down unceremoniously. Once again, she fell forward, just as she had that time in the street all those months ago. She got up and looked through tear-filled eyes at the official. 

“You’ll have an hour of visitation, then be taken to the train,” said the man.

Lin nodded. Normally, family and friends would use this time to say goodbye to the unfortunate tribute. They’d come in, all crying but trying to hold themselves together for the poor soul. But Lin didn’t know if this would be the case for her.

Once, when Windsor had come to visit her in the winter, as he had been doing for weeks, Lin’s mother caught the two fifteen year olds in her bedroom. Her mother had gotten sick at work that day and come home early. Windsor would always come over during the day, as he worked in the factory during the night shift. Like so many others, his family needed him to work in order to put food on the table. There was hardly ever enough for extras, like clothes. So when Lin’s mother came home and found her daughter associating with the rabble of District 8, she immediately became enraged and the pair were kept apart. But this hadn’t prevented them from being together.

For a while, they could still see each other in the center of town, where they had first met. Eventually, word traveled to Lin’s parents. They had Windsor fired from the factory on pretenses of stealing materials, which resulted in his lashing in their so-fond place of rendezvous. By that time, Lin’s parents had spread the word of what had been happening, making him one of the most hated kids in the district. Not only had the well-to-do despised him for degrading the value of one of their own; the poorer of the district also shunned him for the toll it had taken on his beloved family. Sending them into harder times than usual, threatening to get his father canned and punished alongside him. 

Windsor’s family though, they never gave him up. Even now, as Lin waited, she could hear the quiet sobs of his mother and little sister coming from the room he’d been taken to down the hall. It had to have been at least fifteen minutes from the beginning of her breakdown to when she came out of her reminiscent musings. Someone should have come by now. Anyone.

Surely she only ended up here because disgruntled friends of Windsor’s family viewed her as the source of their problems? Her own family wouldn’t have...

Her friends hated her for loving someone “below her station.” Her father wouldn’t even look at her in the weeks past. She disgusted him. Her mother -- though tearful just this morning-- would not look her in the eyes. She may not have been as repulsed as her husband but she still deferred to him for everything. And he had made up his mind. Lin was no longer of use. And if that was the case, could it be possible that they would not only shun her, but also condemn her?

With eyes threatening to again spill over, she said, “Guess it’s safe to say no one’s coming.”

Maybe Windsor’s family would come to see her? She’d met his younger sister and parents on one occasion. They were kind to her, had given her homemade trinkets. Even consoled her when they were told of the pair’s forced separation. But that had been before their family had been disgraced and Windsor whipped. She had heard nothing from them since. 

At least you’ll be with Windsor for the rest of your life . 

This small thought was all she could hold onto as she waited for the hour to be up so she could be reunited with her doomed lover.

Chapter Text

The train rushed over the ever-changing landscape as Mako watched the familiarity of his district’s coastlines fade over the horizon. He hadn’t expected to be hurtling away from Four at hundreds of miles an hour today, but also couldn’t quite bring himself to be surprised to be on the train. 

He knew he wasn’t particularly well liked.

Okay, maybe that was an understatement. People would turn and walk the other direction when they saw him coming. Parents would corral their younger children into the nearest occupied buildings. Girls his age in school would talk about him behind his back -- they refused to speak to him directly -- and whenever he approached them they answered snarkily and sauntered off. It was absolutely ridiculous. Like everyone in his district had all just decided years ago that he would be the ideal person to be offed in the Hunger Games.

And this year, they got to choose.

Mako moved from his position at the window and made his way to the already occupied dining table. He sat across from Angla, the girl chosen from District 4. The girl sat, fidgeting with something under the table. The ornately carved wood blocked most of her from his vision but he could see waist up just fine. She had broad shoulders, and a beefy neck. Her most prominent feature that Mako noticed did not match these other delicate details. Angla hadn’t looked up since being seated in her chair, so Mako wasn’t stopped from examining his favorite aspect of the teenage girl. She wasn’t his age in school but he’d seen her around town. Never had the chance to talk to her though. Or really look at her.

She was pretty enough, but not in any way remarkable. Nice to look at, though. Mako found himself wishing the table and her baggy clothes did not obscure his view of her figure. He grunted to himself appreciatively and she looked up. The movement caused him to look up at her face.

“What?” she said, annoyed.

“What do you mean?”

“You were staring at me.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Mako grinned. “I think you just want me to look at you.” His gaze returned to his previous view.

She huffed and slightly turned away, covering where his eyes burned into.

Mako muttered an obscenity at her and got up. He pretended to inspect the delicacies on the table -- picking up a ripe purple fruit here, leaning down to sniff some sort of stew -- while making his way around to Angla. She had continued to turn away as Mako orbited around the table so she wasn’t watching him. There was an empty seat next to her, into which he gingerly lowered himself. Angla didn’t acknowledge him and kept her back to him. Mako figured this to be an indication that she was fine with him being there.

For a moment he tried to look at her image in the shining metal reflection of some sort of serving dish, but the image was too distorted to be of any interest. Instead, he stared at the back of her head, hoping that this might make her pay attention to him. She was obviously just playing hard to get. Her dark brown tresses of loose ringlets tumbled down her slender back. It was pretty hair. Mako reached out and twirled a lock of it around his finger. Her back stiffened, but she made no indication for him to stop. So he just played with her hair until one of the doors opened and in walked a mentor of the Games.

He let his hand fall, and directed his medium frame back towards the table.

One of their mentors, a muscular brutish looking woman in her twenties, sat down across from the two of them and looked on Mako with a disapproving snarl. Angla corrected her position to face the monstrous lady, but did not remove her arms from where they were crossed over her chest.

“So, why are you here?” the ogre asked. She continued to bore holes into Mako with her piercing gaze.

“I don’t know. I guess people don’t like me.” The woman hardly spent time in the district, preferring to associate in the throngs of the Capitol, milking the glory of her victory for all it was worth. She hated the trips back to the salty District 4 that she was required to make. Everyone knew that. 

“He’s a freak,” Angla sneered. She still wouldn’t look at him, but Mako guessed the hateful expression she had directed at the punch bowl was meant for him. Great, another person who hated him for no reason. This made him angry. All his life, people had mistreated him without cause, and relied on what others whispered of him. He was sick of it.

“And she’s a little wench orphan,” Mako said while poking his index finger aggressively into her side, out of view of the mentor. Angla didn’t flinch.

Mako didn’t know much about her, just that her parents had died in a fishing accident, just like so many others. They were far too common. She was one of the many orphans kept in the group home. They weren’t well treated or well fed, but if they were all like Angla, they got the treatment they deserved.

Her parents were obviously sailors, because she had their mouths too. 

The burly woman waited for them to explain further, but neither said a word.

“What do you want to know?” she said.

“How do I win?” Mako inquired. That’s all he needed to know. He was pretty sure this ugly troll sitting in front of him couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, but she had been around longer so maybe she’d learned some tricks. He’d ask the real question when his personal mentor -- male assigned to male -- came around.

“You drop that attitude.” 

Mako heard a stifled laugh beside him. The mentor was also grinning.

“I don’t have an attitude. Tell me how to win.”

“Kid, you don’t stand a chance unless you shut up and listen to every word Florence and I say. I say, drop the attitude. Show me some respect. Or you won’t get any damn help from me.”

“Guess I don’t need it, then,” Mako snarled as he pushed away from the table, bumped Angla’s chair and stormed out of the train car to find his room. One of the Capitol people directed him to a small sliding door and he angrily shut it behind him. There was no use in pretending to be amiable just to hear what the hoot had to say. She’d probably tell him to clean up better, appeal to the cameras. Go for the impish adorable sailor thing. He obviously couldn’t play the angle of the breathtakingly gorgeous boy. Mako was aware he wasn’t much to look at. Looks were often a huge part of the games, who the Capitol favored. Who got gifts in the arena from wealthy sponsors. 

It didn’t matter though. Politics were only so much in the Games. He could be likable, when he wanted to be. 

“All I really have to do is be good at killing,” he said.

Yes, sometimes the handsome ones won because of sponsors, obviously they were no good without them. Other times though, the quiet, stronger ones would win in spite of crowd favorites. All he would have to do is outsmart them all. Pretty easy, actually.

Mako stopped where he was pacing and surveyed the room. Small, sparse, unremarkable. You would think that from all the food they had on that table the living quarters would also be something interesting.

He shouted a curse. He’d forgotten to get any food. Mako strode heavily to the door and slid it open, peeking his head out. There was a freakish looking Capitol attendant standing guard just outside his room. 

“Hey, you. Can I get some food in here?”

The uniformed figure lifted an eyebrow, but quickly turned and walked down the hallway and into another train cart. 

“Better be something good,” he muttered, shutting his door once more. He walked over to the bed in the middle of the room and threw himself roughly into its center. 

He found himself thinking of Angla, how she had looked when her name had been called. She seemed surprised, the little wench. How could she not know? She was the only orphaned girl that every family refused to take care of. Mako had heard that she had been taken in by a few, but they always found her stealing food. Not even after a couple months. It was always immediately, or so he’d heard. 

“Idiot,” he chuckled. Everyone around him was an idiot.

Chapter Text

Kinna woke up nauseous. Before yesterday, she’d never had occasion to know that she got motion sick. Now, as the train she was on rumbled down the tracks, she said a prayer of thanks that her district didn’t have access to the cars for which they manufactured electronics so often. 

She reached under her bed to find the chamberpot that usually awaited her for such occasions. When her hand could not find it, she became disoriented in the dark and lost the rich splendor of food she had consumed the night before. All over the floor next to her bed. She groaned. The acrid taste of stomach acid on her tongue was familiarly unpleasant. Kinna moved to the other side of the bed, hoping to get up without her feet squishing into the warm previous contents of her stomach. When she swung her legs over the edge and her feet landed on something fuzzy instead of cold floorboards, she jerked her feet up and fell back onto the bed. Her cat, Venus, would normally be hissing by now. Silly thing liked to sleep on the ground next to the bed, as if guarding her. 

“Sorry, brat,” Kinna cooed drowsily. 

“It’s no problem.”

Kinna once again jumped in her bed, instinctively clutching the blankets up to her chin. Why was there someone in her room? Usually, none of the other girls wanted to room with her. They preferred to spread nasty rumors of what she might do in the dark. Of course, they all knew it wasn’t true. But everyone else believed them.

“Sorry miss, didn’t mean to frighten you,” a heavily accented voice said, its owner’s shape now visible in the light of the open door.

Still confused, Kinna looked over the side of the bed at what her feet had encountered. Plush carpet. 

She was on a train, heading to the Capitol to be prepped for the Hunger Games. Her cheeks grew warm as she felt the blood rushing into them.

The Capitol attendant came into her room fully now, allowing the light from the hall to enter unimpeded. It was a dim glow, but still too bright for her sleep sensitive eyes. She winced and released her shelter of blankets, dropping her legs over the side of the bed once more. The carpet she had misidentified as her cat was really much softer than the shaggy old feline. She stood up and observed the quiet intruder.

The attendant was a medium sized woman, in a uniform of some sort -- it was still too dark to tell what color -- and she was carrying several items. The acidic smell of her vomit was now joined by the stinging scent of bleach. The woman must be here to clean up.

“You don’t have to leave,” the woman said as she bent down to start working. The cleaning supplies made Kinna even more nauseated than the motion of the train did.

“Yes I do," she whispered and dashed to the adjoining bathroom, where she proceeded to lose anything that was left in her stomach. At least there wouldn’t be any clean up necessary there. Kinna heaved until she felt light headed, a sign that she could stop now. She sat back against the wall and felt sorry for herself. Not only the tribute, not only the motion sickness, but now this too? The strong scent of disinfectant leached under the door and into her small bathroom. Thinking only about escaping the attack on her nostrils, Kinna hurriedly flushed the toilet and sprinted into the hall, nearly tripping on the hem of the fancy nightgown she’d forgotten she was wearing. She hoisted the fabric up above her ankles and continued walking down the swaying hallway of the living quarters’ train car. 

She had to get away from that smell.

Not knowing where it led she opened the door at the end of the car and felt herself pushed back by the wind. Outside. Perfect. She slipped out into the frigid air, not caring that it tore at her skin under the sheer nightgown. Now she could finally breathe. That smell was burned into her mind in the worst way possible.

When Kinna was seven, she’d come home from school to a red-drenched apartment. Spatters of it covered the walls, pools of it soaked the floor. Thinking that she had wandered into the wrong apartment, Kinna had turned around to encounter a closed door with her father barring it, arms crossed in front of him. He wouldn’t let her leave. She remembered his hands tight on her shoulders as he spun her to look upon the red room. They walked forward, his hands tensely guiding her small body. With every step, Kinna felt dread bear down on her. She may have been a child but she knew what blood looked like. And what so much of it meant.

“Where’s momma,” she had said, scared. Her father didn't answer her. He continued to guide her until she was right next to the biggest pool of crimson, then pressed down on her shoulders to lower her down next to it. She had resisted -- she was too frightened by the blood to go near it -- and her father got angry and kicked the back of her knees, causing her to fall face first into the stuff. She knew better than to cry. Crying would just get her a beating. His hands no longer on her, her father crossed the room and retrieved a bucket, an acidic smell growing as it came closer. He set it down next to her and handed his daughter a bristle brush. He left once more and came back with a mop, which he threw at her. With that, he picked up a large sack and walked out the door.

Kinna knew what that meant. She had been given a task, even if she hadn't been instructed verbally. Her father meant for her to clean up the grotesque mess he had left for her. If he came back and she wasn’t finished, she wouldn’t be able to help the tears. Still, he wouldn’t be back for a while, surely, so she got up to look for her mother, wiping the blood off her face as she went. Kinna called for her, walking through the small apartment, doubling back and looking three times. The panic she felt could not be soothed; her mother was nowhere to be found. She walked back into the red room and froze, suddenly numb. No, her mother was not here.

Her seven year old hands methodically mopped up the blood and scrubbed the walls and floors with bleach until she heard loud banging. She looked up just as the front door fell from its hinges and a tall man in a menacing white uniform stepped inside. When he saw Kinna on the ground, scrubbing bleach into the last stain, he removed his gun from its holster.

She was taken to the orphanage of District 5, bloody and smelling of disinfectant -- kids were unkind from the very beginning -- and was never told what happened to her parents. She’d developed a pretty air-tight theory, though.

She took a big gulp of freezing air. Her feet hurt from the cold of the metal platform she was standing on. Deciding the smell was out of her system now, she held her breath and ventured back into the car from which she came. She bolted down the hall to the door at the opposite end and hasilty went through it into the dining car. 

Kinna released her breath quietly and looked around. She wasn’t the only one there.

“You look like you had a great sleep,” Volt, the boy who’d been reaped right after her, said sarcastically. He was sitting in a fancy dining chair which he had moved from the table and positioned in front of one of the large windows. The sky was slightly illuminated but the sun had not yet come up.

“You never look like you’ve had a good sleep,” Kinna quipped back.

“I don’t sleep.” It’s true, whenever she had gotten up in the middle of the night, she had encountered the loner of the orphanage, sitting in the hallway doing something or other. Most often he would have a book. She looked around and spotted one on a nearby accent table. It looked expensive with its leather cover and engraved title.

“Not a good book?” she asked.

No reply. Kinna rolled her eyes. Volt never spoke unless he had something to say. Usually something sarcastic. That was fine, Kinna didn’t feel much like talking anyway. At least his company wasn’t prying. Volt was again gazing through the window, watching the hazy landscape stream by. He looked peaceful, so Kinna thought it couldn’t hurt to try.

She crossed to retrieve one of the chairs that Volt sat on and braced herself behind it to pick it up. It barely budged. Repositioning herself to lift it from under the seat, she strained to move the heavy solid wood furniture. She was able to get it off the ground and walk half a step before she had to drop it. The legs clanged on the floor loudly.

“Been working out?” Kinna glared at Volt, who sat watching her with an amused expression. Not caring about being indecent, she hoisted up her nightgown to her waist and squatted to retrieve the chair. If Volt could get a chair this heavy across the room, so could she. She hobbled her way over to the window and set it down as far away from Volt as she could without having her view of the outside world be impeded. He watched her all the way as she struggled, never losing his grin. When she sat down in her chair, arms now crossed and still glaring at Volt, he turned back to the window silently. After a couple seconds, Kinna did the same and tried to forget her anger. She’d need it later, but it was of no use to her now.

She watched as the world blew by, seeing more of it in mere minutes than she had in her entire life. It wasn’t hard to lose herself in the imagery and found her arms uncrossing and pressing themselves to the glass, almost as if she could reach out to touch the scene beyond it. The world was so much more green, so much more alive than she could’ve hoped for. Now that her stomach didn’t have anything in it, it no longer rolled and yeared to empty itself at the trembling of the train. She realized it did hurt, though, and got up to retrieve a roll from the basket that had been set on the table, something to settle her stomach.

As Kinna walked across the floor, from behind her she heard, “Nice legs.”

She instinctively looked down. They were covered now, by the long nightgown. Volt must be talking about when she’d been carrying the chair. 

Now he wants to talk , she thought. But if he wasn’t going to answer her, she wouldn’t answer him either. See how he likes that. She sat down in one of the other large chairs arranged around the huge table, with her back to him. When he spoke again, she turned to look at him, puzzled at him speaking so much. He was still looking through the window.

“You know, I got the Capitols to carry my chair. Took two of them.”

He stayed facing the glass and did not continue. She slowly picked at her roll and sighed. He’s right to look at the world while he can. Kinna returned to her seat at the glass, settling into it proudly. Guess he didn’t get it over here by himself, afterall. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth and for once she didn’t hide it. There was no need, after all. There was nobody to admonish her for being happy.

“I’m gonna be as long as I can,” she said.

Chapter Text

That’s definitely not mechanically sound . Fifteen year old Fionne’s electric headdress had wires sticking out everywhere and Teeve was worried. His district partner might get fried even before the Games begun.

He himself was fitted into tight black leather overalls with nothing underneath them, a belt of lights strung around his hips. A “fashionable” version of District 3’s factory work attire. With something to spice it up, of course. This was the Capitol.

While he knew there was only the possibility of one person coming out of the end of this alive, he couldn’t help but like the petite Fionne, who he’d learned was sent into the arena because she was too quiet in class -- and therefore didn’t have the best grades -- so the general consensus was that she was obtuse. Just by watching her as she was brought into new environments though, Teeve could tell she was far more intelligent than anyone believed. She observed stimulants warily, carefully. Each new person that passed her was looked over analytically and her eyes either hardened or retreated, depending on how she judged the person. Teeve admired her immediately. He was also considered by his district to be simple-minded. What a lot of hypocrites.

At sixteen, he had already been working in the factories. The department he’d been stationed under was in charge of manufacturing tubing, meant for the elaborate plumbing needs of the Capitol. He was easily bored by the repetitive, mindless work and often wandered off to examine more intricate inventions. He’d occasionally sneak into the technology department and fix one of the problems that was impeding the progress of one of their new inventions. Teeve had been caught once, by a quiet old man. He hadn’t minded. In fact, the old man acted as if Teeve was supposed to be there, when his brown uniform obviously indicated that he definitely shouldn’t. The old man allowed him to stay, even occasionally bringing Teeve work and he began neglecting his allotted responsibilities more and more. Eventually, his supervisors had called him on it. He fought back, pointing out that he was of better use elsewhere, even giving examples of the work he’d done. That had been three weeks ago. Apparently, word traveled fast.

In District 3, the be all and end all of every person was intelligence. What they never mentioned though, was that it was intelligence within a certain predetermined range. He and Fionne were perfect examples of what could happen when you existed outside of that range, even as children. 

