A New Tune: The Story of the 406th Hunger Games

A Lavender Flame Fanfic

All of Panem held their breath and watched Kizzy Ericssen's every move in the Games. But now, all eyes are on the Capitol, and this new outside force that may change the

Games forever....

Hunger Games - Rated: T - English - Adventure/Suspense

Silver Lining in the Clouds

Lavender Maynor "Flame", Age 19, Head Gamemaker, Capitol

The Capitol rushed past me on either side and I let my eyes fall closed, leaned my head against the tram window. Another day, another morning. I blindly fumbled with the screen on the table in front of me, then decided I should've actually opened my eyes. I managed to just long enough to order coffee, punching in my credit number. When one of the attendants dropped it off at my fairly empty booth, I sighed and blinked myself awake, taking small sips at a time. It was way too early―the outside light seeping in was gray, half due to the hour and half to the overcast sky. I looked down at the city spread out below, and it looked abandoned. The Capitol was fairly dead at this time in the morning.

Even with the speed of the tram, I knew it was going to be an at least fifteen-minute ride to the Gamemaking Center, what with all of the constant stops at the drop-off points and distance from my apartment to my destination. Setting the coffee down, I reached in my bag for the hard-copy edition of The Capitol Daily I'd picked up at the station. I managed a smile―sure enough, the four-hundred fifth Hunger Games were splattered all over the front-page, even weeks after.

A still of Namitha and Lina from the final battle took up the top of a column, article underneath a debate on just how evenly matched they actually were. A famous author―Elaina Linette―had her review of the Games featured on the left-hand side. Another bit of text near the bottom of the page had a psychologist's thoughts on the ghosts. But the majority of the page was an article under the largest headline: A Record-Setting Hunger Games to be Topped Next Year?

I thought of the arena still in construction. Oh, yes. Definitely.

By the time the tram arrived at my drop-off, I was a lot more awake, my coffee was cold, and The Capitol Daily had been read through. I shoved the paper back in my bag, slung over my shoulder, and headed out.

It took a few moments, but the Capitol worked fast and soon two reporters approached me in the few seconds it took to get across the street. "Lavender Flame!" one of them exclaimed, scrambling to walk beside me. "An honor, as always." It clicked in my mind that I'd had an interview with her before, but I couldn't remember where. "I was wondering if you could tell me anything more about those 'tracker-tricks'… hmm?"

I put on the smile that I always did for anyone who wasn't a fellow Gamemaker or related to me by blood. "Of course―ah, do you have a minute? We can talk inside."

"Of course, of course!" she echoed, and her companion came along. I swiped my ID through the slot by the door, signing in for the day, and beckoned for them to follow me through the lobby and to the first vacant place I could think of, which ended up being a sort of conference room on the ground floor.

I sat at the long table, let them settle and prep a tablet document, before saying, "What do you want to know?"

"Well, I suppose, how did the Gamemaking team really come up with the idea of utilizing the tributes' trackers for all those illusions?"

I answered honestly. "In a DAPT meeting one day―ah, Designated Arena Planning Time, that is." Not everyone's a Gamemaker. "Before the Games. I mean, I was just looking over some data from the year before, of the tributes, and it just sort of clicked. We get information from them, and I figured that they could get information from us. All credit for the tech work goes to Francisco though."

Nods, smiles, notes. "And the last battle? Driving all of the tributes to the Cornucopia like that?"

"Ah…" I tried to think; but it was still early and I hadn't woken up prepared for another interview. "That was improvising, sort of based around the more typical feast." It was true enough.

There were a few more questions before I was left alone, and I tried to get myself to stop shaking. I really didn't do well with people that I didn't know; but it apparently didn't show too much, or else I wouldn't have been Head Gamemaker.

I went up to my office, paced a while so I could look over the coding of another arena feature for next year, and finally settled down to answering a few emails.

. . . . .

It was later in the day when the intercom came on. "Ms. Flame?"

"Ah, yes?" What do you want?

"You have a visitor."

I groaned inwardly. "All right. Send 'em up."

Gauging how long it would take someone to get to my office from the lobby, I tried to clean up as much of the clutter that always seemed to gather as I could before sitting again, trying to look focused on sorting through all the windows pulled up on my screen. I closed out of all the ones with any of next year's plans, just in case. The things people would do to get a hint of the next Games! Honestly, the over-eager, impatient nature of most.

I sensed someone watching me and looked up. "Misty!" I greeted, actually smiling. "How are you?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Handling all the publicity all right?" She sat in the chair across the desk from me.

I wished that they would've just told me who my visitor was. Misty was one of the Gamemakers from last year, who'd retired after the latest Games. It'd only been a few weeks but we'd all really started to miss her―she was sort of the grandmother figure of all of the other Gamemakers, half because of age and nature, and partly because she was Head Gamemaker before me, stepping down to a regular seat for her last year.

"I think so," I grinned, and slid The Capitol Daily across the desk to her. I did like recognition, even if I didn't like talking about it so much.

"Very nice, Lavender." Her eyes scanned over a few pages before she handed it back to me.

"I just hope it's enough," I said, and the words came out a lot more quietly than I meant them to.

Misty nodded in understanding. "You can't give any more than you have."

I half-smiled. "I know. But I can try." I still didn't know how I'd made it through the Games, whether they were only four days or not. Maybe it was easier in other years, when the battles and deaths were more spread out, instead of the whole Games taking place in scarcely half of a week. Not to mention that Head Gamemakers before me hadn't exactly had the potential fate of Panem resting on who won. I couldn't have afforded to have the wrong tribute make it out because of luck.

"Don't wear yourself out; you're still young. Lots of years ahead of you," Misty said sagely.

"Lots of Hunger Games to go," I added.

She stood, clearly to leave. "I just thought I'd check in. Old Gamemaker habit."

"You should say hi to everyone else," I suggested. "We've all missed you."

She laughed almost soundlessly. "I think I will. Good luck, Lavender."

The door clicked shut behind her.

. . . . .

The afternoon dragged on. By some miracle, there weren't any official meetings planned today, though that didn't mean much anymore. The assorted message would pop up on my desk, another question that I'd answer and send back, only leaving the office a few times. It rained somewhere around one, large, heavy droplets splattering against the window-wall. The lights turned up to compensate for the darker storm clouds.

Sometime after that, there was a series of sharp, curt knocks on my office door. "Come in," I called, just loudly enough that it would be heard. I wondered who it was that I wouldn't have had some warning―the other Gamemakers usually sent a message first, anyone else was generally announced.

President Paylor walked in and took a seat.

You would've thought that I should've been panicking, but this actually happened often enough that I'd stopped doing that. I barely even bothered keeping up a smile for the President's appearances anymore.

"Hello, Lavender."

Sort of a first-name basis, another perk of having the President talk to you just about every day.

"Hello." I didn't ask what she was here for. I had the feeling I'd find out soon enough.

"How's everything coming along?"

"Oh; fine… I guess."

"Really?"

"Maybe not," I admitted.

"I see." She watched my expression a bit too carefully and I tried not to notice. "Now, tell me, Lavender, is something wrong?"

"No, of course not. Why?"

"Are you sure?" She answered with a question again.

"Yes. Just… tired." I still didn't like the idea of having this conversation with the President, of all people. Sure, she wasn't one of the really formal government officials and I'd stopped freaking out when she walked into my office, but… I really preferred keeping our exchanges about the fate of Panem and whatnot.

"Not overwhelmed at all?"

I started to wonder if mind-reading was some Capitol alteration that you could get.

"Aren't we all?" I asked, smiling a bit shyly because I could tell she hadn't missed my use of her questioning response style.

The President smiled, then answered, "Very true. Now, what I came to talk to you about was the tribute list for the upcoming Games."

"And?" I asked.

"Recent information has... indicated, that when District Fourteen attacks—oh, get used to the word, Lavender, it's only a matter of when, now—it will likely be in the form of an attack on the arena. On the tributes."

"How do you know? Can we be sure?"

"Very sure. I'm the President—I have my ways."

"What are you suggesting we do about it?"

"That," she started, "is your job. Precisely what I need you to do. I've already taken care of the first step—selecting the tributes. All you need to do is organize the training."

"Training...?" I, for once, couldn't really follow what the President was trying to tell me.

"Yes. I've selected five victors, only our most trusted, to organize a way to prepare all of the tributes for this year's Games, in the case that... anything, should happen. I believe that, if abducted, the tributes could get information back to us—valuable information. A way to get into District Fourteen, perhaps."

"Attack before they do," I said quietly.

"Maybe," the President answered, her voice sounding vague and distant. "It might be too late for that. However, the tributes would know what it was that they were doing, at the very least. But for that to happen, we need some more people involved in our plan. Kizzy Ericssen, for one."

"Of course."

"And then also some others to help her—more experienced victors, those are the four that I've chosen. Litiea Hellion, Trey Dracco, Keith Rienman, and Sassy Hemlocke."