Fionne had been dressed in tight overalls made into a short dress that corresponded with his own. Where his was accessorized with a bright belt, atop her head was a crown of lights accentuated with dozens of frayed wires. Teeve had been around enough electronics to know that when the battery pack was turned on she would likely be electrocuted. Teeve didn’t know if she understood the intricacies of electrical wiring but she did look nervous. Her eyes were darting all over as people danced around her, prodding and adjusting annoyingly. 

Perhaps feeling yet another set of eyes on her, Fionne locked eyes with Teeve. As always, she said nothing. She did, however, bring one of her delicate arms up to gesture to the deadly crown.

So she does know. Clever girl. Teeve nodded and the frightened look in Fionne’s eyes intensified. He had to figure out a way to fix it so it wouldn’t fry her. Until then he had to stall the idiots from lighting her up. His jumpsuit was so tight he could hardly think…

Teeve kicked his leg out as far as his joints would stretch in the restricting fabric. Just as he had hoped, he heard a loud tearing sound and felt a draft on his backside.

“Hey,” he shouted as he shifted around for the stylists to see his masterpiece. Fionne also got a good view. She giggled, a high pitched melodic sound. Though still very quiet, it was the first sound he had heard her utter. 

Just as he had expected, they had all frantically rushed over to Teeve, muttering obscenities and shrieking. Left alone, Fionne expertly disentangled the death trap from her dark hair and sat down, adjusting the wires.

Huh, Teeve thought. Very clever girl. He’d expected that he would have to figure out some way to fix the device himself, but the kid was proving to be exponentially more intelligent than anyone had ever credited her for. 

“Ouch!” one of the stylists that was trying to mend his garment had poked a needle into a very unpleasant place that left Teeve dancing from one foot to the other. Fionne looked up from her work and giggled once more, her fingers not stopping for a second as they continued to bend the treacherous wire into something that would not kill her.

“If you’d stand still this wouldn’t have happened,” someone told him. He held his breath and placed his hands on his head, intertwining his fingers in an attempt to be motionless. While his pants were repaired, Fionne finished her work and placed the accessory back on her head carelessly. She walked over to a stylist that was flitting around Teeve, muttering nonsense, and tapped her on the shoulder. She once again gestured to her crown, though no longer looking nervous. It was Teeve’s turn to laugh as the stylist shrieked and frantically adjusted the headpiece, replacing Fionne’s hair in the delicate style it had previously resembled. 

Both stylists were working until the last second, trying to correct the image of both tributes in their chariot. The backless vehicle started moving before they hopped off, looking exasperated. They had even forgotten to turn on Fionne’s crown in the fuss. Inspecting it quickly, he determined the piece to no longer be of danger to the little girl and turned it on. Teeve could see a small smirk stir on her face as they were pulled into the full view of the Capitol.

He had never seen so many people in one place. They were third in a line of chariots that would be pulled down the center of a wide street, lined thickly with people cheering and shouting. It was a little overwhelming for him. When he looked over though, Fionne had not lost her grin. In fact, it seemed to have grown. Teeve tried to take comfort in the small detail. 

The chariot was not moving fast but it was still jarring up and down over the paved street. Teeve didn’t mind, but he did hold a little tighter to the rail to his left. Just as they were about halfway down the long procession, he registered laughing and whistles behind him. Confused, he turned. This action prompted the jeering to intensify which only confused him further. Puzzled, he looked back to Fionne. She continued to smirk as she gestured to her own highly revealing outfit. Teeve realized that somewhere in the bouncing of the chariot, the draft on his rear had returned and in the open-backed vehicle, the crowd behind him got a full look at it. He continued to gawk at his companion when she giggled once more, her smirk growing into a mischievous smile. She began curtsying and waving to the crowd, also giving those behind them a glimpse under her own outfit. The hooting intensified and Teeve got the idea. He began bowing at the crowd, leisurely, acting as if the whole thing amused him. Soon he was laughing along with Fionne as she covered her mouth gleefully and watched him entertain the crowd.

Yes, he liked her. But only one of them could win. The sobering thought put a damper in his antics and he had to fight to continue entertaining the so-easily-bored audience. 

Only one could come out alive. And they’d have to do it by killing everyone else.

Chapter Text

Gaia listened carefully as her Capitol-born mentor explained the rules. Normally, tributes would have a mentor from their own district who had won the Games previously, but Twelve had never had a victor. Maybe, she thought cautiously, that could change this year?

Her head dropped. No, it wouldn’t.

At thirteen years old and so scrawny that she had to be covered head to toe in a baggy and overstuffed coal miner’s outfit for the parade, Gaia didn’t hold out much hope of making it out of the next few weeks alive. Why was she listening then? There really was no point, was there?

When they were dressed in their grotesque fashions waiting to get to their living quarters, Gaia and the boy next to her in the chariot, Quarry, had gotten their first good look at the other contestants. Most of them looked average, if not underfed next to the Career tributes who stood tall, muscular and attractive, for the most part. There were, however, exceptions. The boy and girl tribute from District 7 had been wearing provocative lumberjack outfits during the parade that showcased their muscular arms and backs. The small dark-featured girl from 3 looked like an angel floating down the street, especially next to the absurd behavior of her fellow tribute. The boy from 6 looked monstrously tall standing next to his stubby companion.

Gaia was not one of these exceptions. Though she was pretty, she was not breathtakingly beautiful like the girl from District 2, standing tall and ethereal that was no doubt just a mask for how deadly she was. Obviously, no amount of lobbying the sponsors could possibly get them to bet on a skin-and-bones girl from District 12. She had no chance at all against all those people, most of them even years older than her.

With her sharp chin digging into her breastbone, she thought of home. Where she longed to be, surrounded by her many siblings and adoring parents. They didn’t have much but they did have love and that, her mother often told her, was all they needed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, in reality. When a bear broke through the skimpy fence surrounding their district and mauled her father in its rage, his leg had been badly wounded. By the time he had recovered, his position hacking away at coal in the mines had been filled and he was hard pressed to find anyone that would employ a man with a bad leg. Luckily, he and his wife were well liked and their children had whittled their ways into the townsfolk’s hearts, so they took pity on them and would give the man odd jobs. Still, it wasn’t enough to feed Gaia, her parents and her three older siblings. 

At first, it hadn’t been a problem for her. Being the youngest, she was used to getting the short end of the stick and hunger was not a stranger to her. But the days with scarce food turned into weeks, weeks into unbearable months. They had enough to keep them all alive but nothing more. Gaia’s mother tried to find work and made do with serving the more wealthy families of the district, but her father’s strength faded away and he could work less and less.

So they ate less and less.

Her older brother had not even been able to come to the Reaping, he was so frail. You could count every one of his bones through his paper-thin skin. As it was, she had fallen several times on her way to the town square and had to be helped up by passers by. Her family was too weak to help her themselves. 

Though there were many starving in Twelve, Gaia’s family was well loved by all and they often received charity from friends and neighbors. But they, as well as the family themselves, knew that there would be no help that could sustain them. If only they could wait a few months -- her brother would be eighteen and could work in the mines -- but there was no chance of that. They weren’t going to last through the end of the week.

At least now they might, Gaia thought somberly. The town’s love of her family had actually saved them, but at a cost. Deciding that there was no way for them all to survive, they had banded together to vote the youngest, and therefore least helpful member, into the Hunger Games. The night of the Reaping their bellies would be full as others consoled them and they would have one less mouth to feed for the few remaining months until her brother grew into adulthood. If she won, they must have reasoned, their family will be saved, and the district sown with rewards.

She tried to convince herself of this cold comfort every minute after she heard her name called, loud and clear, over the large assembly. 

While she had been voted to enter the arena because --or at least this is what they had told her was the reason -- she and her family were loved, Quarry had been elected due to the opposite sentiment. He stood next to her, creepily eyeing the mentor up and down as if scrutinizing every aspect of his life. She’d had his gaze plastered on her for most of the past two days and wasn’t eager to have it return to her, so she stayed quiet. 

When the name of the male tribute of District 12 had been announced, the olive-skinned boy had acted startled, if not shocked. He was genuinely convincing and it caused Gaia to feel sorry for him. Maybe all the rumors about him were untrue. He’d walked up the wood steps onto the stage and stood next to her, still looking shaken. She couldn’t blame him, her knees were also quaking with fright. As he’d looked out to the cameras directed at the stage, a single tear had escaped his eye on the side of his face that she could see and when they shook hands, his quivered violently. Gaia had at least known what was coming and knew to expect this outcome but she still pitied the person in front of her who was already old enough to be a man. This ordeal had turned him back into a small and frightened boy.

That act was immediately dropped when they’d escaped from the sights of the cameras. Eerily, with the tear still making its way down his cheek, Quarry had turned to Gaia and given her his up and down inspection. Figuring this was an act of shock, Gaia did the same. He was about average height with toned arms and legs, though not muscular because there was never enough food to waste on body building. Already eighteen, he’d been working in the mines since his birthday and as such had already accumulated a permanent ring of coal dust under his fingernails. Her inspection only lasted a couple seconds but when she looked up at the taller figure’s face again he was still examining her form, as if attempting to process every detail within a moment. Something in her gut had begun pulsing as if to the beat of a drum. Or maybe it was her heart. But she knew that something was not right then and it wasn’t just that she was being carted off to her death.

It was the boy. With a shudder, she realized that there was a very likely possibility that a good number of the rumors about Quarry were true. 

Once, she had heard that he’d killed his neighbor’s cat and kept the carcass in his closet, slowly cutting flesh off the poor thing and feeding it to his mother’s feline. Another time she was at school when a girl in her class told of an incident her older sister had had with him, when he’d stolen the wool hat right off her head, put it on and walked away. It might’ve seemed a joke if it weren’t for the fact that he acted entirely serious when confronted about it, insisting that it was his property.

There’d even been talk of one time in the mines when he’d brought a pack of matches down into the deep shafts. He must not have lit them because it surely would have resulted in an explosion. Still, no sane person would do that, right?

Gaia shivered again as she thought of this and shifted half a step further away from him. The movement caught his attention and his cold gaze shifted to her. She did not meet his eyes but saw that he had a warm smile on his face, a stark difference to the sneer it had replaced from only a moment ago. Nervously, she smiled back and tried to turn her attention back to the mentor. Gaia had no clue what he had said up to this point, so distracted in her musings, but she strained her ears to listen now.

“And no fighting until you get to the arena,” the gaudily dressed Capitol man said. At this, Gaia felt Quarry’s smile turn back to a sinister sneer, still directed at her. “Alright then, you two. Get down there! Make me proud!” 

He pressed the button to summon the elevator. When it arrived, Quarry walked up to it and paused, gesturing back to her.

“Ladies first,” he said with an all too convincing smile. She might’ve believed it if she hadn’t seen what lurked beneath. 

Still scared, she walked past him, immediately spinning to watch him enter. Something about having her back to him didn’t sit well with her. He entered and pressed the button to descend to the training floor. Then, very covertly, his finger touched the button that was marked “10”. Gaia’s heart raced. As the doors began to close, she darted out between them, muttering about forgetting something in her room which she hurried back to in order to keep up the charade. She came back to the hall with the elevator to find it already empty and open, as if waiting for her. Without a second thought she entered and pressed the correct button. 

“So much easier without him,” she mused aloud. 

The doors opened to a commotion. A boy who looked to be about sixteen was pointing and shouting at Quarry, who had assumed a shocked expression and had his hands up defensively. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I went to the wrong floor. When I saw you, I got scared,” he stuttered.

“Bullcrap. You came out and punched me on purpose!” The boy -- from District 10, Gaia gathered -- was pointing with one hand and holding the other over his eye. When he moved it, she could see that it was slightly bleeding and had already started to swell a disturbing purple color. 

“Oh calm down Newt,” said the girl waiting next to him. “It was an accident.”

“Can it, Chammy,” answered the enraged boy.

Quarry gave her what appeared to be an appreciative smile and she turned away, flustered. Officials finally came to break up their little squabble and Quarry turned and gave Gaia a conspiratorial wink. It unnerved her but she walked over to a dark-skinned woman who appeared to be the instructor at the fire making station. Fire was almost always crucial to survival. Coming from the coal district, this was even further ingrained in her mind. She first watched as the instructor lit her own little blaze, then tried to replicate her steps. After what seemed to be a few moments but must have been longer because her hands hurt from the movement, she heard a noise immediately to her left. She raised her eyes and realized that a boy was staring at her questioningly. 

“What?” she asked, preoccupied. 

“I asked what your name was.”

“Oh, sorry. Gaia,” she replied quickly on habit, then scolded herself. The Games were not a place to be making friends. Everyone here was out to kill the others. 

But you won’t survive anyways. What’s the harm? She sighed and dropped her meager twigs and flint, standing and reaching out to shake his hand.

“I’m Mako,” he said and added awkwardly, “District Four.”

“Twelve.”

After a moment, Mako let her hand drop and gestured to the pile of sticks in front of them. “Mind if I join you?”

She shook her head and got back to work. Even in her hyper focus she could feel eyes on her, looking her up and down. She was, afterall, bent in a somewhat exposed position. Thinking it had to be Quarry’s eyes that were making the hair on her neck stand up, she glanced across the expanse of the room to the target practice, where she had seen him go before sitting down. Quarry wasn’t looking at her, instead he was deep in conversation with the girl from District 10, Chammy, she remembered. His back was to Gaia so she knew it wasn’t him who was looking at her.

“Weird,” she muttered.

“Huh?” asked a voice from beside her. Right, Mako.

“Nothing,” she said and got back to work, still feeling eyes on her from somewhere.

Chapter Text

“Really, I didn’t mean to knock you over. I’m sorry,” Quarry said with an embarrassed smile. 

“Well, I guess I can forgive you. For now,” Chammy retorted. This lighthearted banter was putting her in a better mood than she’d been in since the Reaping. In fact, she’d been smiling in one way or another since Quarry had tripped out of the elevator onto Newt. It was funny to watch them awkwardly sputter around on the ground. She laughed again, thinking of the sight. “You seem to fall a lot,” she noted.

“Yeah, I guess I’m pretty clumsy,” he laughed along with her.

His face quickly sobered and he lowered his voice. “So, why’d you get picked?”

Her mood did an instant deep dive. For the last couple minutes she’d had a small reprieve from the waking nightmare she’d been living for days. 

The day of the Reaping, she hadn’t known she would be picked. One in hundreds, maybe thousands of children. What were the odds? And besides, District 10 had its fair share of ruffians and petty criminals, some of which were kids. So when hers was the name on that solitary piece of paper, she was shocked. She was aware that people hated her father, the mayor, but she didn’t know how deep that hatred really ran. Deep enough to condemn members of his family to death, apparently. At least, that’s what she thought. She really didn’t want to ask her district partner -- whose parents had probably also voted for her -- what the reason was, for fear that it had not been her father but herself that had done something punishable by death. 

So far, she’d thought the best strategy for her would be to be amiable. Get people to like you and maybe they won’t kill you, she reasoned. Not even tipping the scale at ninety pounds soaking wet, she certainly couldn’t hope to win the games with brute force. No, the simplest route for her would be to make friends. So she had reached a dilemma. Besides the Career tributes, Newt and herself, Chammy was almost certain that most of these kids had come from poverty. Flaunting her riches may not be the best idea, then. But there was still a chance it would all come out in the interview anyways. 

Better not outright lie , she thought.

“I don’t really know why. I guess people don’t like my dad.” A gross understatement.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Quarry replied. “Should we get some practice in?”

Her strategy may have been to make friends but Chammy wasn’t stupid enough to immediately tie herself to someone she’d only known for a matter of minutes.

“Yeah, I’ll try target practice,” she said deliberately. He didn’t seem to get the hint, though, and reached down to hand her a spear.

“Here, let’s try these first,” he said eagerly.

“You do that.” Chammy walked away and marched to the farthest station from his. She could make friends during lunch but until then she really did need to get some practice at any of the many things she had no clue about. She found herself at the rope station, where a girl with wavy brown hair was receiving instruction on how to tie some sort of complicated knot. Not really sure how rope could be of use in the Games other than to strangle someone, Chammy watched the girl, nerves shocking her into quiet. The instructor noticed her but did not acknowledge her, and his student was far too absorbed in her work to see her watching.

The girl -- Chammy thought she could be from District 4 or 5, she wasn’t sure -- got frustrated when she hit a deadend with her masterpiece and huffed angrily a couple of times. She never gave up though and eventually seemed pleased with her work.

“That’s very good,” the instructor praised.

“What’s it for?” Chammy asked.

“Geez!” the girl shouted, jumping to her feet and spinning so fast she must’ve gotten dizzy. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Guess I know not to sneak up behind you when you’re armed.”

“Yeah. That’d be a bad idea.”

“So, what’s it do?” Chammy asked again.

“It doesn’t do anything unless you set it up right,” said the instructor and the girl turned back to her work, securing the knot to some sort of contraption with rocks and twigs. When she sat back, seemingly satisfied, Chammy stepped up, curious. 

“Go ahead,” the instructor encouraged the girl. She turned to Chammy.

“Do you want to set it off?” the girl asked her with a grin.

“You’re not allowed to kill me before the Games start, you know,” Chammy replied, also grinning. It was obvious to her that this girl was joking, though her tone sounded deadly enough. The twinkle in her eye was mischievous and triumphant, but not malicious. She bent down and placed her hand where the instructor indicated. A rope closed tightly around her arm, pulling it up about two feet causing her to stand back up.

“Neat,” she complimented as the instructor loosed the knots and set her free. “I don’t think I could do that.”

“If you’re trying to get me to underestimate you, it’s working,” the girl chuckled. “What district are you from?”

“Ten. My name’s Chammy.”

“I’m Kinna. Five. Nice to meet you,” the girl said, not getting up to shake hands or even look Chammy in the eye. This didn’t strike her as odd though, Kinna was so obviously about concentrating on one thing at a time until she mastered it, then moving on. She sat down to imitate her, but couldn’t focus hard enough to master more than the simplest of ties. Like Kinna, she huffed in frustration. 

“Wow. These knots are honestly kicking my butt. Wonder what a sword would do,” she pondered aloud.

Kinna laughed fairly loudly. It was a beautiful sound, almost like wind chimes but with more life.

“Smart. Befriend the enemy. Your throat definitely won’t get cut,” a monotone voice said quietly. Chammy whirled around to see who had spoken. There was a boy walking by, not looking at either of them but shaking his head as he passed.

“Shut up,” Kinna said under her breath.

“Who’s that?” Chammy inquired.

“Volt. He’s from my district.”

“Kinda cute. You know, in a dark kinda way.”

Kinna studied her critically and seemed to reach some sort of conclusion. She shook her head and reached her hand out to the other girl.

“Volt’s a worse-case-scenario kinda guy. I like to look at things from different angles to see what helps me most. And I think it couldn’t hurt to have someone in that ring to tell me when someone else is trying to cut my throat.” Kinna stated.

“That’s what I was thinking. You’re pretty quick.”

“Hopefully you’re more useful than you’re pretending to be.”

“Hey,” Chammy defended, “I’m smarter than I look. Besides, if I can’t do anything else I’m good at being the distraction.”

Kinna laughed grimly and they both got up.

“Try to find something you’re good at. I’m gonna try to figure out as many life saving techniques as I can,” Kinna told her as she walked away.

Good at? Chammy wondered. Living a life in the closest thing to luxury as was available in District 10, the most that was required of her was to go to school and attend events as the mayor’s daughter. She knew that other children her age were already out in the pasture, tending to herds and helping out in the butcherhouses, so they would already have been in a way prepared for the Games. They, at least, knew something of what they were good at. But Chammy hadn’t had to work to survive. 

She looked around at the other stations. She knew her hand eye coordination was nothing to be relied on, nevermind her slight stature -- sports were not her thing -- so she didn’t even bother going to the combat training areas. There was a fitness area, a climbing station, a camouflage station; she knew instantly that none of these would be her forté. A couple stations over from her was a fire making station. That, she knew, she could do. She’d been coaxing blazes out of the most meager materials since she was a child. It had sometimes even gotten her in trouble. Here, it would be a help. Chammy would avoid that station unless she had nothing else to do, as there was nothing there for her to learn and showing off firemaking skills would get her nowhere in terms of intimidation. Immediately to the left of that was a table set up with little screens, a skinny woman standing behind it with her arms behind her back. Chammy walked over, figuring something like that must be more her speed.

Upon her approach to the table, she could see that the small screens each had a series of plants shown. She wasn’t really sure what good looking at pictures could do so she was about to move on.

“Please, take the test,” the Capitol trainer suggested.

Taking one more look around the spacious room, Chammy figured she might as well.

She tapped the screen and discovered that she had to select images based on a plant’s edibility. Mostly only eating food that had already been prepared, she just gave her best guess. By the end of it, she was convinced that not a blade, but a berry would kill her in the arena. She looked up at the instructor slightly humiliated. She was smiling at Chammy compassionately. 

“Surviving isn’t as easy as finding something to eat,” said the instructor.

“Guess not.”

The woman turned, illuminating a previously dark screen with a light tap on its wide surface and began instructing Chammy on the basics of flora and fauna. Chammy sat there engrossed in the lesson for what felt like ten minutes. When the woman stopped gesturing to the screen and turned back to Chammy, she glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Better head to lunch, kid.”

Chammy glanced backwards and found that only a handful of tributes were still in the main area, most already seated at the benches in a small alcove that was exclusively used for dining. Returning to her forward position, she insisted, “I want to try the test again while it’s fresh.”

The instructor grinned and pressed a sequence on the back of her screen, resetting the score. Chammy paid close attention to the details of each of the images and found that they were, for the most part, actually pretty easy to identify. By the end of the test she’d correctly classified almost all of the plants that were poisonous, save for a few. She looked up at the woman and nodded thankfully. Chammy turned and headed to lunch with stomach rumbling and smile triumphant.

Chapter Text

Position. Aim. Exhale. Fire.

Carnelia felt her lips shape a cold smile as the spear hit the center of the target with a satisfying thud. She was good at other combat techniques but spear throwing was by far her favorite. She loved the absolute power she felt in the coiled muscle of her arm as it released its tension and propelled the deadly projectile forward by her own sheer strength. Plus, it was with this particular weapon that her aim was the most accurate. 

A whistle of appreciation alerted her to her audience, a tall boy with pale skin and light hair. District 2, she remembered. “You’ve got a good arm,” he said. “Nice aim.”

“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she replied wryly. Carnelia’s mentors had already instructed her and her fellow tribute from District 1, Quartz, that they were to form a sort of power alliance with District 2 and District 4. Any other tributes that showed promise were to be recruited at their own discretion, and peril. Still, it didn’t mean she had to like it. This boy had a sort of superior edge to him that reeked of entitlement. Sadly, she couldn’t call him out on it as he was just as good as he thought. He lined up to another target next to her with a spear and threw it dead center, just like hers. Before he could turn and show her his cocky smile, Carnelia moved on to a station that appeared to be hand-to-hand or weapons combat training. She could use some of that, she was strong but she wasn’t very big. The giant of a tribute from District 6 would be likely to easily overpower her with sheer size difference. 

Carnelia paused to consider for a moment. She was most lacking in the hand-to-hand department, of the two. She was good at wrestling but only people close to her own size and slightly bigger. Anyone two feet taller than her and she’d be dead. That is, if they had a weapon. Being from one of the Career districts, she’d been coached to sprint for the spoils at the center of the Cornucopia and initiate a bloodbath. She was fast for her size and wasn’t worried about being one of the first people to the loot. She’d come out with a knife or a sword -- or even better a spear --  and be set for the majority of her time in the arena. 

She considered all this for only a moment before stepping forward to grab a long-bladed knife from the table stacked with weapons. If she had one all along, what use was practicing headlocks and fist fights when she could just slit someone’s throat? 

Her main weapon, the spear, could be used for ranged attacks but also useful in close combat, though it was not as maneuverable. She figured she’d probably want some practice with a smaller, more mobile weapon before the killing started. She was pretty good with a sword, as long as it wasn’t too heavy as to unbalance her, but fighting an armed opponent with a smaller weapon was more difficult.

There were men in full body armor there to be her sparring partners, as tributes were not allowed to participate in any type of altercation before the Games began. She wondered where they were from, if they were meant to be formidable opponents. Surely they couldn’t be from the Capitol; a life of wealth and soft living wasn’t a path to becoming deadly. Sure, they had classes for fun to try and imitate the Hunger Games but they’d never been faced with a desperation or a need to come out victorious. For them it was simply a party trick. For her it would mean the difference between life and death, which must also be true for the people behind the fully caged masks. She guessed District 2 because that was where the Capitol’s largest military force came from. She’d seen some of the other tributes fighting with them, they were in fact good at what they did. Definitely not Capitol.

Carnelia walked up to one of them and he gestured to a rack of weapons behind him. Seeing as she already had her own, she guessed that she was meant to choose her opponent’s form of attack. She needed to practice close encounter combat with a disadvantage so she went over, picked a light broadsword from the rack and handed it to the instructor. He immediately swung at her, but she had been anticipating this. Carnelia ducked and rolled, bringing her knife up to deflect the downward slash she knew was coming. The blade of the sword slashed off her knife with such force that it actually slowed the momentum of her roll but she still managed to land on her feet, knife up and ready for the next attack.

She snarled. This guy meant business. Good , she thought. It won’t be any help if it’s easy.

She was most comfortable with distant attacks such as spear or knife throwing so she watched and analyzed the man’s strikes, defending with the small blade while continuing to dive and spin. It wasn’t easy, but she also wasn’t worried. Her training previous to being picked for the Games had been extensive.

This, being a year in which the districts would get to hand pick their warriors instead of leaving it up to chance and the first to shout, “I volunteer,” her people had pooled together all the potential combatants and analyzed their survival abilities, stature, and fighting skills; anything that would be a factor within the Games. They didn’t believe that voting for a hated person would help them at all. Instead, they knew that the Games were an opportunity for growth which they experienced almost every year. Rather like the actual Games themselves, the district had announced each of the potential players’ scores in their version of standardized testing. Quartz had scored higher than all the boys on almost every test. Carnelia was marked the most deadly, but also the most vulnerable. The people of One figured that, as she was a girl, this could be used to her advantage. 

She’d been instructed to “play nice” and “be innocent” to the people of the Capitol. Here, in training, she could be as vicious as she wanted -- there were no cameras and no audience to see her true violence -- but she had to get a somewhat low score for a Career in the Gamemaker’s session. She was to play it cool and act wide eyed and surprised during the interview, shocked and upset at her score. She could do that. Emotions were easy to fake, if you knew who they were directed at.

Her sparring partner continued his barrage. She figured he would expect her to be tiring by now, his own thrusts were becoming slightly sloppy in execution. Now, having watched his pattern of attack -- mostly direct swipes, no deflection -- she made her move and went in for the kill. She feigned to the left, drew back in anticipation, then ducked under his heavy handed swing and used her momentum to push him to the ground, her knife digging into the mesh netting of his throat. To go one step further, she moved her leg around to pin his sword arm and sneered from on top of him. She rolled off and smiled, It hadn’t been an easy fight but she had also not had one moment of doubt that she would win. The only person that could ever best her was her older brother, who happened to be the victor from the Games four years previous. She had trained with him relentlessly for the past year and eventually was able to beat him in almost every type of combat. The one she was most disappointed in was fighting in close with a spear. She still hadn’t won against him like that.

The mayor of District 1 read aloud the scores of each of the contestants in the pool to be voted into that year’s Games a week prior to the Reaping, giving them time to further prepare their bodies and minds. Upon hearing her name as the top choice, she spent practically every waking minute training with her brother, figuring that her mind didn’t need any sharpening. She’d seen Games where tributes had gone insane with the bloodshed, screaming incoherently into the cameras, or tearing into other’s flesh with their maniacal grin. Carnelia wasn’t worried about having such a reaction, being the little sister of a victor. She’d watched all the Games start to finish and made note of each of the strategies, strengths, and failures of previous tributes. The biggest failure, in her mind, was overestimating yourself. That, she figured, was the leading cause of an outlying district winning the Hunger Games every so often. She’d vowed it wouldn’t happen to her. She’d train until she’d mastered every type of combat, always analyzing her opponents. 

Standing up, she glanced over to the weapons racks. She needed to practice with her favorite long range and worst close range asset. She disarmed her previous combatant of his sword, taking it with her as she strode to the rack and retrieved a long spear. Upon deciding it was well balanced, she walked over to another of the instructors. She hoped he would be as good as his predecessor but made no assumptions. She dropped the sword in front of him and backed away, entering into her fighting stance. He leaned down and she reset her mind to watch the new attacker’s movements. This time, she attacked first.

She went for a jab that would’ve pierced the man’s stomach had he not been wearing armor but he deflected it, throwing her arm away and her body off balance. She corrected her stance quickly and spun the spear back over her head, bringing it back in front of her. She deflected his next hit off the shaft of her weapon and circled around him, assaulting him from all sides with the long spear. Having so much practice with it, she felt like the spear was an extension of her arm as she danced gracefully around the man. Deciding that she was well matched, she began to throw in the occasional kick and hip check, even moving her leg behind his in an attempt to trip him. They continued their deadly sparring for only a minute when Carnelia deflected a direct blow off the spear’s shaft, shoved the blade to the side and swung her weapon around to knock the instructor hard in the side of the head. He fell with the force of the thrust and landed sprawled out on his back, the sword clanging away from him on the hard floor.

Carnelia stood above him, victorious and gave her spear a florid twirl, ending it butt to the ground. She saluted him and picked up the sword, triumphant and ready to face her next opponent.

None of the other tributes would stand a chance.

Chapter Text

With eyes wide and mouth silent Fionne observed her fellow tributes on the final day of training. She’d done the best she could in each of the courses they taught in the large, intimidating underground area but she knew some of the skills they were teaching would never be her forté. Such as anything to do with close combat.

She glanced over at the big men in mesh armor and masks and shivered, nervously reaching down to caress her elbow. It had acquired a large bruise the other day when one of them knocked her over with the butt of a spear. Tributes weren’t supposed to hurt each other but apparently adults could. As she observed them, the tributes from District 1 approached. The boy reached the array of weapons first and handed the girl a menacing looking spear. Fionne grimaced. She didn’t like those. The pair began a dance of aligned combat, facing three of the masked men at once and simultaneously letting any watching tributes know that their district would be remaining strong. 

Fionne let her eyes wander and searched for the tributes from District 2. They were not together. The boy, looking  pale and deadly, was on a treadmill, running with a huge sword in his hands. He had a determined expression on his face that spoke of just what he would do to win the Games. He didn’t care what it was, he would do it. 

The District 4 boy, Mako -- as he’d introduced himself multiple times to Fionne’s lack of acknowledgement -- was also in the gym area, but he was working on some type of weight lifting equipment while talking speedily to a tiny girl with flowing blond locks who didn’t seem to be paying attention to him. The girl -- District 12, Fionne remembered -- was doing some sort of sequenced exercise using small hand weights that involved the entirety of her body’s movement. She seemed focused but distant as she went through the routine. Fionne had seen her shoveling back protein-filled foods during lunch; her current activity must be a desperate attempt to put a little bit of weight onto her gaunt frame.

Fionne dropped her gaze to the gray concrete floor as she walked to the center of the room in an attempt to better observe her competitors. 

She lifted her head and again began searching. Her eyes landed on the girl from Two whose beauty could only be described as otherworldly. Her dark brown hair was pinned back in a simple crown of braids that made her look like a fairy plucked right from the pages of a storybook. However, despite the delicate style of her hair, she was as threateningly dangerous as any of the other tributes. As her axe sliced through the air spinning end over end towards the target, Fionne silently vowed to never get in this fairytale creature’s way. 

Also at the target range were both tributes from District 5, the girl from 10 and the boy from 12, Quarry, she reminded herself. Fionne had immediately disliked the boy from the coal district as soon as she’d laid eyes on him after the parade, and had steered clear from him ever since. Nobody else seemed to be particularly bothered by him but Fionne was used to noticing things other people paid no mind. 

Like herself. She huffed and briefly closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths from her nose. Apparently, people had taken more notice of her than she had realized. Enough that a whole district of people would write down her name to condemn her to death for being something other than their definition of the norm. Who had hatefully cast out herself and Teeve as if the Games were a convenient excuse to rid themselves of the so-called burdens on society. 

They don’t know what they got rid of . She steeled herself and opened her eyes to continue her inventory of the people who would be trying to kill her in two days time. 

Looking back to the group at target practice, Fionne noted that they were standing closer together -- with the exception of the boy from 5 -- than most tributes would in training. She gathered that this meant they had some type of an alliance brewing, which didn’t sit well with her. It was pretty standard that the Careers would team up and hunt down the weaker prey -- she shivered at the thought -- but alliances across other districts were rare. And the more alliances you weren’t a part of, the less likely you would survive for very long. She kept watching, wary of the small party. The boy from 5 moved away from the rest and seemed to be striking out on his own. 

The girls from Districts 5 and 10 had their heads together and seemed to be puzzling over something. Quarry started to walk away from them, stooped to pick up something and made a couple odd movements behind 5’s back. He seemed to be practicing a motion before executing it. He then fell very convincingly with the small throwing knife grasped in his hand onto the girl from 5, who cried out. 

Kinna, she recalled, sure now that this would be the memory ingrained in Fionne’s mind of her if she outlived the girl. Fionne could see the blood from where she stood. It appeared to be coming from Kinna’s thigh. It spurted out as she fell into the arms of her co-conspirator. The girl from 10 screamed at Quarry but Fionne couldn’t quite make out the words. They were clipped and emotional words, something which had no place in such a situation. They were, after all, about to be in a huge fight to the death.

Quarry appeared to be trying to apologize and had a genuinely concerned expression on his face. Fionne glanced around but no one else seemed to have noticed his malicious intentions. Some tributes hadn’t even stopped to watch the encounter, too engrossed in their own affairs. Fionne saw a team of gray uniformed men and women rushing towards the commotion, obviously medical personnel. She didn’t turn back to watch the scene unfold. The Capitol’s medics were the best anywhere. The girl was in good hands.

Fionne jumped back quickly as a girl nearly bumped into her trying to reach the scene of the accident. She was twittering excitedly at the boy that followed her closely, their hands clasped together. The lovers of District 8. Fionne rolled her eyes and idly wondered how long they would last with people throwing all types of deadly projectiles at them. She wasn’t at all worried about either of them coming for her, though. The girl looked soft and the boy scared. Not a good combination. 

“Maybe she’ll die here and we’ll have one less person to worry about,” whispered the girl who’d breezed by her. The companion looked at her, startled.

“Lin, she can’t die here. That wouldn’t be fair," the boy replied, dropping her hand.

“Open your eyes Windsor. Everyone here has to die if I want to go home. Maybe my family will accept me if I’m a victor.” 

So that’s how long they’ll last , Fionne thought.

The boy looked hurt. “For you to go home?”

“You know what I meant,” the girl said, reaching for his hand and dragging him towards the bloody scene. The bleeding girl had been carted off and a crowd had gathered around Quarry and the girl from District 10, who had the other girl’s blood all over her. It appeared that Quarry was attempting to convince the officials and fellow tributes that it had been an accident. The girl from 10 looked doubtful but mad as ever. She was still berating him. The girl from 8, still attached to her shock-stricken lover, got between them. Her body language seemed to indicate she believed Quarry. Fionne snarled. Nothing in this world, it seemed, was just.

“What’s going on?” Teeve approached Fionne questioningly. She’d give him points for his bravery and intelligence but he wasn’t much to look at. His face was the shadow of the man he might’ve become, strongly defined but not yet weathered by age. His honey blond hair hung over his brow carelessly. He spoke with a sort of monotone edge to his voice that was sure to bore the Capitol audience to death. Fionne wasn’t sure teaming up with the sixteen year old was smart, but it seemed a better alternative to going at it alone. Teeve had reached her side and was now staring at the blood across the floor.

“What…?” he turned to her eyes wide and asked. Again, she snarled and lifted her hand, pointing accusingly at Quarry. Teeve looked around and seemed to be counting. “He attack a tribute?”

Smart boy, she reasoned and nodded.

“Are they dead?”

Fionne shook her head side to side.

“Nobody knows he did it, do they?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Damn,” he said simply before glancing at her once more inquisitively then moved on to join the others in the weights area. He didn’t seem one for athleticism but looked toned enough.

Get back to work.

Fionne rotated on her heels to observe more of her potential killers. The girl from 4 and both tributes from 6 were sitting -- separately, she mentally praised -- at the edible plants station. Fionne had breezed through the whole thing, having read so much about all of them in her free time. The three sitting there now, though, seemed to be having some trouble. Each individual looked frustrated and discouraged. The boy from 6 looked tall and somewhat scary but didn’t look very muscled. The girl from his district had the same general appearance, minus the height. Fionne brushed them off as threats, for the time being. They may well gain their stature as the games went on, as some victors of years past had done. The girl from 4 looked like she’d been well fed all her life, but hadn’t put it to much use. Fionne wrote her off as well. The girl didn’t seem to be the type to fight for survival, but instead accept her fate.

Her eyes scanned around the room hungrily for their next target. A young girl, appearing to be about thirteen, stood alone in front of an instructor who seemed to be showing her how to skin some type of animal. Fionne had already visited this station and had paid attention but was repulsed by the process. It was necessary, she had told herself. She sized up the girl currently partaking in the gruesomeness. She was short and from District 9. Having spent her life growing wheat, she was viewed as a non-issue. Fionne moved on.

Her partner, the boy from 9, as well as the boy from 10 were working at the snares station. The boy from 10 struck her with an eir of intelligence. She was wary of him and noted him as a potential threat. The boy from 9, on the other hand, was acting like a simpleton. It was as if he was delirious and thought the “Games” part of the pageant’s title was just that. As if he either didn’t fully grasp the concept or had grasped it long ago and been driven insane by its immediacy. She pitied him momentarily but ultimately didn’t know what to make of him. 

Crazy people are unpredictable, she told herself, making sure to not underestimate him.

A lone tribute knelt at the fire-making station, the girl from 11. In the intentionally darkened corner, the tongues of the flame outlined her dark skin and played across its surface. The girl’s back was to Fionne now but she had previously seen her smiling at the lunch table. She had a glint in her eye that reminded Fionne so much of the fire that now stood ablaze in front of her. She wondered if the girl might not be entirely sane, either.

The boy from 11 was not tall in stature, nor was he particularly muscular but his arm rippled with the exertion of swinging a heavy sword surprisingly powerfully. His size did not indicate that he would be strong but he had an edge of hardness that was immediately bone chilling. Fionne would stay as far as possible away from him.

A bit outside of the combat training area, the tributes from District 7 were swinging their axes in unison. The siblings, Fionne recalled. They didn’t really look alike aside from their coiled hair and stern expressions. They were facing out into the rest of the room, curiously enough, but were not paying attention to anything in front of them besides the swinging of their blades. The girl was periodically saying something, after which they would change their stance. The movements they made were fast and precise, twisting their bodies to reach and lunge and swipe. 

Very, very dangerous, Fionne cautioned herself.

Having evaluated all of the tributes, she found her focus lost in the smooth swing of the boy’s axe. He moved every time an instant before the girl said something, even when she changed up her speed. There was something melodic and eerily comforting about the whole thing.

That is, until she imagined herself being the object the axe might swing into.

Chapter Text

Knock, knock, knock.

Aero’s long arm hit noisily against his wooden headboard. He’d gone to sleep with his body diagonal on the plush mattress but his lengthy body had maneuvered during the night to have his feet hanging out from under the blankets and over the end of the bed. He groaned as he groggily brought his injured arm in to his chest, as if holding it to his center could repair the stinging pain that emanated from it. 