I scribbled down the names of the victors into the blank table window just as the President continued, "Those four will be her main supporters in organizing the other victors, that's why I've chosen some with... varied personalities, they'll be more likely trusted among their groups of friends. They'll know all that we do, but the others, the victors in the districts that'll help with the training of the tributes... they'll only know what it is that they're teaching the tributes, not why. Kizzy, I've decided, will be the one to tell our competitors—most of them should look up to her, as a role model—a victor of a Quarter Quell, someone closer to their own age, from the districts, they could relate to her..."

I looked up from my notes, from the oddly neat, cursive scrawl, and took a deep breath. "All right, then," I said. "What is it exactly that I'm supposed to be doing?"

"Call a meeting with those five victors on Sunday. Here at the Gamemaking Center, at three that afternoon. I'll be here as well, and we can explain everything to them then. And I'll give Kizzy the tribute list—on her Victory Tour, she'll be able to contact all of the tributes. Their training will really start shortly after the tour, but the victors will take care of that."

I thought about it for a few seconds, still trying to absorb it all, and then said, "But what if the tributes don't agree to the training?"

"They will. Believe me, they will. All of them will have a very convincing reason why they should cooperate with us." A pause, and then, "Oh, don't give me that look, Lavender; it doesn't have to be a negative reason. Take little Airah, or Tamberlain—we have the cures to their problems that they don't. Surely, they'll be willing to negotiate."

Somehow feeling a little bit better, I answered, "Call a meeting of those five victors on Sunday. Here. At three in the afternoon. Got it. Anything else?"

"For now, no," the President replied, rising from her seat to leave. "Oh, but I did think that you might be interested in seeing this." She pulled a few pieces of paper from a folder in her bag and set them down on my desk. "It's the official review of the four-hundred fifth Hunger Games from the Capitol's Review Board—only a few have it now, not even online yet."

I nodded. "Thank you."

With that, President Paylor left my office, and I was alone again. I picked up the review.

Here in the Capitol, there was an official Review Board, a group of citizens who, well, "reviewed" all of the major events in the Capitol—namely the Games—and published their article shortly afterwards. I began to skim the first page.

This year's Annual Hunger Games came as a shock to all of us: a Quarter Quell, twenty years early to prove to the rebels that false preparation was their downfall. Additionally, to win the Games, the last tribute standing had to obtain five special books found in various places of the arena.

The new Head Gamemaker, Lavender Flame, definitely did quite a job of making this a "Games that no one will ever forget". When interviewed, Head Gamemaker Flame said that the ghosts the tributes were forced to discover were very much inspired by―

"Ah, Ms. Flame?"

"Hmm? Yes; what?" I looked up to find one of the interns, Quicksilver, standing in the doorway to my office, looking a bit nervous and jumpy, which I found odd. She was actually one of my favorites out of the interns—she was a fast learner, always eager to please...

"This is from President Paylor," she got out finally, racing forwards to place a scrap piece of paper on my desk before bolting out again.

A bit overly cautiously, I unfolded the paper and then laughed. Quicksilver hadn't had anything to be nervous about—she probably just hadn't read it. It was simply a list of the phone numbers that I'd need to call the victors. That was all. And, at the bottom, a quick note from Paylor: Forgot this.

If I'd been focusing, I probably would've remembered to track down the numbers sooner, but I wasn't.

. . . . .

I had a few minutes to myself, spent reading over the rest of the review, before some of my fellow Gamemakers―Glisten, Ritter, and Rainshadow―appeared in the doorway. "Lavender?"

"Yes," I said, and it came out on a sigh. "Come in."

"I just saw President Paylor walk out of your office!" Glisten piped up. "What was that all about?"

I came up with quite the impressive list of swear words mentally. They weren't supposed to know about any of that. "Nothing. She just wanted to give me the review of the Games, see?" I held up the papers on my desk and waved them around a bit before letting them fall again in a shuffled pile.

"You're a liar."

"Excuse me?" I asked, truly a bit shocked. "I'm a liar? I seem to remember you, Glisten, telling me that the construction zones were all taken care of."

"That was an accident!"

"It could've been our downfall!" Maybe I was exaggerating. I really didn't care about the discovery of the construction area―the stats for that day had gone through the roof, a good thing―but I wanted to prove my point. "Say the tributes discovered another area, a way to shut down all of the arena's operations! We'd all be dead!" I sighed and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes. My voice was quieter when I spoke again. "We're all liars, Glisten. All Gamemakers are liars. It's what we do. We make the tributes believe that they're somewhere safe and then let the mutts after them. We say that Quarter Quells are every twenty-five years and then make one be twenty years early. Don't you get it?"

The real Quarter Quell card had nothing to do with five objects this year.