“Aero! Wake up! You’re learning about the interview today!” a voice trilled from the other side of his door. It was heavily accented, so Aero figured it must belong to his Capitol representative. He never really paid attention to her, other than the first time she’d spoken his name.

Aero Smithers. The way she pronounced it was still fresh in his mind. His nightmares of brutal killings from Games past mixed with the faces of this year’s tributes was overlaid every night with her saying his name. He wished someone would cut out her tongue and make her an Avox, just like the servant that now entered his room.

Aero watched the eternally silent attendant as he came in carrying a bundle of neatly folded and pressed clothes topped with glossy dress shoes. 

The speechless servants unnerved Aero. Maybe he didn’t wish the all too twinkly woman who had announced his doom be turned into one of the pathetic creatures before him. 

“What,” he said, irritated. Just as Aero knew he wouldn’t, the Avox didn’t so much as open his lips. He just stood there, waiting. Aero rolled his eyes. This had been the routine for the past couple days but he still couldn’t get over the tongueless figure watching him undress from the corner. He’d asked his Capitol-provided stylist about it, but the woman seemed shocked that he should find anything odd in being waited upon in any capacity. For them, this was normal if not privileged treatment. Aero rolled his eyes and got up to undress. When he left the room his skin was still crawling from the privacy invasion. 

At breakfast, he was alone with the sole district mentor, his fellow tribute taking longer to be prepped than he had. The mentor watched him, his eyes cold and calculating. Aero had noticed warily that behind the edge of frost was an expression of unchecked hollowness. He had never seen anything like it and found himself more than once glancing at them, trying to understand what had caused his eyes to decay so heavily. Wondering, also, how he could keep the steeled expression that he showed by day and if it faded into quiet sobs at night. Though they stared at each other, Aero didn’t feel the need to drop his gaze. The man was looking right at him but didn't seem to be actually observing his actions, just his stature. It seemed, to Aero, that the man was constantly lost in his own world, possibly driven to quiet insanity by having been in the Games once and being so involved in them every year thereafter. 

His sights locked back on his morning meal -- hot grains and a side of some crispy slab of greasy meat -- and found that he was no longer hungry. 

If I manage to survive, that’ll be me, he thought. His spoon began making slow circles around the bowl of hot grain. It looked like mush to him now, but he knew that he needed to keep eating. Needed to nourish his body before…

Before I die a useless and painful death. There’s no way I’m getting out of this alive.

The sudden wave of despair had him filled to the brim with anger and he lashed out. Upon hearing a crash, he looked down and found that he had swept the entirety of his breakfast fineries onto the ground, where they lay spattered and broken. He grimaced at them; that would be him soon enough. He saw that his mentor was still staring at him. His stern mask of an expression was now replaced with one of almost pity. He must also know that Aero stood no chance. Last night’s tribute rankings had confirmed that.

When he’d gone in for his private sessions with the Gamemakers -- in which he was to show off a skill for them to rank his ability in the Games -- he hadn’t known what to do. He wasn’t particularly good at anything involving aiming something at a target, even though he could throw far enough. His eyes had browsed each of the stations which held any number of tools that he could use to impress his audience, but he hadn’t known where to start. The only thing he had found himself to be relatively good at during the days of training was hand to hand combat. He wasn’t really sure how that could be useful though, as anytime he’d picked up a weapon to fight with he’d ended up cutting himself. But, it being a better alternative to standing there lamely, Aero had made his way to the combat area. 

He knew injuring himself would get him nowhere other than embarrassed, so he settled for wrestling one of the waiting sparring partners. They’d tumbled around on the mats attempting to restrain each other for the next half an hour, during which Aero had managed to get his partner into a headlock several times. He was impressed, but not too encouraged. Wrestling wasn’t his strong suit, even if it was hand to hand. He’d been in fist fights for as long as he could remember -- being one of the many orphans who had never left the unbearable group home -- but fist fighting his metal mesh armored opponents was unrealistic. It wouldn’t show the Gamemakers anything special. More likely, he’d end up injured and at a disadvantage in the games from the very beginning. 

When he’d left the area, head down, Aero didn’t hold much hope for a high score from the onlookers. The Gamemakers required a show from each of the tributes to determine their potency in the upcoming Hunger Games, so that Capitol citizens may have a better grasp on a tribute’s potential, and thereby brighten their odds at betting on the victor. Though the scale was one to twelve Aero didn’t think he’d get above a two.

He’d been narrowly wrong. The night after his session, the Capitol had televised each of the tribute’s scores in training. He’d gotten a four for his performance. As expected, those from the Career districts elicited scores of nine to ten, minus the girl from 4. Most of the others ranged from scores of three to seven but there were some outliers. The quiet girl from 3 scored a two. Both tributes from District 5 scored an eight, which almost shocked the Capitol audience. The boy from 7 received a six which didn’t fully match up with what Aero had seen in training. Though he was small, the boy looked like he knew how to use that axe. His sister, also from 7, received a nine which was not surprising. If looks could kill she would’ve won the Games before training even started. The boy from 11 scored a ten and Aero didn’t doubt for a second how. Watching the tribute weave in between sparring partners as he slashed at them was absolutely terrifying.

Now, as he glared at the pile of food scattered on the floor of District 6’s dining area that represented his future, he didn’t understand how talking himself up or acting fancy could keep him alive.

Tomorrow, he would be going up on a stage in front of the whole nation, as the event would be televised and was required viewing for everyone in the country. The interview would only last three minutes per tribute, but it was for some reason considered invaluable by those around him. Aero sighed as he glanced down at his grain-sodden shoes. He gingerly wiped the surface clean of the goo and looked pointedly at his mentor. There was work to be done, apparently. 

The next hour of Aero’s ever-shorter life was spent with the steel-gazed man who was supposed to keep him alive with the help of rich sponsors from the Capitol. Sometimes, those who bet on the winner of the games would get highly involved in trying to ensure that they would be correct, and paid exorbitant amounts to send gifts into the arena to aid their chosen tribute. That, his mentor repeatedly drilled into him, was the purpose of the interview. To collect sponsors that could quite possibly keep you alive.

Sadly, in order to get sponsors you had to have some sort of a strategy. You could play it cool and confident, not at all worried about the weeks to come and showing that you believe you will win wholeheartedly. Some victors in the past have sat grimly, passive aggressively refusing to answer any questions. Some tributes played it coy, sexy, charming, or funny in an attempt to get the pompous Capitol people to like or admire them in some way. With a training score of four, he didn’t have much to work with.

“You need to work the crowd,” his mentor insisted for the fifth time in a row.

“I don’t know how to do that though, do I?”

“I don’t know, don’t you?” the older man mocked. “You seem pretty good at getting emotion when you feel like it. Bet you’re trying to make me angry right now and guess what, it’s working.”

“So? I’m not likable.”

“You don’t have to be!” the mentor insisted. “You’re an annoying little brat but you can use that to your advantage. Be sarcastic. Make jokes, snide remarks. Put some of that self-pity on display. Most of them won’t relate to it but you can be damn well sure they’ll laugh at you.”

“So that’s it then?” Aero spat. “I’m supposed to make myself the laughing stock of the country?”

“Exactly.”

Aero thought that a sadistic grin might have alighted on the man’s face but he’d turned before Aero could be sure.

“Go find your stylist, kid. I can’t help you anymore,” he said, walking off.

Well I sure won’t woo them with my modeling now, will I? he  thought dryly.

Fine. If this was what the man told him to do, he would do it. But he would hate every minute of it, which was maybe what the lunatic wanted.

Chapter Text

Quartz’s stylist gracefully floated around him, touching up little details and adding gems intermittently. Because he was from District 1, the place from which most of the Capitol’s jewelry came, it was expected that he would be adorned in hundreds of tiny crystals. His stylist, it appeared, did not intend to disappoint. 

As the brilliant woman fluttered around him, Quartz reached up to grasp the gold chain around his neck that he had brought from his district. Every tribute was allowed to carry with them one item from their home in the Hunger Games and the necklace he’d worn since infanthood seemed like the only choice for him. At the end of the thick links was a heavy stone pendant, the very mineral after which he was named. The stone had been loosely tucked under the lavish silk fabric of his marbled white shirt, meant to correspond to his name so that, to the audience, he would be unmistakable. Not that he wasn’t already. 

The people of District 1 had through the years become more and more beautiful, according to the Capitol. It seemed that every anniversary of the Hunger Games, the loveliness of each new tribute to be reaped surpassed that of their predecessors. Of course, his people chose their representatives with care and paid equal attention to dazzle as deadly, if not more. 

The small statured stylist stepped back from her masterpiece and gave a high pitched shriek that Quartz wasn’t sure had been entirely human. “Sensational,” she squealed.

Quartz flashed her his signature toothy grin. “Thank you.” This woman had for sure helped him in the Games. In the opening ceremonies, the parade, he’d been adorned head to toe in a thick layer of matte white makeup, giving his entire body the appearance of a marble statue. His athletic body had been shown off in its entirety, the muscles shadowed and highlighted heavily, giving the impression that they were protruding aggressively from his body. He’d looked absolutely stunning. Quartz could practically hear the gasps and sighs of adoring Capitol citizens as he’d ridden past them. Upon hearing the stylist’s plan, he’d been enthusiastic, knowing that it would help to give him an edge with the audience. 

His district was hyper aware of the effect the Capitol patrons played on the games every year. They’d counted on it and some years only allowed more aesthetically pleasing adolescents, versus violent children, to represent them. This year, since they were choosing who would enter the arena, it wouldn’t do to have an unskilled fighter in the ring simply because they were gorgeous. Luckily, he and his fellow tribute, Carnelia, had been knockouts on both ends, although he admitted she was more the deadly and he more the dazzle.

“Alright, alright, alright. Oh my, it’s time! Line up! Places!” his district representative twittered. It seemed that all of these people spoke with high pitched idiodic voices.

As Quartz made his way to the wings of the stage, he pulled the long chain out from its hiding spot and rested it on the center of his breastbone. 

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Carnelia asked from her place in front of him, as she would be the first tribute interviewed, the girl from 1. She was looking back at Quartz in her lustrous red garment that could only loosely be called a dress. As she was the more deadly component of the duo, she did not look very comfortable in her scantily draped piece of material. 

“You worry too much. I want them to see it,” Quartz said, gesturing to his token.

“But your stylist…”

“Relax. They don’t know everything. I mean -- don’t get me wrong --  you look great in that getup but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t scream ‘killer’.”

Carnelia rolled her eyes and turned to face forward, huffing. Her stylist really had tried to play up the sex appeal. Yes, his district partner was beautiful, but traipsing around in ornate dresses and finery was not her style. The red she was wearing better suited her than any other color, and in only a day she would be covered with the stuff. That’s where her true appeal lay. Her stylist, however, had thought otherwise. Recently there’d been a fad about gems and their properties, characteristics and the like. People in the lavish city were collecting minerals and jewels in multitudes, claiming they had spiritual properties. Carnelian, the stone after which she was named, was said to portray vitality, confidence and, of course, sexuality. Quartz vaguely wondered if her parents had known that when they’d named her.

When the anthem of Panem began to play, Quartz realized he was clutching his pendant and dropped it, hands astutely at his sides. It wouldn’t do to look nervous. If the Capitol people were right about the gems having special properties -- not that they were ever really right about anything -- then he was glad Carnelia would be preceding him. He could use all the spare vitality, confidence and sexuality he could get to play the audience to his best ability. 

A skeleton of a man clad in a bright cherry red suit skipped onto the stage, though the motion combined with his ghastly figure made it seem as though the joints would disconnect at any second, just as bones would if they were not conjoined by flesh. When he reached the center of the platform, he did a flamboyant twirl and landed with his feet planted, facing the audience. The man lifted his arms in a wide gesture and began, “I’m August Praetor and welcome to the twenty-fifth Hunger Games!”

The audience roared as the crowded town square of the Capitol screamed in triumph and anticipation. 

“As you’ve been informed,” August continued in his eerily breathy and deep voice, “This year, the Hunger Games calls for a sensationalized, grandiose version of the event; the Quarter Quell! At the end of the Great War, our benevolent leaders outlined that every quarter century, a Games would be held that would remind every new generation of the crimes and atrocities of their parents, grandparents, and so on. On the first Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, it was written that the districts would vote on which of their children will represent them in the arena. How marvelous! Something tells me that this will be a year to remember, don’t you think?”

The ghost-like man directed his question at the adoring audience that hung on his every word and they, unsurprisingly, erupted in applause once again.

Quartz didn’t doubt that the splendor of this year’s Games would be one for the history books. While most districts had elected to volunteer street wrabble and criminals, the Career districts had seen it as an opportunity to ensure better odds with better fighters. The Capitol would get enough gore from the aggressive contestants alone, but there were also some that were formidable in their own rights. After all, a life on the streets filled with threats and hunger was not to be outruled as preparation for a game as barbaric as this. 

“Yesterday, each of the tributes had the opportunity to show their worth in front of the Gamemakers, and each was given a score -- a survival rating of sorts -- that would help you all to know their odds in the games. Oh my, I suppose that does start just tomorrow! Isn’t it exciting?” The host paused for the applause to peter out, then continued. “I bet you’re all just as anxious to meet them as I am! Let’s give a warm welcome to our first player; from District 1, the absolutely ravishing Carnelia!”

The girl from his district turned from her position in front of him and gave him a part amused, part annoyed expression that was so often adorning her soft features, making them appear harsher, then strode out onto the platform with a winning smile. She waved at the audience and blew kisses, as her mentor had instructed her, but not in the manner she had been directed; she was smirking conspiratorially and lilting with a confident gate as she made her way up to August, alighting in adjacent chairs.

Upon seeing Carnelia’s stature and delicate features, Carnelia’s mentor had chosen to play her as the sweet girl from the jewel district, instead of the vicious killing machine that she was. Whether it was intelligent or not, Quartz didn’t know, but Carnelia had opted to disregard the advice. In training, she had been directed to do something less impressive for the Gamemakers, and appear shocked and weak during the interview, winning over the sympathies of the Capitol. Instead, she had gone in, probably did some spear throwing, and received a score of ten.

As August hushed the adoring whistles and cries from the audience, Carnelia straightened in her chair and dropped her smile, staring at her interviewer with large, imploring eyes. When he repositioned himself to face her, his bony form jumped slightly as alarm quickly appeared and vanished from his face. Quartz knew first hand that having those eyes trained on you was incredibly disarming.

“My dear, you look absolutely stunning,” commented the host when he had composed himself.

“Thank you. I think the color suits me.”

“Ah, we’re quite the pair to start off this show don’t you think? Am I right to assume that you’re meant to represent the stone carnelian?” August asked in rapid succession, acutely aware that the time he had to interview each of the tributes was limited to exactly three minutes.

“Yes. Funny that a girl named after a stone reflecting liveliness is about to enter a fight to the death,” Carnelia said with a mischievous upturn of her lip. Quartz knew she paid as little mind to her name as he did, so she must be working the crowd, fishing for sponsors. In any case, the laughter of the host and the Capitol audience indicated it was working.

“Yes indeed. Now, do tell us, my dear Carnelia,” he leaned in as if they were sharing a secret that wouldn’t soon be known to the whole country, causing her to do the same. “What’s your secret skill?”

Of course, as the other contestants were watching, almost no one ever gave up their talent if they had one. Still, the audience was here for a show, and a show August always gave them.

Carnelia straightened in her chair and grinned at August. Then, she half turned so that she was facing all the tributes who were waiting backstage. An odd move for someone who was supposed to be speaking only for the adoring fans. She stared them down for a few seconds before speaking. 

“Spears,” she said simply as her expression slowly turned to one of pure malice. She glared at her opponents with a look so evil Quartz was so sure he heard the chattering of someone’s teeth a bit behind him. He found himself being extremely grateful that he could count her as an ally in the arena, if only in the beginning. Quartz’s shoulders stiffened of their own accord as he truly took in all the intent of his partner’s gaze while she turned back to the obviously shaken host, visually prompting him to continue. 

If only in the beginning, he thought to himself and cursed under his breath. He’d mostly been avoiding the thought of facing off with the small but deadly girl, thinking it was nearly impossible for that to be the case. But there was always a chance. And he didn’t like the most likely outcome of that scenario.

Quartz readjusted himself, pretending to brush off the non-existent dust from his spotless outfit and quickly tucked his necklace back where his stylist had put it. Carnelia was a smart girl, but it was a good idea to start cutting ties with her now, even in mindset. Yes, they were from the same district, but until he heard the victor’s trumpets, he could be loyal to nobody but himself.

Chapter Text

The boy that was on stage had an annoying voice. 

Volt stood backstage as he watched the male tribute from District 4 finish up his interview with August. Volt had tried to tune his impish speech out during training -- mostly successfully as the creep seemed only intent on talking to girls -- but here, in the center of the Capitol where his high pitched cadence screamed out of hundreds of speakers, Volt had to fight the urge to cover his ears. It was as if each breath the boy on stage took scraped across the microphone and pulsed out the speakers at just the wrong tone.

Volt clasped his hands lightly in front of him in a leisurely stance and closed his eyes. The person being interviewed would obviously only be a predator for females, and he had no need to worry about him. He needed to run through scenarios and it helped to be able to visualize them.

The first person to talk about themselves today had shocked quite a few people, boldly stating her strengths. It was odd though; to Volt, she hadn’t seemed cocky. It was like she had no reason to doubt the truth of her statement, to cover for some weakness with an inflated ego. That worried him. Sure, she was small, but she was a Career who had scored a ten and sister of a former victor, as the host had pointed out. It wouldn’t be a good idea to tangle with her in the arena. 

Her district partner seemed more docile compared to her, but it would’ve been hard to outshine that girl’s scarlet performance. His appearance, though, did seem to be rising to the challenge. He dazzled across the stage with a calm smile and greeted the host warmly. For the most part, he seemed like a nice guy but Volt couldn’t be sure if that was a mask, a different but just-as-deadly approach as the girl before him.

The girl from 2 made it blatantly obvious that her goal was to win hearts, not intimidate her competitors. Sponsors could do a lot for you in terms of survival, but if you couldn’t strike the final blow in combat, they would be of no use to you. Even so, she’d scored a nine in training so she obviously wasn’t completely helpless.

Darius had bellowed over the stage right after her and had promptly flung himself into the plush chair and kicked his feet up over the arm, his head right next to August’s elbow. The boy obviously had an extremely inflated ego but being that he was from District 2 and had scored a ten, there was obviously some substance behind his behavior. The magnified image of his face on the big screen revealed that the blue suit he was wearing was obviously meant to make his eyes pop. But instead, on that large screen, they looked like cold blue voids. His confident demeanor would not be taken lightly by anyone, if they were smart. 

Next came the mute girl from 3 -- though Volt wasn’t sure why she didn’t talk, as she had giggled audibly a couple times at the host’s comments -- then the boy from her district. He seemed intelligent enough, but obviously clumsy as was demonstrated to the country by his rude display during the parade. That combined with the monotone of his voice was sure to lose him many sponsors. In other circumstances, his voice might be soothing, but here it wouldn’t be all that entertaining to a crowd thirsting for blood and dramatics.

The girl from the fishing district, Volt had disregarded immediately in training. She didn’t know how to handle a weapon and wasn’t very bright. The boy -- who was just exiting the stage as he opened his eyes to conclude his considerations -- seemed mainly interested and consumed by his hormones. He wouldn’t be a problem.

Through the fog of noise streaming into his head, Volt made out the frilly introduction the host was giving Kinna. Halfway through the second interview, she’d sat down backstage and settled into a crossed leg position which made her look like she was meditating, from the back. As the announcer called her name, she rose somewhat shakily and wobbled a bit before gaining her balance on the ridiculously high heeled shoes she’d been given. Though Volt respected her for her stubbornness and wit, he made no move to steady her.

Kinna never complained about the stab wound she had received in training, though from the way she walked it looked like the knife had damaged a major tendon. The evening of the incident, she hadn’t returned to the District 5 living quarters and Volt began to wonder if she ever would. The next morning, she was waiting at the dining table when he woke up, face looking paler than the ivory tablecloth set before her. There were two attendants at her shoulders, arms slightly extended as if to catch her at the slightest of movements. When he’d reached the table, she caught his eye and he grinned at her. She couldn’t have liked them hovering over her like that. She, of course, rolled her eyes but her pallor did seem to gain a bit of its normal color back. When she’d risen from the table -- aided by the attendants, of course -- Volt could see that Kinna had a large bandage around the top of her leg which was stained with blood. Upon further inspection, it also looked like she had a brace on over it. Maybe something was broken.

Still, she had somehow managed to score an eight in her training session, same as him. Volt had seen her practicing before, but she didn’t seem remarkable at any of the stations. She concentrated hard on one thing for a long time, then moved onto something entirely different. Kinna was stronger than she looked, he’d give her that, but only by a little. She could hold a spear alright but he definitely wouldn’t have to worry about her throwing one at him. Something told Volt that she would be playing the waiting game. She was playing her interview smart, not giving away any details while still telling enough to peak interest. He figured she might get sponsors, but only if she made it through a significant portion of the game.

He, however, had opted for an entirely different strategy, one that his mentor had looked down upon due to his lack of excess body mass. Volt had decided to simply not speak. He was going to turn up his chin, walk across that stage and sit in the chair for three minutes with his arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t quite decided if he should glare at the audience or the host but the man seemed utterly pretentious. If he just stared at him the whole time, not speaking, maybe it would make the preppy man squirm, if not mentally then physically. After all, these people had decided to make him their entertainment, why shouldn’t he get a little from them?

To him, the Hunger Games was just putting a handful of ants from a nasty nest under a huge magnifying glass on a sunny day. They would watch them run around, maybe leave a few alone for a little while the beam focused on a particular insect, then follow each of the entrapped ants until there was one remaining. That one, they would leave alive and burned, scarred from their experience under the glass.

No, if they were going to make him wriggle, they would get their fair share too. Volt grinned darkly.

He snapped his head to attention when applause began for the thousandth time that night. Kinna was bravely limping off to the other side of the stage without looking back. Volt bet he could guess the exact expression she was wearing-- the one she always had while in deep concentration. The one that seemed oddly intimidating yet vulnerable at the same time.

August Praetor stepped forward and extended his arm to the left wing of the stage, where all the remaining tributes were waiting.

“And now, we’ll hear from District Five’s male tribute, Volt!”

Volt’s eyebrows raised slightly at the choice of words. Funny, given what was about to happen. He walked at a normal pace over to the host and glanced quickly at the audience, giving them a disapproving frown. The host still had his arm outstretched, reaching for Volt's. Everyone previous to him had shaken the man’s hand, but Volt wanted to touch as little of the Capitol as he could. He sat down harshly and crossed his arms, his eyebrows now turned down at the man’s wavering hand. Somehow thinking it would get rid of the awkwardness of the situation, August brought the offending hand quickly to the other, clapping and doing a cliché twirl before lowering himself into his own chair.

“Well, are you ready to get started?” August asked him. The only answer Volt gave was tilting his head to one side and pressing his lips together.

“Volt,” the host waved a hand over his face. “Are you still with us?”

No, he thought and smirked. Still, he had decided not to speak to them, so he couldn’t say it. Silence filled the air and Volt could feel the tension mounting in the room.

Apparently concluding that the young man would not be talking to him, August elected to entertain the audience. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have before us a rare case: a tribute from an outlying district with a score of eight!” he exclaimed while motioning to the crowd, who applauded politely. “Imagine that! Both tributes from Five received an eight in training. How peculiar, wouldn’t you say?” For some reason, this elicited laughter from the Capitol audience. August turned back to Volt, as if considering asking him another question, but changed his mind when he saw that his expression had not changed. Volt would keep glaring at the man until the three minutes were up. He figured he’d killed almost half of the time, by now. The host flinched and turned back to his adoring crowd.

August seemed to be trying to salvage the interview and started talking about the exploits of District 5, electronics. Volt tuned him out and waited patiently for the telltale buzzer that would signal his departure from the limelight. When it came, he unfolded his arms, stood, nodded at the host, and left the stage smirking.

That was easy, he thought. When he reached the concealment of backstage, he saw Kinna looking back at him from the floor, rolling her eyes. Volt huffed a chuckle as she said, “You just had to, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Volt said smugly.

Kinna sighed and adjusted her body back into her meditative position. “You’d think an orphan who was invisible all his life would at least accept the attention he got.” In his time in the Capitol, Volt had noticed that Kinna often made cutting remarks, but they never seemed to be out of malice, rather just lewd observations that she couldn’t help voicing. 

A wry laugh caught in Volt’s throat. “If I’m invisible then that’s what I want to be. I won’t pretend for them.” 

In the orphanage of District 5, he’d always made sure to keep his head down. He would only speak when spoken to, and sometimes not even then. In his experience, it was better to remain unseen than to attract attention whether it be good or bad. Positive attention led to hope, which was easily taken from you. Negative attention was just downright unpleasant. The community caretakers of the orphanage liked to use the term “tough love” to describe their outlook on raising children, but only the “tough” part of the phrase was ever showcased. So, Volt stayed a shadow of the cold building, appearing in open sight lines only at night, when all the others were sleeping. He had his own personal assortment of nooks and crannies back home to avoid people, so when he almost exclusively came out at night, most people feared his deviance.

The people of District 5 had begun to speak of a ghost that haunted the orphanage. A boy who roamed the halls late at night, face drawn behind wisps of dark hair who never spoke and only appeared to those with ill fortunes. Volt thought that last bit was funny, as they did live in an orphanage, afterall, and none of the wards who stayed there were ever in a particularly good circumstance. Most were street wrabble that would turn up dead at any moment. Still, recently whenever he’d happened upon someone, they would avoid him, which suited him just fine. 

Until he got shoved into this mess, that is.

Here in the lavish city of the Capitol, people acted like he was their favorite person, showering him with unwanted affection and attention. He got away whenever he could, having quickly found many hiding places that would go unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t used to seeking concealment. He didn’t like to be sought, however, so whenever someone came looking for him he would appear and get to where he needed to be. The people here for the most part left the tributes to their own devices, as long as they adhered to the engrossing schedule of events. He didn’t mind being seen by his competitors though, as he was for the most part ignored in favor of watching stronger, more deadly looking opponents.

Those same opponents, though, now watched him closely after the revelation of his unusual training score combined with his show of passive aggression on stage. The Careers who had been interviewed already stood a bit further backstage than where he and Kinna waited, lined up already for the final farewell to the audience. Volt raised his brow at the stares. He didn’t like to be looked at. Normally, he would disappear now, melting into the shadows like the ghost he was rumored to be. His stylist, however, had dressed him in a bright blue suit that was supposed to represent electricity, “like a lightning volt,” she had said idiotically. 

Uncomfortable with the menacing eyes on him, Volt turned his back to them and dropped down next to Kinna, imitating her position. She looked over at him quizzically then back at the Careers as if he had told her his motivations.

“Guess you don’t get to be invisible anymore,” she muttered.

Chapter Text

Quarry drank in the applause of the crowd as he sauntered across the stage, intentionally looking goofy and a little clumsy. He was the last interviewee of the night, so he intended to be as entertaining as possible to be at least memorable. There was nothing physically extraordinary about him, and his Capitol mentor had instructed him not to attempt the “intellectual” thing, as was his plan, so all he had left was humor. The boy from six had also tried that strategy, but appeared to be too nervous to really make any jokes. The people here needed to know that the districts could have fun too, and Quarry intended to deliver the revelation in a winning manner.

Just before he reached the host, Quarry outstretched his hand and intentionally tripped a split second before meeting him. Knowing that the skeletal man could not catch him, and it wasn’t a good idea to get on the bad side of your interviewer, he made it so that his fall landed his hand directly in the host’s greeting palm and steadied himself, making it look like August had caught him from a nasty spill. The audience played through a string of emotions, delight at watching him stumble over the stage, alarm when he fell, and excitement when he recovered himself by shaking the bony man’s hand. Quarry knew then that he had already captivated the audience.

“Wow I am so sorry,” Quarry said in an embarrassed tone. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re a lot stronger than you look. Like a lot .” The audience roared with laughter. “Seriously, where are you hiding your muscles,” he said, releasing the man's hand and reaching to squeeze his upper arms, at which the audience’s laughter increased. 

“Well,” August chuckled lightheartedly, “You’re not much to look at yourself.”

As they both sat, Quarry clutched his chest in mock offense. “What do you mean?” He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm -- having purposely chosen his non-dominant hand -- to reveal what he knew was a pathetic excuse for muscle. He hadn’t been able to put any on in the weeks prior. “August, look at this gun show,” he jeered, bringing the audience into another roar of hoots, whistles and laughter. 

“Oh yes,” August patronized. “I can see.”

“I’m glad to see you’re a man of vision,” Quarry commented, flashing a smile.

“Indeed. Now, tell me, what does the last contestant, from District Twelve, have to bring to the Games this year? What can we expect?”

“Well you know, my name means ‘opponent’ and I figure that’s a pretty good description of what I have to offer.” The word, of course, also had that meaning, but being from the mining district, Quarry knew that he was named after one of the deep pits that were the previous attempts to strip the ground of its resources. The people of 12 had long since switched to using mineshafts, as the other was far too ineffective of a strategy, but the landscape ruining craters were still visible from the mouth of the mine. 

“Well, I guess it was just fate that brought you into these Games, huh? Tell me son, there are tributes from many different walks of life here tonight. I’m wondering how a charming young man like yourself ended up here?”August inquired, a very delicate way of pointing out the various criminals and impoverished kids waiting in the wings and asking if he was one of them.

Quarry knew why he was here, he wasn’t so stupid as to think people liked him. He’d been labeled a troublemaker all his life. It’s not like he was out on the streets, his parents still loved and cared for him as best they could in the hardship of District 12. His home was standard for people of his class. He lived in the Seam, the poorest part of the district, largely consisting of olive-skinned, colorless-eyed individuals, of which Quarry was included. 

What he was not included in, however, was the sense of community. People avoided him in the streets, talked about him behind his back. They called his behavior “deviant”. It wasn’t like Quarry didn’t realize that he didn’t do things the same way everyone else did -- he had to act like them more often than not -- but he didn’t understand why his difference in behavior was so concerning. Up until the Reaping, he hadn’t realized the extent of the distaste for him.

People liked him well enough in face to face conversation when he acted like they did, that much he could tell. When he put on a mask that mirrored those he was speaking with, they for the most part were pleasant or even amiable with him. It was when he acted “off,” though, that the rumors would spread. It had caused quite a commotion when he had brought a package of matches he’d stolen from the general store into the mines one shift. He’d just been curious to see what might happen if one of them were lit right next to an exposed vein of the flammable black substance. In school, they’d been taught that such things could cause an explosion, but Quarry had wanted to see for himself. He figured that was the biggest motivator for sending him into the Games. People didn’t like when their loved ones were endangered, apparently. 

“Well,” Quarry answered August’s thinly masked intrusion of a question, “I guess it’s just like you said: fate.”

“Ah yes, fate is a big mystery indeed. Speaking of mysteries, I’m sure we’re all very curious about some things that happened in training. And well, there’s been some talk that you’ve had run-ins with some of the other tributes, is that true?”

Of course, August must already know most of the story if he was asking such a pointed question. Quarry assumed he was talking about the incident with Kinna, but he didn’t think that would play very well with the audience. After all, it was forbidden to engage in combat with other tributes before the Games began. So he chose to talk about a different run in he had with a different person, one that would fit more with the charming and clumsy thing he was aiming for. 

“Yeah, on the first day of training, actually,” Quarry began and the raising of August’s eyebrows indicated he knew quite a lot more than he was letting on. “You see, I got in the elevator and pressed the button -- everything here in the Capitol is so confusing -- but when the doors opened and someone jumped in, I was a little startled, I guess. Somehow, my fist got a strong introduction to Newt’s eye. Sorry about that, bud.”

His little tale had the intended effect on the audience, as they continued the flow of their tinkling laughter at each of his tirades. August was also laughing slightly, but was eyeing Quarry from the side. “So how did I hear about it if it was such an isolated incident?” he asked.

“Well, uh,” Quarry stuttered, trying to sound embarrassed, “We all hopped in the elevator and went down to the training room -- Chammy Newt and I -- and Newt was obviously still mad. I think he scared a few of the trainors with how loud he was yelling when the doors opened.” He paused for the audience’s laughter to peter out. “Honestly August, I must punch harder than I thought because he had a black eye for a couple days there. Told you this was a gun show,” he finished, flexing his wiry arm once again, eliciting more laughter. 

“Well then, I’m sure the stylists have done a very good job of covering it up then, didn’t see a spot of black or blue on his face today!” August added helpfully. “So, the coal mining district, huh? How’s life for you back there?”

“I just started working in the mines a couple months ago, actually. Honestly, whatever things you have here to clean a person up must be something special, because I didn’t think I’d ever get all of that coal dust off of me.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” the lavish-lifestyled individual held a hand to his chest in shock. “However do you go out in public?”

“Everything in Twelve is covered in the stuff, August. I mean look at me,” Quarry said gesturing to his black hair and dark eyes. “The stuff’s seeped into the people who live there, don’t you know.” August’s voice boomed out of the speakers with hearty laughter. He had apparently decided that Quarry was just another kid that he had to interview before they went to their death, and elected to ignore his previous suspicions of the boy. Quarry had done his job right. Maybe there were some wealthy people in the audience who would actually find him likable, and donate some gifts for him in the Games?

The shrill buzzer sounded from backstage and both occupants of the stage rose to shake hands once more. 

“Well, I do hope that we get to see a lot more from you, Quarry. It’s been a delight.”

“Thank you, August,” he said, still shaking the man’s hand. “It’s too bad I won’t have you there in that arena to catch me. I’m sure you’d come in handy.” At this he turned to walk off stage and waved at the adoring audience as he made his way into the wings. He’d found the whole thing exhausting yet somewhat enjoyable, great to see that at least some people enjoyed his humor, but feeling restricted by the social qualms of society. The mask he’d worn most of his life had needed to be airtight tonight, and he thought he did a pretty good job keeping it that way. 

Now, backstage and behind all of the tributes facing forward, he dropped the act and smiled coldly.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, the mask comes off.

Chapter Text

Windsor wondered whether weaponized wanderer or warrior would wage war when want awakened. He’d spent the past week running through possible scenarios of what might happen in the foreseeable future, but none of these imagined circumstances would do him any good, he knew. It was just easier to think about an uncertain future than to deal with the pain of the present.

Windsor lay in his bed, holding Lin, who was fast asleep. He hadn’t had the luck of feeling anything close to relaxed since the Reaping. Still, his girlfriend reclined next to him, lost in the obliviousness of slumber. Windsor may have been happy that she was at ease, if he didn’t know what thought was giving her stability. 

Lin never voiced her opinions to him -- always kept her feelings to herself -- so her revelation during the interview more than caught him off guard. By the time her three minutes were up and his had begun, he was an incoherent mess. He couldn’t even remember his interview, but hers still remained fresh as the biting wind in his mind.

She had looked dazzling in her fabric laden green gown but her face was hardly recognizable. The Capitol stylists had plastered her face with so much makeup that Lin looked like an entirely different person, if not species. Her features had been made out to be even more harsh than usual, her eyes grotesque and dark under the lids of bright green powder. When she’d spoken to him, he’d half expected her voice to have changed. 

“What’re you gonna say?” she had asked as the two of them grew ever closer to the front of the procession leading onto the stage.

“Is there anything to say?” he’d answered dejectedly. 

“Yes, Windsor this is about getting help--” she faltered. “To get out of the arena alive.” 

In playing their conversations over the past couple days in his head, Windsor realized that she barely ever used the word “we” anymore, like she was purposely avoiding it. 

When she’d gone on stage, Windsor figured he wouldn’t hear anything he didn’t already know, so he was shocked when she directed the conversation away from the lovers of District 8 -- that everyone wanted to hear about -- and to a picture of her home without him. 

“I miss my friends. My mom. Even my dad,” Lin had said with a sad smile. The town square was so quiet as she talked that you could hear the slightest of gasps from a single audience member. “But I really don’t know if they miss me.” Her voice had begun to crack. 

“And why’s that, my dear?” August had asked softly.

Lin took some time to steel herself, then spoke with a passion Windsor did not know she had for the subject. “I didn’t get here by chance. Everyone back home voted me here, so why would they miss me? I don’t even know if my parents… All because I fell in love.” A bitter sting had crept into her voice. “They didn’t like it. They forgot about me. Now they just remember the girl who caused a lot of trouble by associating with the poor.”

That had stung. Windsor was well aware that his family was impoverished but had never really cared about the stark difference between their stations. He didn’t think that mattered. It obviously had, to Lin.

“And that’s why I have to win, August. Maybe if I win, they’ll take me back. They’ll have to, won’t they? I’ll be rich and higher in status than any of them.”

And I won’t be there, Windsor thought coldly.

“I wonder, my dear,” the host began, “If you could take all this back, all the trouble that got you here, would you?”

Windsor had felt his heart stop when the single word had wooshed from between her lips. 

“Yes.”

He looked down on her sleeping form now. She looked so innocent unconscious, but also sad. It was a sadness that refused to leave her, creeping into her dreams and waking her in the middle of the night with terrors. So peaceful but broken. How could such a torn person be malicious in their acts?

Immediately after the interview, Windsor had scooped up a plate from the dining table and retreated to his room. He had almost expected her to follow him right away, but she must’ve been talking with their mentor about something. Maybe checking how the interview went, from his perspective. By the time she finally appeared in his doorway, freshly clean from the shower she must’ve taken to get all the makeup off, he had already accepted that she wouldn’t be joining him that night. 

The door had opened timidly to reveal her shadowy figure. “Windsor? You still awake?”

He grunted in response and she joined him, stretching out on the bed beside him after closing the door quietly. 

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Windsor said after a long period of silence. Lin propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. 

“Why?”

He tried to study her face in the dark. Now recognizable in features without the makeup, he didn’t have to convince himself of who he was talking to. But though her face did not wear concealer, it bore an expression Windsor had never seen there before. It looked almost.. Desperate. Scared, even. But her eyebrows were twisted up in concern.

Windsor rolled over so his back was to her. “Didn’t think you wanted to associate with the poor.” He’d known his voice sounded harsh but he wasn’t angry with her. 

“Win,” she used her nickname for him and her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “You know I was just saying that stuff for the Capitol people. I didn’t mean any of it. Our mentor told us we needed to appeal to the audience, remember? I’m just trying to survive.”

Without me, he thought.

Windsor stayed in his position turned away from her -- despite her attempts to get him to roll over -- until he felt a slight tremor in the mattress and Lin’s breath came in short bursts. He had always had a soft spot for her when she was sad. He knew how hard it was for her.

“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I’m not mad. I get it, you miss home. So do I. But right now we only have each other.”

Lin’s breathing quieted. “Not for very long. If you hadn’t run into me that day…” she let her thought trail off and buried her face in his chest, sobs returning. By the time Windsor stopped feeling fresh tears pool on his shirt, he could tell from her even inhales and exhales that sleep had taken her. 

He’d tried to sleep, but to no avail. There were no windows in the room, as the Capitol people thought they would be “far too overwhelmed by the grandeur” and lose focus on training, making the Games dull this year -- and they “Couldn’t have that! My, my!” -- so Windsor had no way of telling time. Windsor felt numb when their district mentor had come to help them prepare for their departure from the training center.