I opened my eyes again. "We're. All. Liars. So don't call me one like you're accusing me of something that you've never done."

I hated being like this; I really didn't have a problem with most of the other Gamemakers, most of the time. In fact, I liked them; but sometimes, it was easy for them to get on my nerves, when they forgot who was in charge.

Ritter spoke up. "So what did President Paylor want?"

"Nothing," I repeated. "That I didn't lie about. She just wanted to give me the review. Said we did a fine job with the Games. That was all."

At this, Rainshadow broke in, swiftly saying, "We scheduled a meeting with the head of the construction crew tomorrow afternoon―"

I jumped up from my seat so quickly that they all took a step back. "Oh, I'm sorry!" I said, bowing dramatically. "Are you Head Gamemaker now? I must've missed my own resignation!" I gave a laugh that sounded a lot more forced than it meant to. "Silly me!"

… I was usually a lot more timid than this in most situations―namely social ones―but I felt I did a bit better in a professional environment, where people knew who I was and respected that…

"What's wrong with scheduling a meeting?" Glisten tossed her metallic pink hair back over her shoulder, something she did quite a lot.

"Anyone who actually paid attention during our little agenda go-over would know that we're already busy for nearly all of tomorrow with the Training Room renovation plans."

"Oh," Ritter said, seeming to have a bit more sense than the others at the moment. "We'll go… take care of that. Right away!" The others followed him out of the room, and I sat at my desk again.

It seemed as though whatever connection we all formed during the Games was starting to come

apart under all of the pressure. Maybe I was just having too long of a day. I sighed again; I'd track them down and find a way to apologize later.

I swiveled my chair in circles a few times, stopping once to look out the window. The storm had started up again. I watched a few raindrops trail down the window, and glanced up to see a patch of sunlight off in the distance, the rays shining through the breaks in the clouds, giving them a silver lining.

Just too poetic, I thought. Misty would love it.

The analogies of what that meant could wait.

At the moment, I had work to do.

Future of a Journey

Sassafras "Sassy" Hemlocke, District One, Victor of the 384th Hunger Games

"MOM! Mom, the phone is ringing! MOM!"

"Yes, Sage, I know, I'm coming…" I hurried into the living room―these phones only gave you five rings before it would go to voicemail, and if someone was actually calling to contact me, well, it had to be important.

My daughter was sitting on the couch, re-watching the latest Games with her trusty sword by her side, probably ready enough to kill anyone who came in uninvited. I scooped up the phone and walked out into one of the side rooms. "Hello?"

"Hello," the person on the other line echoed. "This is Head Gamemaker Flame; is Sassy home?"

"This is her," I replied, wondering why the Head Gamemaker would take time out of her busy schedule for me.

"Ah, great… how have you been?" I was surprised to hear her voice shaking, like she was nervous, and wondered if I should've asked if something was wrong. But, no, I didn't want to be intrusive.

"Fine, fine… excellent, even! And yourself?"

"Fine, thanks." There was a bit of dead air for a few moments, and then, "Ah, I called with a question―I was wondering if you'd be able to come out to the Capitol on Sunday." Unless something had recently impaired my hearing abilities, that didn't sound much like a question. More like a command, and I couldn't help but be curious about it. After all, this was the Head Gamemaker I was talking to!

"Of course," I said, my tone sounding even more polite than usual. "I'd consider it an honor! But could I ask why?"

"That might have to wait for the actual meeting―I mean, it's not something I can really talk about over the phone, but that's part of the reason why I called. There's going to be a meeting of a few victors, including Kizzy―Ericssen―I'm sure you're familiar with the name?"

That sounded like a question, so I answered, "Yes, of course; my daughter, Sage, was very fascinated by the latest Games… re-watching them right now actually, I think."

"Glad to hear they were intriguing." More silence. "Going back to the meeting… I'll be sending a hovercraft to the District One landing station Sunday morning. Could you be there at, say, ten?"

"In the morning? Yes, I'd say so. Could you tell me how long I'll be in the Capitol for?"

"Just a few hours, you can go home Sunday night." That was good, then; I wouldn't be away from home for too long. But I did worry about what it was I was about to get involved in that the Head Gamemaker, of all people, couldn't even mention on a phone. "Just be ready on Sunday."

"I will be! Thanks for calling."

"I'll see you there." The phone clicked off.

I headed back into the living room. "Who was that?" Sage demanded as soon as I walked in. Such a curious girl.

Admittedly, I froze up for just a split second. How much could I tell her―and my husband, Coarse, who'd just come in? Of course, they'd have to know that I was going to the Capitol. Then again, Flame hadn't mentioned that I couldn't say anything. But it had been implied... "The Head Gamemaker," I ended up answering. "I have some business in the Capitol to take care of on Sunday; but I'm not sure what it's really all about." Honest enough.