Windsor moved about mechanically, not sure whether he was trying not to think or just couldn’t manage it. He ate when food was placed in front of him, dressed in the plain clothes he was handed. He felt Lin’s hand in his as they marched out of the elevator, not sure how long it had been there. The cold blast of wind on his face when the doors opened awakened him from his numb state.

He heard a high pitched whirring sound and looked up to find the source. They were on the roof, standing under the pale blue sky of predawn marred by a sleek metal object that Windsor assumed was making the noise. A hovercraft. He’d seen them before, on previous showings of the Hunger Games. These were the vehicles that plucked the torn and motionless bodies of the losing tributes from the arena shortly after their demise. It appeared that it would also be their deliverer to that fate.

There was a ladder coming from the hovercraft, and District 8’s mentor directed Windsor to get on. Lin released her grasp. His hands and feet were immediately locked in by an electric current and the ladder started to approach the open door of the craft. When he was almost to the opening, he looked back to see how high he was but his gaze landed on Lin. Her beautiful long brown hair was blowing in the wind while her body was wrapped tightly in the arms of her district mentor.

Chapter Text

Rowan hated flying. The wurr of the hovercraft’s engine propelling her and the other tributes through the sky would’ve been unsettling even if it didn’t carry them to their deaths.

Heights, she could handle. She’d spent many a day of her childhood and spurring adulthood up a tree, climbing as high as the branches would allow, and gazing over the canopy or back at the ground. Normally, children wouldn’t be traipsing through the redwood forests unsupervised, but within those instances Rowan found herself mentally thanking whatever powers be that her parents hardly acknowledged her existence. Sitting up in a tree always filled her with a sense of calm that she could not find elsewhere. She always thought it had to have been something about being so high above the people and creatures below, disjointed from their chaos. Now, traveling in an unanchored projectile, she knew better.

Altitude was only enjoyable when supported by something that was strongly rooted, and had lots of hand holds.

The hovercraft began to shake violently. Turbulents, a man had explained when she gasped at its first appearance, as he moved from tribute to tribute. At first, Rowan thought he must be checking the children, perhaps making sure that their vitals were steady. He’d slowly moved down the aisle of pull-out seats sunk in each wall of the craft and taken each contestant’s left arm, then stuck them with a needle just below the crook of their elbows. A tracker, they’d been told, to monitor their locations in the arena. 

Some had taken news of the injection better than others. Rowan allowed herself a wry grin as she recalled the expression on the lover girl’s face when it had been her turn. And the way that girl shrieked! Everyone on the flying machine had been watching her tentatively, most having seen a rerun of the Reaping, at which she’d spilled her guts quite literally. Tributes were casting furtive glances at one another and around the cargo space, perhaps looking for something with which to defend their noses from the possible oncoming stench. The whole time Rowan was fighting hard not to laugh, but one disapproving look from her brother had stopped her from displaying any humor at the situation. 

After getting her facial expression under control, she looked across the sparse metal floor of the craft’s cargo area at Aspen. He was sitting, head bent, hands folded in his lap. Rowan looked around. Most of the other tributes were sat either broodingly with their arms crossed over their chests, throwing their eyes malevolently onto other tributes, or nervously fiddling with anything they could get their hands on; clothing, tokens, zippers, restraints. Rowan glanced down and inspected her own posture. She was sitting cross-legged on the hard metal chair, hands in her lap. She closed her eyes and imagined what image that would paint of her in her combatants' eyes. 

Weak. Childish. Scared, Ignorant.

She adjusted her arms so that they were crossed harshly in front of her, and leaned back to convey a sense of ease and boredom. Normally, it would have been easy for her to keep up this facade, as it was her usual demeanor, but the whining of the engine mixed with the turbulents made it hard for her to keep her composure. Every time she felt her face twitch with despair, she reigned it in and forced a gruesome expression to replace it.

The man with the trackers approached her and she held out her arm to him, as if disinterested. She felt the sting of the needle as it pushed into her flesh. When it exited, it left behind a small bump that must be the tracking device. It ached already, but she didn’t poke at it. Rowan would get used to its dull pain, just as she did with all other inconveniences. She kept staring ahead, not really seeing anything, and only noticed where her eyes rested when Aspen spoke.

“What?” he said.

Rowan only shook her head and looked away. It wasn’t a good time to get chatty. While the other tributes would have, no doubt, by now concluded that they would be working together, she didn’t want them to see their bond as weakness. She’d told Aspen her strategy of being callous toward him in public, but still felt a little bit guilty every time she brushed him off. It took all of her concentration to keep a stern expression on her face, her eyes fixed to a point on the opposite wall not corresponding with one of the tributes. Rowan could feel her eyes itching to wander, so she closed them, and leaned back against the structure of the hovercraft. She slackened her face, but couldn’t help from clenching her jaw at every bump of turbulence, which also kept her from sleeping. 

Rowan couldn’t tell if it had been mere minutes or hours until they touched down, but she suspected the latter. The harsh artificial light filtered in through her eyelids as the bay door was opened. She took a couple seconds to adjust to the stinging of the stimulant, then opened her eyes. Tributes were being unstrapped, one by one, and led down the bright hall individually. 

The stark white tunnel seemed to extend forever beyond the opening of the hovercraft. The first to enter the hallway was the male tribute from District 1. A Capitol attendant guided him by his right arm a distance down the way, and a crease appeared on the right side of the unblemished wall, a door swinging open inside. When the crease disappeared once more, the already unbuckled girl from the same District was led, in the same manner, down the hall to a door on the opposite side. Each subsequent tribute was brought down the hall and disappeared, male then female, not to be seen again until the Games commenced. Rowan figured she had about five minutes before Aspen was taken, and her right after.

Around her, tributes shuffled nervously and gazed down the hallway, waiting their turn. Figuring she’d seen all she would of the stark tunnel until she was led down it, Rowan turned to look at Aspen. His hands had not moved from their position in his lap, his head still downcast. The slight blond coils of his hair concealed the upper half of his face, so it was hard to tell what he was thinking right at that moment. After a moment, as if feeling her eyes on him, Aspen looked back at her. 

Rowan could see that he was fighting to attain the same cold expression she usually wore, but instead had achieved a mask of gloom. Rowan relaxed a little, and gave him a sad smile, which he returned. Rowan still didn’t want to talk, for fear of being overheard, but she still felt the need to convey a message to him. She unfolded her legs and placed them on the ground, clasping her hands in front of her as if to convey her sincerity.

I’m sorry, she mouthed. She dropped her head in shame, and allowed the coils of her own hair to conceal her bitter tears. The next time she saw her brother, if ever, it would be possibly only moments before one of their deaths. Sure, they’d prepared as much as they could for the Games, but skill wasn’t the only thing that mattered. The slightest hesitation, the smallest mistake could result in a fatality. And she had two people to protect, not just one. Yes, Aspen was fully capable of taking care of himself, but she couldn’t leave that to chance either. Add that to the fact that the Gamemakers could throw any chaotic variable into the arena that there was no way to prepare for, and all the despair she’d been hiding until that moment just spewed out. She was glad she didn’t make pathetic noises when she cried, and instead suffered silently. Still, she felt her cheeks color in embarrassment when a hand that could only be Aspen’s grasped hers and she held up her head to watch him go down the hallway. He didn’t turn back. Good, she thought. Stay strong.

As soon as he left the ramp of the hovercraft, Rowan was released from her harness, and stood up. Someone grabbed her right arm, she didn’t look at them. There were no more tributes in front of her to see her tears, so she didn’t try to conceal them as Aspen reached his door, and she was led to hers.

The door hissed closed behind her, and the Capitol attendant touched a panel on the wall, opening a separate door through which he could escape. She was left alone. At first, she just stood where she had been left in the middle of the room in shock, but eventually moved to a flat bench against the far wall. After what she figured to be ten minutes, the door through which the attendant escaped again opened, presenting her stylist.

Great . Though she was still sulking over her possibly imminent demise, it couldn’t stop her dark humor from finding the irony in the situation. Her stylist, who had been in charge of making her look as fully feminine and exposed as possible, would be seeing her off into the arena. Where she would be trying to look as gruesome as possible. Dainty beauty wouldn’t help her in a fight to the death. You could bat your eyelashes at them, a small part of her said, resulting in a foreboding smirk. She would hold onto that thought as long as she could, and allow it to boost her confidence a little bit, while still being cautious not to be too cocky. 

Knowing the gaudy looking stylist would be looking to adjust her appearance, she stood up and walked to the center of the room. He talked, she didn’t listen. He placed a thin but warm jacket to go over her meager t-shirt, cargo pants, and rubber-soled boots. He moved his attention upwards and Rowan could feel her curly hair being twisted into some elaborate style that she was sure would not last. Even worse, it might come loose and impede her vision at a critical moment. The stylist said something about appearances, but Rowan still wasn’t listening. She was mentally running through a list of things she would need to do upon entering the arena. Grab weapons and supplies. Find Aspen. Escape. Stay alive.  

“There!” the stylist’s shrill voice sounded out in a pitch resembling interference on a radio. “You’re all ready! Now go on and get on the platform!” he said, excitedly shoving her to a circular podium that was about four feet in diameter. As soon as all of her weight was on the circle, a clear plastic tube shot down from the ceiling and surrounded her. Tributes always emerged from the ground on podiums to start the Games. Rowan looked up, but all she could see was black. She didn’t like being closed in, and brought her arms up to rest on her head in an attempt to calm herself. Something sharp immediately poked at her fingers, and reminded her of the “marvelous” hairstyle that adorned her head. She didn’t care how it looked, in a game as deadly as the one she was about to enter, it needed to be functional. 

She began loosening the pins in her hair and shoving the long pointed implements into one of her pants’ many pockets for later use. She could hear a faint gasp and turned to see her stylist, hand over his mouth, nearly hysterical at her actions. She grinned and continued her work, beginning to weave the first of two tight braids. She was starting on the second one as her platform began to rise, and she saw natural light enter from above. It appeared as stark white as the structure below at first, but with every inch she rose, it began to darken into a more gray expanse. Her head rose over the cusp of the earth, and she saw the other tributes’ bodies slowly emerging from below in a semi-circle. At the center of their gathering lay various wooden boxes spewing out from the mouth of a conical golden structure, the Cornucopia. All of the boxes were sealed, so it would be pure luck to find a weapon on the first try. Rowan had just tied off her braids when her platform clicked into place, signaling she had reached the end of her ascent. 

Wish we didn't have to wait to go in, Rowan thought. She liked the idea of fairness but knew it was never a reality, so always used a way to get ahead if it was available to her. It didn't sit well with the girl that she was standing on a pressure-armed mine, set to explode if she left her platform early. At least no one else can cheat either.

She looked around tensely for Aspen, and spotted him to her right, near the middle of the semi-circle. It appeared they had positioned the boys at the top of the arch, with the girls at the wings. Nice, she thought and rolled her eyes. Whatever. Makes me closer to…

Rowan glanced to her left, away from the tributes, and saw that the earth sloped down sharply shortly after the Cornucopia’s spoils. It was positioned so that she could see every one of the others from where she was standing. Straight ahead of her and past the other girl tributes, it also seemed to drop off, but there were treetops immediately visible after its ledge. She turned and saw that behind her stood a sheer wall of rock. It appeared that there was no way to scale the mountainside. Good. She didn’t like having her back exposed.

A loud horn pierced the air as a hologram appeared on top of the Cornucopia, showing a ten. Then a nine.

Time slowed down and Rowan’s heart felt like it was going to explode from the pressure. She looked up at Aspen with wide eyes. He was nodding to the trees, then back at the Cornucopia, then back at the trees. Dump the supplies and jump, she realized. If anyone could survive a jump into the trees, it was them. But she was the farthest from them, and he was on the same side of the semicircle’s arch as she was. She nodded at Aspen, and steeled herself. 

With her being the farthest from safety, and several adversaries between herself and her brother, these Games were most definitely not in her favor.

Chapter Text

All the preparation in the world could not have made her ready for this, or any of the moments soon to come.

Five. Kinna breathed. She had a plan.

Four. Chammy, her unlikely ally, was just to her right.

Three. A cliff was at her back, most of her enemies in front of her and to the left. 

Two. Supplies dead ahead.

One.

A loud horn burst through the tense air, and every sense was hit at once. Kinna’s heart was beating faster than she could ever remember it doing as she sprinted with an injured leg to the center of the plateau. Her eyes were fixed on the loads of boxes in and around the massive golden structure. She would not allow herself to look at those around her, as it would do her no good. If they got to her she would be dead. Her leg screamed as Chammy ran beside her, keeping pace and obviously slowing so that they would stay together.

“Go!” Kinna yelled at her frantically, putting all her anger at her situation into her voice.

The girl from District 10 stumbled a moment, then ran as fast as she could to the spoils. 

The Career tributes and some others had already reached the Cornucopia, and were hastily opening the wooden boxes. It appeared some had removable lids, others were sealed tight. 

Chammy tore the lid off of a crate and pulled something out, not bothering to inspect it before turning to run back to Kinna, just as the boy from 9 hoisted a heavy-looking wooden box over her head. 

“Duck!” Kinna screamed, still trying desperately to reach the supplies. Chammy immediately stopped running and fell to the ground, curling into a humanoid ball, over which the tribute from 9 tripped. Kinna caught up to her and pulled her to her feet without breaking pace, running for what she thought was a gentle slope off the mountain. 

There were several tributes ahead of them, perhaps doing like Chammy and grabbing what they could quickly, or just skipping the loot altogether. None seemed intent on fighting each other, their only goal was escape. The ground turned from grassy flats to gravelly hill, when the tributes ahead of them began disappearing. Kinna scuttled to a stop, Chammy pulling at her to slow her down. Shortly after the hillside began to slope down, it came to an end with a ten foot dropoff right after, at the bottom a steep and collapsed gravel slide. Kinna knew they would have to jump.

“Hey!” a shout from behind them caused Chammy to turn while Kinna threw herself off the ledge, slamming into the tiny rocks on her uninjured side and cascading down the slope with them. 

Kinna heard Chammy yell furiously and looked up to see the back of the girl’s head peeking over the edge of the plateau. The dark outline of someone else’s head appeared just over hers, and Kinna could make out a maniacal grin on his face as he pressed down on Chammy. The girl made a choking sound and jerked violently, getting her arms in her attacker’s face. 

Kinna was still sliding down the cutting rock hill and knew she couldn’t help her ally, even if that was what she decided to do. She’d told herself that if Chammy got into trouble in the arena, she could only worry about herself. But it was different watching it happen.

Someone shrieked, and a dark-haired figure fell from the ledge and landed on their head, neck snapping audibly among the rain of stones. Kinna looked back up to see another body falling, this one sideways as if already rolling down the hill. When her body hit the gravel, Chammy cursed, and adjusted her position to be sliding feet first, almost standing up on the steep slope. She looked okay to Kinna, but was grasping at her throat and glaring at the body that now tumbled limply down the hill with them. Chammy began making her way to the body diagonally as she descended, and wrested something from its pocket. 

Kinna was about to tell her to take the jacket too, when she felt her legs jar and her wound scream in pain as she touched down on solid ground, from which some had begun to flee, while others still remained gasping in pain. The body thudded to a halt right after her, face up, and she saw that it was Quarry, the boy from 12 that had stabbed her during training. She looked up at Chammy who was almost down, then back at Quarry’s corpse. She immediately stripped him of his potentially life-saving jacket, threw it over her own, and headed forward. Chammy would catch up.

Near the base of the cliff surrounding the plateau on which the Games started was a swiftly moving river that looked to be about ten yards wide and dangerously rapid. Some tributes had thrown themselves into its waters and were flailing around in its strong current. To the left, the river flowed down from the mountains. 

“This way,” Chammy instructed loudly to beat out the roar of the water, and lead them right, heading downwards on the bank of the river. There was shouting that came from behind them and above them, but not in front as they ran. Kinna knew that the side of her pant leg was wet, but she told herself it was the spray of the river as tears streamed down her face in agony. 

Chammy was never more than a few paces ahead of her as her head bobbed back and forth, scanning the landscape before them. They were rounding the side of the plateau’s cliffs and fast approaching a cloak of monstrous trees on either side. Soon the gravelly river bank gave way to forest floor, but they continued to follow its stream.

“Where are you going?” Kinna asked between breaths. Either Chammy didn’t hear her or didn’t plan to respond. In any case, Kinna realized it was good practice to stay as silent as possible. She shut up and put a hand to her throbbing leg, stumbling as quickly and quietly as she could behind her ally. 

The river angled away from the cliffside and soon they were enveloped in the canopy of the tall trees. Kinna began to trail behind but Chammy kept running. 

Maybe she means to ditch you, Kinna thought bitterly. As they ran alongside the river, a body came floating past them, though Kinna didn’t really care who it belonged to. After a couple more minutes of her struggles, Kinna caught up to her partner, who had stopped again at the riverside and seemed to be chopping at something on the tree. 

“Where’d you get the knife,” Kinna asked between gasps of air. 

“The little shit,” she said simply. “Tried to choke me. Also got these,” Chammy remarked and tossed two pieces of leather at Kinna. They dropped to the ground just short of her, and Kinna leaned carefully down to retrieve them. She turned them over in her hands, examining them, and ignored the blood that her fingers smeared over them. 

“Water skin and…” she opened the other leather pouch, “nuts?”

“Yeah. Edible. Almonds, I think.” Chammy replied with one last chop at the tree, loosening a vine from its entanglement. She tugged on it twice, then jumped and let it hold her whole weight.

“Grab on.”

“You first.”

“Fine.” Chammy walked toward Kinna with the vine in one hand, the short knife in her other. Kinna felt her stomach drop.

“What--” she began, stepping back.

“Take this. Gimme those,” Chammy said, putting the knife in Kinna’s hands and taking the small leather pouches and putting them in her pocket. She then backed away from the roaring waters further, took a running start, and clung to the vine as it swung her across the river. She let go too late and splashed down in the waters just off the opposite bank. “Grab it!” she yelled, pulling herself onto dry land. 

Kinna reached for the vine as it swung back to her, and knew that she would have to jump. She put the knife between her teeth and put all her strength into her leap, which wasn’t much. Her hands tore down the tough vine for a moment, then came to a halt in a firm grasp. Kinna cursed under her breath, and when she felt the vine had swung as much as it would forward, she let go. 

The pain in her leg was white hot and numbing at the same time, causing the knife to slip out of her mouth and land in front of her, hilt up, which Chammy retrieved. Kinna knew Chammy was saying something but couldn’t quite make it out through the pain, until it intensified and cleared her head. She screamed.

“Shut up!” Chammy whispered tensely as she tightly tied another vine around Kinna’s wound. “The little shit,” she repeated. 

Kinna was sweating, but coherent now. “Yeah,” she agreed weakly. “Get us more small vines for snares,” she added.

“They’ll be more later. First, we need to get out of here,” Chammy replied, but still cut a few strands out of the trees while Kinna got up. 

“Wait, fill the water skin,” Kinna instructed. Chammy finished tying her natural tourniquet around her partner’s leg and waded back into the river. “It should be safe. I think I remember one of the trainors saying running water is the safest you can get without purifying it.”

“It can barely hold enough to last a couple hours for one person,” Chammy  commented while filling the skin, then scooping some water in her hands and drinking several times before coming back to the other girl.

“I guess we’ll have to stick near the river, then.”

“That’s not safe. If they’re smart, that’s where everyone else will be.”

“Then we’ll just have to be smarter,” Kinna argued, and struggled to get herself up on her throbbing leg. 

“Here,” Chammy began, leaning down to help her.

“No. I don’t need help.”

“Too bad,” Chammy said, pulling Kinna to her feet.

“Fine,” Kinna conceded. “But we can’t stay here.” They paused for a second to listen, but the only sound that could be heard above the roar of the rushing water was the shrill shrieks of a bird that must’ve been overhead in one of the gargantuan trees. “They won’t be far behind us.”

Kinna struggled hard to keep up with Chammy’s jog as she led them further into the woods but stayed within earshot of the river. The damp moss that surrounded the river banks became more covered in dead leaves and small tree branches as they wandered away from the frigid stream. Kinna stumbled for what seemed like the thousandth time that day when her eyes fell on a strong looking branch on the ground, and she picked it up. It was almost as tall as her but not too thick so she could hold it easily when shifting from foot to foot using it as a walking stick. Chammy turned from up ahead and saw that Kinna had slowed her pace, then came to walk beside the girl.

“We need food. I don’t think this is the right place for it. There’s only leaves and sticks and moss on the ground, I don’t see any plants that we can eat.” Chammy grinned. “Maybe we can plant one of the nuts and have our own personal nut tree.”

Kinna rolled her eyes at the stupidly optimistic comment and was about to correct Chammy when the other girl stopped.

“Wait. Nuts. Trees.” she looked up.

“Yeah, nuts grow in trees. Congratulations you’re a genius.”

“No, wait.” Chammy began walking around, searching the forest floor for something. When she seemed to find what she was looking for, she reached down and retrieved it. “Pinecones!”

“Yeah, we could use them to start a fire but--”

Chammy picked at the tough petals of the cone, retrieving something small and green. “Pine nuts! They’re edible!”

Kinna looked around and saw that the branches high above them were littered with the little seed pods, and she actually smiled. “Guess you found something you’re good at,” she praised. 

“Let’s keep going. I think these are all the same type of trees. They should all have pinecones.” Chammy again walked a bit ahead of Kinna, reaching down and stuffing her pockets with the few pods that had already fallen to the ground, before beginning to fill Kinna’s. 

Going at the slower pace, and now away from the immediate danger of other tributes somewhere behind them, Kinna began to realize how cold it was. The steam from her breath was clouding up in front of her and wetting her face as she walked. She looked up. The sun could not be seen through the dense canopy of treetops but there was still some light getting in, so it was still daytime. She thought back to the plateau, and reached the conclusion that it had been fully clouded over while they were there and some parts of the sky bore the menacing dark blue of oncoming snow. 

“We need to find shelter before dark so we don’t freeze to death,” she lightly called ahead to Chammy.

“But you said we could start a fire?”

“Not this close to other people. They’d smell it and we’d be dead.”

“Guess you better lay some pretty good traps, then,” Chammy retorted with a smirk. 

“Yeah.” Kinna wanted to ask the girl how she could remain so cheerful and absent from their present situation, but didn’t feel that bringing up the subject would do anything to benefit either of them. At least one of them was going to die in the next couple of weeks, but thinking about that wouldn’t do anything to help them prevent it. If anything, Kinna reasoned, it might make them go insane. 

She heard the breaking of a large branch a way behind them, but could not see it when she turned. Every little sound was sure to make her jump in this arena. Good. She needed to be on guard for anything. 

“Let’s keep going.”

Chapter Text

Carnelia took aim and fired the last of the set of three small throwing knives she’d retrieved from a wooden crate. If only there had been more in there, she thought bitterly as her final weapon sunk into her target’s back. The tall boy from District 6 was an easier target than she was used to, but that didn’t make up for the fact that she had missed one of her throws before that. She looked in the general direction of her first throw, which had been at that lumberjack girl from District 7, Rowan. Carnelia felt deep disappointment rush over her once again, reliving the moment where she failed to take out a likely formidable opponent. 

Rowan had risen on her platform, arms tugging at her hair, then reaching to her pants for a reason that was yet unknown. Within seconds of the horn sounding, anyone who was looking was informed of the girl’s intentions. Which Carnelia had been. Rowan sprinted fast enough -- not fast enough to get away in a close combat situation, but still speedy -- and quickly pounced on the running girl next to her, Angla, from District 4. Another Career tribute who was meant to be an ally of Carnelia’s. Rowan had stabbed her in the eye with whatever she’d had in her pocket. Maybe she snuck in a weapon? Carnelia thought hesitantly. That was against the rules, and careful security measures were taken to make sure the Hunger Games would be fair for everyone. Carnelia didn’t see how she could’ve already had a weapon coming into the arena. So maybe she found it…

Carnelia’s hand unwittingly reached for her hair. The pins, she begrudgingly admitted. They hadn’t looked like much when her own stylist had been adjusting her tresses -- about three inches of metal coming to a dull point -- so she could understand why some Capitol ignorants would’ve approved such a tool in the Games.

She looked at the girl from 4 sprawled on the ground, blood still bubbling from her punctured eye. Carnelia scowled. She had reached the crate containing her knives only moments after Angla had been attacked, but by the time that Carnelia could aim and throw a deadly projectile at the savage, Rowan had already picked herself up off of her victim and was weaving evasively. Carnelia had been about to try again when Quartz, her district partner, had yelled for her to forget it, and move onto another target. She hadn’t been happy about that, but in the interest of playing allies, she’d obliged. 

“Well looky here,” a deep voice taunted from across the field. Darius. Carnelia spun and saw that he was standing over Lin, the lover girl from District 8. She was leaning over, rocking back and forth and sobbing. In her lap she held the lifeless body of the boy who’d come with her into the arena. Carnelia looked around. The only people still standing were the Career tributes; Quartz, Darius, Mako, and herself. So Marcella’s dead too, she thought to herself. That’s just great. One less ally. She sighed and, seeing that there were no immediate threats left, sauntered over to join Darius without retrieving her weapons. She was sure there were some strewn over the bloody landscape anyways. 

Carnelia heard foot falls behind her and spun, arms up, still on alert. 

“Here,” Quartz said, handing her a long spear. “Was in a big box near the back of the Cornucopia.” Carnelia nodded in appreciation and they jogged over to view Darius’s amusing attraction. As they approached, Carnelia could hear that the girl was muttering something between her sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Lin breathed, rocking her former lover who possessed a series of dark red lines slicing over his face and throat.

Darius laughed. “And why is that, little miss?” he taunted, lowering his broad sword to caress her cheek with its deadly edge. Lin looked up, tears and snot streaming down her face.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. He just… I’m here because of him! He can’t go back without me!” she stammered. It was at that point that Carnelia noticed a small hatchet still grasped tightly in the girl’s hand. Darius must not have cared because he hadn’t disarmed her. She was probably in too much shock to use it right, in any case. 

More feet stomped on the ground behind Carnelia, though she didn’t have to turn to identify the person. His voice was annoyingly distinct. “Wait, can I do it?” Mako asked as he approached. “I haven’t gotten the last blow on anyone yet.”

Darius looked at him quizzically, laughed, and turned back to Lin. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he admonished. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Darius repositioned himself to be kneeling behind the weeping girl. He thrust his sword forward and removed it in one swift motion. “One stab in the back for another.”

The girl gurgled and slumped forward on the boy in her arms, both still figures now covered in red. 

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?” Quartz asked humorlessly. 

“Everyone loves a little theater. A little irony is just what the doctor ordered.”

“You sure he didn’t order an insane asylum?” Mako asked under his breath so that Darius could not hear him. 

The booming sound of a canon momentarily disoriented Carnelia before she remembered its purpose. One canon for every dead tribute. They only shot them off once the blood bath had come to an end, so there was no mistaking who had been killed. Later that night each of the deceased's images would appear in the sky, along with their district number. For now, though, the only information available to them was the kill count.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Ten canons. Ten people dead. Fourteen players left.

After a moment of them all observing the sound of the canons, Darius wiped his sword in the grass and turned to them. “Let’s find whatever supplies are left and go after the rest.”

“About that. I don’t think there’s much here,” Quartz informed.

“That’s impossible,” Darius interjected. “There’s always plenty of supplies.”

“Go ahead and look. All the crates I checked had 2 small items, probably rations, or a weapons set.”

They all looked back to the Cornucopia with toppled over boxes spewing out of its mouth. From where Carnelia stood, she could make out at least seven empty boxes. She ran to inspect the contents of the remaining splendor. None of the already opened boxes held anything. Upon prying open some of the sealed boxes they revealed at most two items per box, while some were completely empty.

“An axe, another sword, a bow and quiver; a couple hunting knives, a dart gun, some rope, two flints, six water bottles, a couple bags of dried meat, fruit, and nuts; couple bags of crackers, two backpacks, two sleeping bags, and a medkit,” Carnelia listed.

“It’s not much,” Quartz confirmed. 

“Guess we better take care of the weapons we have. We’ll divide it all after we find all the stuff lying around the field,” Carnelia said and went off to find the three knives she’d retrieved earlier. The closest was still buried in the boy from 6’s back. Aero, she recalled suddenly, staring down at his enormous and unmoving body. Her knife had landed in the very center of his back, where Carnelia always aimed, because she reasoned that if they survived the wound they would still be paralyzed. She gingerly reached a hand down to check his pulse. Nothing. Some sort of dark feeling filled her then, like a deeply seeded foreboding. She’d practiced on many targets and mannequins before, but this was the first body she’d seen that had died by her own hand. Suck it up, she told herself. Don’t be weak. You’re here to win. Carnelia steeled herself, retrieved the knife from the boy’s still-warm flesh and grinding bone, and turned to go find her next knife. 

She walked around the mass of looted wooden boxes toward the far side of the field that was backed by sheer mountainside. Carnelia marched to the form of the girl from 11, lying on her side and cradling her wound in death. The knife was laying right next to her, presumably pulled out by the girl in a state of panic. Carnelia picked it up without a thought and moved on. 

Rowan had been near Angla when she’d thrown her other knife, so Carnelia figured she better start there. She headed toward the girl from 4, who was laying in a fetal position, her back to the rest of the clearing. As Carnelia approached, she registered that the corpse was making a low whining sound, and she stopped suddenly. She tentatively reached down and rolled the girl over, prying limb from limb in an attempt to assess the girl. Her one good eye was still open, staring straight ahead vacantly. Around the other was a gruesome painting of fresh blood. The sound that was coming from the creature’s mouth was disgruntling. 

“Hey guys?” Carnelia called. “I think she’s still alive.”

Three pairs of feet hastily approached her.

“She’s your district, right?” Quartz asked Mako. Of course he didn’t pay attention, Carnelia thought.

“Yeah,” Mako replied in an oddly detached voice. Carnelia looked up to see him examining the form of the injured girl, up and down instead of just at the wound.

“You don’t think she’s hurt anywhere else, do you?” Carnelia asked.

“Nah. Doesn’t matter though. Pretty sure whatever’s in her eye went into her brain.”

Carnelia looked down, for the first time disgusted when she saw that the pin was indeed still stuck in the girl’s eye socket.

“Yeah, that would explain the noise,” Darius commented callously. 

Without so much of a warning Mako stepped forward, kicked the girl on her back, and stabbed her in the heart with one of the many hunting knives they’d looted from the crates. Carnelia jumped to her feet. “What the hell!”

“She was dead anyways,” Mako said, looking up to the sky. “Where’s the canon?”

“People don’t die instantly, idiot,” Darius cackled. Mako took the comment to heart, and stabbed her twice more in the center of her chest. Boom.  

“There,” Mako said. “Eleven down, twelve more to go.” 

Darius laughed callously. "They just made it too easy."

Quartz stepped away for a moment and pointed at each of the figures laying on the ground. "Nine. Everyone here's dead. We should clear out so they can take the bodies." 

"Yeah," Carnelia agreed. "But what's our plan? Where are we going?" 

"After the prey, of course," Darius said. 

"Blondie," Quartz admonished the boy from 2 while dividing their looted gear and handing it out, "you're crazy," 

Darius smiled and bowed low with a dramatic flourish, saying nothing. 

"Anyone see where they went? I know the tree huggers jumped off the cliff  into the trees. Maybe one of those cannons was for one of them," Carnelia said. 

"Yeah, I did," Mako said in his annoyingly scratchy, high pitched voice. "There's a gravel slope on the far side of the Cornucopia. Almost everyone went down that way. There's a river right after it, so we should be able to track anyone who crossed, assuming they got out directly on the other side. It's a pretty fast moving river though. Deep and wide. There's a couple in Four. If you can't swim well, I suggest you find another way across." Mako paused and turned to Carnelia. The grim smirk that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his features seemed to widen as he looked her up and down. "I could carry you across, Gem"

Carnelia snarled. "Bet I could carry you too. But you wouldn't reach the other side alive, Fishboy." 

"Hey, I'm not a fish boy."

"Shut up. Come on, we gotta get moving before their trails disappear," Quartz interjected. 

"What are you, a master tracker all of a sudden?" Mako said snidely. 

"I'm pretty sure I can spot heaps of water and wet bootprints, Fishboy." 

"Stop calling me that!" 

Mako was about to complain again when Darius wrapped his arm around the boy from Four. "Well, I guess as long as you're useful, we'll keep you around. Make sure you stay that way, or I'll gut you like the fish you are," he said with a smile while holding the other in an otherwise friendly embrace. 

"Bet you don't even know how to gut a fish, Two," Mako snarled, pushing away from Darius. 

"Guess you'll have to show us then," Carnelia said and jumped onto the hard sloping gravel below.

Chapter Text

Fionne’s feet hurt. All day she and her district partner had been fleeing from the site of the Games’ commencement and she was tired. The fact that the heavy boots she wore now were nothing like the soft-soled shoes she was used to did not help any. They certainly were much harder to run in than she would’ve liked. They weighed her down a little bit, which did not sit well with her. Fionne liked having a way to escape quickly.

Back at the Cornucopia, just as they’d planned the night before, Fionne and Teeve split up. Fionne fled as quickly as possible down the mountainside and waited just within the tree line for Teeve to show up. If he wasn’t there by the time five other tributes had passed her hiding spot, she was to keep going and assume he’d been killed. Luckily, that hadn’t happened. 

Fionne glanced behind her at the boy who had been following her for hours. As soon as Teeve had scored the supplies from a single crate -- a small waist pouch carrying a utility knife and some jerky -- he’d followed all the other fleeing tributes down the mountain. When Fionne saw him, she peaked out and silently met him in a full, uncomfortable sprint. Together they ran into the forest and away from any tributes they heard. Fionne was thankful that they now had a weapon and at least a little food, but she still wished they had been able to get more at the start of the Games. 

Don’t be silly, she told herself. Teeve got what he could without getting killed. If you had gone in. you definitely wouldn’t be here right now. She sighed. She hated that she wasn’t the fastest nor much able to hold her own in a fight, but at least no one had come after her thinking she was a threat. Fionne reasoned that she could have scored perhaps a five or six in her training session, but chose to be unimpressive to the Gamemakers so they would give her a score so low that anyone would be a fool to come after her. Luckily, it worked. As soon as the tributes had all been lifted from their subterranean rooms, Fionne had looked around to assess her situation. They were on a plateau of sorts; her back was to cliffs and trees, across from her a sheer mountainside. To her right had been signs of a gravel pile, to which she, of all the tributes, was closest. Her training score had not only made her look weak, it had started her in the best position in the Games to get away. It appeared that the Gamemakeers had positioned the tributes so that the individuals with the highest training scores were the farthest away from the easy descent down the mountain, leaving them to a bloody confrontation.

Twigs snapped underfoot as she plodded on, desperate to escape the hunters chasing after anyone left alive.

Left alive. Fionne stopped short, her eyes widening in shock. All that blood, those kids , all…

“Fionne?” Teeve called ahead in a concerned voice. She snapped around to face him, a stern expression covering her features. 

“What… Oh. Right,” he remembered, and lowered his voice. “Stay as quiet as possible.” Teeve raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and slowly approached the girl. “What’s up? You hear something?” 

Fionne considered this for a moment and looked around, straining her ears for something that might be a threat to them. When she heard nothing but the natural chorus of the forest, she turned back to Teeve with her stern expression still in place. 

“Hey, I’m being quiet,” he said, lowering his voice a little more for effect. “What is it?” Fionne kept her stern expression but dropped her gaze to the knife he had clasped firmly in his grip. Teeve followed her path of vision to the blade, and snapped his head back to look at her, alarmed. “Hey, I won’t hurt you, you know.” 

Fionne tilted her head and raised an eyebrow in a patronizing glance. Well duh, idiot .

“Okay then, what…” he looked at the knife, then back to the girl. She rolled her eyes and pointed to a patch of dried blood on his arm, at which he then stared hard. “I told you, it’s just a small cut. There was lots of swords and stuff being swung around back there.” This remark earned him another sarcastic eye roll. 

It’s pointless, he’ll never understand. She turned and continued moving forward, to wherever they were going. Fionne knew her partner to be rather intelligent, but the reason he had fallen into this position in the first place was that he couldn’t really understand others’ emotions. Thoughts and intentions, sure; but he had a problem knowing what people were feeling. He probably just saw them as bodies, pieces that had to be out of the puzzle for him to win. A shiver ran down her spine. It was an especially chilling thought to her because this was the person she would have to rely on for security for the majority of the Games. If he doesn’t see anyone else as once feeling people…  

No, Fionne argued with herself. If you think that way you’ll be focused on watching him and probably miss something else that will kill you sooner.

But the whole point of teaming up is that you both survive as long as possible, she reasoned. If you make it to the final two, he’ll kill you without hesitation. Right?  

She shook her head and marched ahead faster. She needed to put such thoughts out of her head for the time being. They wouldn’t do anything to help her now. If anything, they’d drive her insane. While that could be an advantage to some people, like trained, incredibly strong Careers, it would only be a disadvantage to her. 

Snap. The sudden sound of a twig breaking a few yards away ripped her out of her musings. Reflexively, she began backing away, then cringed at the loud crunch produced by her boots making contact with the dense patchwork of the forest floor. Her heart beat out of her chest as soon as her position had been compromised and she stood still in horror. 

This is it, she thought. There were several loud thuds behind her which she didn’t understand. The noise had come from in front. Had she been surrounded? Why would the Careers bother with that when she scored a two in training? Could it be two different groups that she so happened to find herself in between?

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind and yanked backwards. She would’ve fallen straight back if it weren’t for the squishy mass she’d been pulled into. So they want to kill me slowly, then , Fionne thought resignedly. But the hands that had grabbed her did not move. They were just as still as she was. Fionne held her breath until the person who held her spoke. 

“Can you climb?” Teeve’s monotone voice sounded just behind her head. She gave a deep sigh of relief, and, heart still pounding, nodded. Fionne was acutely aware of the rustling of the trees around them, but to her pounding chest they seemed to be still and lifeless. Tentatively, she looked around her at those seemingly still trees, searching for one that both had branches near enough together and a trunk strong enough to hold the weight of two people. Up ahead the sounds had started again, and Fionne fought the urge to just run in any direction because she knew she would be heard and chased. Then, more likely than not, killed. 

She turned her head slowly to glance at Teeve. Their eyes met, both equally wide with panic, only a moment before Teeve whispered, “We can’t run.” Fionne nodded slightly, as if the sound of her neck moving might alert an attacker to her presence. “Only one option, then.” Teeve gently let go of Fionne and braced an arm out to slowly push her behind him. He raised his meager knife and crept slowly, quietly forward. But not quiet enough. The second his boot crunched on some particularly dry leaves, the perpetrator came dashing out of the brush ahead of them to flee. It was just a deer. Teeve’s shoulders relaxed and they both gave a heavy sigh of relief. 

After only a moment of gathering their nerves, Teeve began running after the fleeing animal, surely in some kind of attempt to assure a food supply. Fionne sighed again, this time in frustration. Does he actually think he can catch it? Even the fastest tribute out here would be left in its dust . For her, that was certainly true. There would be no way to catch up with him if he got too far, and by then it might already be too late. She didn’t like being separated from security, so she quickly grasped a thick twig off the ground and threw it in Teeve’s general idiodic direction.He stumbled and stopped short, clumsily wheeling around to assess the threat of a small stick and a little girl.

“What?” he asked hastily. Fionne walked over to where her partner had stopped and gestured to the ground. Teeve’s gaze followed where she pointed to a patch of pale-golden yellow amidst the muddy brown and scattered green of the forest floor. Fionne bent down to pick as much as she could, but found it tougher than she had previously imagined. It looked almost identical to the dandelions she picked at home for a small snack but felt far more coarse. It must be the mountain variety. Grew harder to withstand the climate, she mentally noted. She held her hand out to Teeve for him to hand over the knife, and took it without looking when he placed it in her palm. She began methodically sawing at the base of each of the plants to free them. As she stood up, Fionne looked up at the canopy of the forest. It was dense but it must let some light and water through for there to be plants growing in their shade.

She turned to Teeve and held out her hand, showing him her bounty. 

“I mean, I prefer meat, but whatever,” he said as he reached out to take one from her hand. Fionne slapped his wrist with her free hand to prevent him from eating one prematurely. They weren’t poisonous uncooked but there was a possibility that they would make you sick, she remembered. 

“Hey!” he hissed and stepped back, holding his barely injured appendage. “What was that for?”

Fionne carefully placed the bundle of greens in her waist pouch and began picking some dry twigs from the ground, snapping them, and putting them right beside the food. Teeve began making a sound from the back of his throat that sounded like a cruel imitation of gears grinding. Processing… Fionne thought with a slight grin. He was far too much like a robot. He even speaks like one . Out of pity she turned to him and began rubbing a twig between her hands very quickly, copying the motions they’d been shown at the fire making station. The gear grinding noise stopped. 

“Oh. They have to be cooked?”

Fionne nodded, then continued forward. We’re not far enough from the Cornucopia yet to be making a fire. 

As if reading her mind, Teeve said, “Well we can’t light one now or late at night, but evening should be coming soon. Should be able to get one up and out quickly enough to not be spotted. We better move fast though. Get farther away.”

Fionne was somewhat shocked at this observation. Sure, it felt like they had been walking for hours on end but they had no way to know that, right? The clouds had been covering the sun when they’d first entered the arena, so there was no way to tell what time it was even then, other than “daytime”. She looked at him frowning, and nodded her head up to the canopy of the trees. How can he tell when there’s no sun to see?

He wasn’t looking at her anymore, but was walking up to one of the trees with sturdy trunks. He reached a hand out and touched the soft green that appeared on one side. “Moss usually grows on the north side of trees. If you look up the on the west side, you’ll see light. That’ll only happen when the sun is going down, if it was overhead it would be hidden by the leaves on top of the tree. There’s a lot of light area up there, but it isn’t very bright. We probably only have about an hour before the sun’s gone. We need to get going.”

Fionne raised her eyebrows at his observance, but turned to carry on the way that they had been headed. They hiked at an exhausting pace, but Fionne occasionally stopped to pick them some more food. The dandelions were most abundant, but there were also berries and herbs they could munch on. The odd white mushrooms were a particularly fortunate find, she thought. 

“It’s getting cold,” Teeve had observed as they were walking. Indeed Fionne was shivering underneath her massive Capitol jacket. It didn’t do much to help with the temperature, but it might keep her dry. Careful to look at the moss of the trees to keep her heading, Fionne lead them a while longer through identical looking brush when Teeve stopped, saying, “This is as good a place as any.” It wasn’t much of a comfort to Fionne, but she stopped and began preparing a small fire.

“We can’t stay here after we cook the food. Too easy to be spotted,” Teeve said. Fionne nodded. She understood but as the warm flames began to dance over the numbness of her hands she knew she’d miss the fire later, when it would only get colder. She cooked their meal, stomped out the fire, and quickly moved on. They munched on their spoils as they walked, now in the eerie dark of tree covered twilight. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to snow and small flakes were making their way through the tops of the trees down around them. 

Judging after a long walk that they had gone far enough from their fire, Fionne saddled up to a wide tree and began to climb it. Its limbs were strong and close together, but pushing through the spiky needles wasn’t too pleasant. She knew it would ultimately conceal them but at the same time, she didn’t like being poked. She looked down the trunk to see Teeve laboring up it behind her, and figured she’d climbed about eighty feet. From there, she could see slightly out of the cover of the trees to look up at the night sky growing continually dimmer. Teeve had just reached her rousting place when the anthem of Panem began to blare throughout the arena. Fionne watched the sky expectantly and found the seal of the Capitol standing out among the dark clouds. 

At the end of each day, the Capitol aired a recap of each of the deaths in the arena over the television. In the arena, though, seeing the broadcast of how a tribute was killed was thought to give an unfair advantage to those who remained, so they only flashed the picture and district number of each of the dead tributes on the dome of the simulated night sky. Fionne couldn’t quite remember how many canons there had been that day, she was too focused on not becoming one of them herself. 

The anthem continued to obnoxiously sound as the first tribute appeared in the sky. The beautiful girl from District 2. Next was the girl from 4, then both tributes from 6, the lovers from 8, the mad boy from 9, the boy from 10, the girl from 11, and the rascal, Quarry, from 12. Then the seal of the Capitol reappeared and the forest was silent once more. 

“Ten dead in the first day. Damn,” Teeve stated. He looked to Fionne as if she would say something in response, then seemed to think better of it. “Okay then, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” he said and spread his large form over a series of branches in a very uncomfortable looking sleeping position.

Fionne went over the images. Two Career tributes dead in the first day. She couldn’t believe the luck. It meant less people actively hunting them. Still, it would’ve been nice if the scary boy from 2 was among them. She was surprised that the gaunt girl from District 12 had made it out, though. Even when she’d been packing back food during their time in the Capitol she was still the smallest person to enter the arena. 

Ten people, she thought. Ten people of twenty-four dead in the first twenty-four hours in a game that lasts weeks. She may have gotten through the first day, but there were thirteen people and a whole lot of days in between her and survival.

Chapter Text

Volt started awake as a songbird trilled a morning call to its nearby kin. He had made his camp for the night in a hollow of dense decaying wood on the forest floor. It wasn’t all that comfortable yet not so different from the random sleeping positions he’d often find himself in at home when his exhaustion wore over his stubbornness to stay awake. He raised an eyebrow at the irony of the fact that he had been able to sleep easily in the arena, when he had hardly been able to get a full night’s rest at any other point in his sorry life. 

Volt looked up at the light filtering through the dense canopy of leaves. The birds would've been coming to make their morning meal of the resident insects in the log if it weren’t for the human form that lay there impeding their access. He began to shake out the stiffness of his muscles and take stock of his situation. 

Yesterday had been the beginning of the Hunger Games. When the horn had sounded, he’d stayed in the Cornucopia long enough to see the Careers initiate a bloodbath, and before he left there were already six people laying still on the ground.

The sadistic-looking boy from District 2 had reached the center -- and thus the weapons -- first, though Volt couldn’t see how that would’ve made a difference. Without searching through crates for a tool with which to reap the lives of his enemies, the boy had turned and outstretched his hands. With a ripple of his arms he’d killed the boy from 10 who hadn’t so much as had the chance to put a hand on a single wooden box. Several other tributes had their slim chance of survival completely cut off as they haphazardly filed into the semi-dome of the Cornucopia and its surrounding spoils.

Volt had elected for a strategy far from conventional, one that had taken all of his composure to pull off. He didn’t much care for unpredictable odds, the kind that came from rushing blindly into a situation and praying that you would make it out. Instead of sprinting outright to the middle of the plateau, he’d slowed his gate and slunk low until the fighting had begun. Being unseen through most of his life had never felt like more of a blessing. More tributes fell. The tall elven-like girl from District 2 was taken out by a slash across the chest from the athletic boy from 11. Volt refused to let the deaths shake him. He slowly made his way around the stockpile and into the mouth of the Cornucopia, ducking in as deep into the horn-shaped structure as it would go before looting the boxes. None of the other tributes had yet reached his position, giving him perilous time to rummage through three crates before he figured the last of the strays would be fleeing from the plateau. He ducked out of the shadowed refuge when the Careers were on the far side in pursuit of some poor soul, and made his way to relative safety. 

Most of the kids were running straight ahead from the bottom of the steep hill jutting off of the plateau; right through a rushing river. Volt was sure that not all of them would make it safely to the other side. Having stayed indoors almost all his life, he wasn’t very confident in his own swimming abilities, and elected to follow the bank of the river downwards, away from the hard wall of the mountains and into the dense forest. 

He stopped a while later when he heard a large splash ahead of him, perhaps fifty feet. He pressed his back into the curve of a nearby large tree and slowly turned to observe the couple on the other side of the riverbank. Kinna and that girl that was always following her were sticking together in the arena, afterall. It struck Volt as odd that someone could trust a person in such a situation, but figured one of or both of them were not entirely right in the head to be trusting anyone, period. Kinna was lying awkwardly on the ground while the girl from District 10 was working over her. There was a sudden scream that put Volt on edge. Anyone within a three mile radius could’ve heard that, and they certainly weren’t yet that far away from the Cornucopia. Volt had strained his ears, hoping to detect any pursuers but he couldn’t make anything out over the gurgling of the river and low muttering of the girls.

He momentarily entertained the idea of killing one or both of the girls, but thought better of it. Killing the tribute from your own district was sure to make you an enemy back home immediately, so it rarely happened. As for the other girl-- Volt knew he didn’t like her, but wasn’t really sure why. Not that he even needed a reason, given the circumstance. He’d finally decided that two against one wasn’t the greatest of ideas this early in the game when he didn’t know what they might have up their sleeves, even if one of them was injured. He’d wait. 

Besides, he had thought, if they get spotted no one will notice me. I may even be able to pick off some people using them as bait . It wasn’t the strategy he’d thought he would be using when he came into this, but he was glad for the opportunistic fortune. 

He’d followed them, at a distance, for several hours before they had stopped to make camp in the fading light of the evening. They’d stayed in the general area of the river, which didn’t seem too intelligent to Volt if they meant to hide away from people. Luckily, they weren’t so stupid as to light a fire and alert everyone of their whereabouts. Not yet, anyway. Volt had snuck closer for a bit until he found a hiding place that would suit his needs for the night. 

Volt reached for his backpack through the cold haze of the early morning. From the Cornucopia he had snagged a small hatchet, a fancy obviously-Capitol-made metallic slingshot, and a backpack. When he hunkered down for the night he had just enough time to take stock of his possessions before he’d passed out; the backpack held a full flask, some rope, a flint, a large camouflage vest, and the jumbled remains of the pinecones and vines that he’d seen the girls scavenging as they went along, the pinecones possibly being a food source. He figured there were probably a lot of protein-rich insects in the rotten log he was sheltered in, but wasn’t desperate enough yet to try them, though that could change in only a matter of hours.

Water, he thought. Dehydration was one of the leading causes of death in the arena, next to being stabbed or sliced or impaled. Tributes would wander for a couple days then start to stumble in the wake of their hallucinations and general haziness. After that, they’d sit down, a canon following an hour or so later.

Volt picked the flask out of the backpack and began to untwist the lid. Without thinking, he took a swig and coughed as the liquid burned down his throat. He hastily clapped a hand over his mouth and attempted to dispel the unpleasant feeling searing through his neck. 

Hope no one heard that, he thought. Kinna and her friend wouldn’t be up this early, would they ? Most people needed far more sleep than he did -- he usually only rested once every two nights -- but in the arena people would be on high alert. If they’re smart , he added. 

He slowly set down the still-open flask, picked up the chrome slingshot, and loaded a small rock into the basket. He knew there was no point in trying to defend himself with the hatchet, not in his current position. It’d be better to shoot something towards the girls to take potential hunters off of his scent. After what his sore arms told him had been about half an hour, Volt set down the slingshot and picked up his possessions, slowly heading to the river. He’d learned when he was following the girls that treading over the orange needles on the ground was far quieter than trying to crunch silently through the carpets of leaves, and found himself hopping from one section of dead needles to the next to reach his destination. When he got to the riverbank, he slowly set down his pack and took a whiff of the vile liquid in the flask. 

He’d tried alcohol before, when the orphanage’s caretakers had left some in a low cupboard in their drunken stupor. Reporting their activity to the small semblance of authority the Peacemakers in 5 possessed would do next to nothing. Alcohol was marked as contraband, and was supposed to result in a public whipping. He’d been too young at the time, but according to adults he’d overheard over the years, the law used to be heavily enforced. The whipping posts were still installed in the town square, but were dilapidated from disuse. Volt understood that it was seen as unseemly and unnecessary, and had personally felt the harsh hands of its negative effects several times, but he knew it had its benefits too. 

Once, when he was still just a boy, he’d gotten a large gash down the side of his leg from bumping into a piece of unfamiliar furniture in the dark that happened to be a jagged mirror. Volt made his way to the apothecary’s shop in the middle of town on his own, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding all the while. Before applying a row of not-so-neat stitches that stung as they strung his skin back together, the doctor had grabbed for a bottle of white liquor, the only kind of spirits his district had the resources to make. It was harsh and burned down the throat and into the stomach like you’d swallowed a lit torch, but it did enough to numb the mind. Volt had thought that the doctor would instruct him to take a swig of the bottle to help with the pain, but instead he had poured it all over the wound. It had burned even more than it would have to consume. He learned later that it was for “cleaning the wound” so it wouldn’t get infected, but that didn’t make the memory of the experience any less distasteful. 

Volt was considering dumping out the liquor, which was far more refined than the stuff back in District 5, and refilling the flask with water, but decided against it. The disinfecting uses were definitely going to be needed in the next few weeks, if he survived that long. He stifled a shiver at the thought and cupped his hand into the frigid stream of the rushing water, bringing it to his ever-chapped lips. He reached into his pack and pulled out some of the pinecones for inspection. He’d seen Kinna and her friend eating them from afar, but they didn’t look very appetizing. He assumed it wouldn’t taste unlike walking up to a tree and taking a large bite out of its trunk. Volt discovered he wasn’t wrong when he pulled the top bit of the cone off with his teeth and began chewing. If there were cameras on him now, the entirety of Panem would be bellowing in laughter at the face he was making, he was sure. After a couple minutes of chewing the tough material, he gave up and spit it out. Volt considered just throwing out the whole lot of the pinecones that he had collected when a brown-red squirrel skittered over to his backpack and grabbed one of them.

The creature bounded away a couple feet and up into the low branches of a tree, where it began picking apart its spoils. It used its tiny hands to pry small pieces off of the cone and stuff it in its expanding pouch of a face. When it was satisfied, it dropped the remaining carcass of the pinecone. Volt leaned over to retrieve it, and inspected the husk. He grabbed another one from his backpack to compare the two, and found that the one the squirrel had taken was empty of the little light brown oval shaped protrusions in between the leaves of the thing, and took one to sample. It was bland, but Volt was sure it contained a fair amount of nutrients. He snacked on a couple, drinking from the river all the while, and vowed to separate the nuts from the husks when he was in a less precarious position, but he knew he would be needing another source of food. He looked up to the branch that the squirrel had previously alighted on, and got an idea.

Grabbing some sticks from the forest floor and vines from his backpack, he found a flexible young sapling sticking out from the ground and began to strip it of its few leaves. He then sharpened a number of thin sticks and tied them to the sapling with the vines, securing it all to a nearby heavy rock, and placed a pile of pine nuts underneath. It was the best replica of a small game trap that he could make from his hurried sessions in the training room. He thought about his evaluation session with the Gamemakers as he headed back toward the girls’ camp and smirked. He was sure that it wasn’t something that they had ever had a tribute do before.

Throughout the entirety of the training week, Volt’s mind had been absorbing as much survival information as it could while occupied with other thoughts. He’d made his way around to each of the stations semi-numbly and completed each task as best he could. Being a kid from an orphanage gave you street smarts and a general intuition into people’s intentions, but didn’t do much to prepare you to survive outdoors without supplies. So, during his waking hours back in District 5, Volt had made use of his time by honing skills that would be of use to him in the future. 

Being from his district meant that you would eventually go to work in one of the power plants, if you were competent. Some had jobs that worked in conjunction with the main export of the district, such as cleaning stalls or food booths, but for the most part they paid extremely poorly and were reserved only for those who were absolutely desperate. A life in the plants wasn’t much better, but at least you’d be guaranteed a job of some sort for the rest of your able-bodied life. 

Within the plant, there was a very distinct hierarchy for the workers. Most of the citizens of 5 would fall into the bottom tier, the hard laborers stuck deep in the blazing boiler and engine rooms for the rest of their days, maintaining and repairing the mechanisms that fed power to the Capitol. Those that were lucky would be made supervisors of these people, checking their work and generally imposing their wills upon those unfortunate enough to be ranked below them. Above the supervisors were the general engineers and electricians, who were the most adept in the industry and trusted to keep everything running efficiently, laying out new plans to improve their value in the Capitol’s eyes. Finally there were government officials who were sent directly from the Capitol -- with their grotesque faces and affected accents on full display -- that simply watched as the engineers worked, tasked with ensuring that there would be no “funny business”, as they called it, such as causing a power outage at a critical time. The people of 5 were fairly sure that these officials didn’t know anything about electricity, and were simply there to impose the oppression of the city from which they came.

All this, Volt had deduced in his early childhood and set out to make a better life for himself by the time that he escaped the wretched period of adolescence. Only, instead of expediting his adult career, his late night efforts and introverted tendencies had landed him in this hell hole that he wasn’t likely to survive. Still, he’d made use of the skills he had required over the tiresome years. Anytime he was allowed to be without the supervision of the Capitol attendants, he worked on a device that he had brought from home.

In the last weeks of his time in his district, Volt had begun construction on a device that could produce an electromagnetic pulse to shut down nearby electronics, as he’d been reading up on the obscure subject. It was a topic that his teachers and the higher ups looked down upon because it was thought that the only use could be to cause “funny business” that would get you arrested. Volt figured this was probably true, but wanted to learn how the mechanism worked all the same. He’d hoped to be done the device by Reaping Day, so that he could blow out the circuits running the electricity to the screens and sound system in the square, just for a little bit of fun. Sadly though, it was still missing several key components by the time that the district had assembled. So, when his name was called right after Kinna’s, he lumbered up the steps to the stage with a huge bulk of scrap metal jutting out of his pocket, and brought the device with him as his “token in the Games”; the one thing from home that Tributes were allowed to bring into the arena. He hadn’t ended up bringing it with him all the way though.

Instead, when he had completed the device from stealing small metal pieces from the weapons making training station, Volt opened the light switch panel in his room and attached the device, the morning of the sessions with the Gamemakers. He was glad he had thought to make it a remote-control switch to go with it when he had begun construction. He’d followed his Capitol escort to the waiting room and watched the children be called out into a bigger chamber one by one, in order of their district. The moment he heard his name over the loudspeaker, telling him it was his turn, he flicked the switch in his pocket and slunk into the shadows of the now off-grid building. The doors in the Training Center were almost all electronic, so he simply jimmied them with his remaining piece of metal from the weapons station to pry them open. After that it had only been a matter of navigating down the sleek halls until he’d found the right room. By the time the lights came back on, Volt was sitting in the middle of the Gamemakers’ room, indulging in delicacies set out for them to feast on as they watched the tributes “perform” for them.

Volt grinned and wiped the sweat off of his forehead while he quietly repacked his bag. Security had, of course, promptly escorted him out and he was reprimanded sternly by his district representative, but he still didn’t regret doing it. There was a very high probability that his life would not have much more use of mischief, so he needed to seize the moment when it came his way. Volt hadn’t been expecting the score of eight in training though. He figured his show of mystery combined with his score and his ability to survive showcased so far in the arena would intrigue the sponsors, but Volt didn’t weigh that heavily into his chances of survival. This was a deadly game in which the individual pieces were more important than those facilitating the event. 

Luckily, Volt thought as he climbed a thick-trunked tree neighboring the girls’, I at least know the positions of three of the pieces.