"Well, that's sorta stupid," Sage put in. "Why would she expect you to just go without knowing what you were doing? Might not be anything in it for you."

"She's the Head Gamemaker, Sage; she can do whatever she wants."

Coarse disappeared into another room, and Sage asked, "What's for dinner?" I was glad for the change in subject.

"We're going to the dinner at the mayor's house tonight, remember?" Sage groaned and I glanced out the window to see that the sun was just starting to set, indicating that it was getting close to the time we'd have to leave. All of the victors from District One and their families had been invited, along with some Peacekeepers and educators, others high up in One's industry. It was supposed to be in celebration of the mayor's school renovation plans. "Do you want me to pick out something for you to wear?"

"Fine. But I am not wearing a dress. Or a skirt. Just… no." She was going through a tomboy phase.

"I'll make sure it's not," I answered, going off to her room to find something suitable for her to wear. I found a presentable set of black dress pants and a blue blouse, and laid them out on her bed before going downstairs and telling her it was about time to get ready. She went upstairs without saying anything, scowling.

. . . . .

"Sassy, dear, it's been forever!" exclaimed Anita, giving me the same greeting and one of her infamous "welcome hugs" that I got every time I saw her. "How are you?"

"Wonderful," I told her, smiling. The dinner had quickly forced the ominous phone call out of my mind. "And how are you? And the baby?" I was surprised her newborn wasn't anywhere to be seen―generally higher-up people in the district, like the mayor's wife, enjoyed showing off their children. Then again, I was among them, but I usually lost track of Sage pretty quickly once we reached any official events.

"Excellent, excellent! Gabriel just seems to be growing so fast, and already!"

"I know," I agreed, scanning the crowd for Sage. "They grow up on you, don't they?"

"Oh, yes. It happened with Madilynn, already starting school on us."

I nodded again. "Speaking of which, I really should be tracking down my own family. Nice seeing you again―we really have to talk more."

After a bit of agreement I managed to slip away, feeling a bit bad that I'd lied about my reasons. What I really wanted to do was find some other victors and ask them if they'd gotten a call like I had. But I couldn't quite figure out how. Hey, have you heard from the Head Gamemaker lately? just sounded a bit too suspicious.

A burst of laughter came from a table nearby, followed by several chinks of glasses.

I kept moving through the chatting crowd, occasionally stopping to say hello to this person or that. Finally I managed to find Drystan, one of the other victors on the slightly older side. I liked to think that we were fair enough friends. He rambled for a while about how lovely the school renovations were going to be. "But of course," I agreed, and when the laughter died down, I gathered up my nerve and said, "You haven't heard anything of Lavender Flame lately, have you?"

"The new Head Gamemaker? Nah, can't say I have, except her name's splattered all over everything nowadays, especially since the cameras are finally off Kizzy."

"True that," I said.

"… Why?" There was definitely a confused look on his face and something off in his tone.

"No reason; just curious is all."

He didn't seem convinced, and I didn't blame him. Not one tiny bit.

. . . . .

Trey Dracco, District Three, Victor of the 393rd Hunger Games

Everyone in the district just thought I was so nice. Oh, how kind of me to take in this tragically orphaned boy with no future, oh what a great victor I was, oh oh oh―come on. Give me a break.

Yeah, to clear up those rumors, the "tragically orphaned boy" had a name―Saber―and was a ruthless killer… and so was I. It wasn't like I didn't know the kid, but it didn't mean that I pitied him. I'd lost room for pity a long time ago, before the Games, before even leaving Fourteen.

So I thought it was just the most hilarious thing when the Head Gamemaker decided that she trusted me and wanted my help all of a sudden. 'Cause I had a bad feeling of what it was she wanted help with, and believe me, I was the best person for it, but not on the right side. I was the best person to help Fourteen, you know, being from there and all. But to help the Capitol? Pfft; I wouldn't actually do it in a million years.

But I could lie. I could convince them I was the most loyal person they had, just so the betrayal would be greater later.

Ha; the joke would be on them―

"There!" I pointed at the screen wildly. "You see that? No, you didn't, now pause it. See, there you go. Right there. Watch the girl on the left. Play it again, slow."

The tape of the ending of the latest Games started up again, showing two of the tributes in the final battle. From, where? Ten and Twelve? Nine―wait, no, that was the crazy girl. Eleven and Ten, then?

"Watch. See the way she sort of ducks back, just right―there! That's what you have to do, work on your movement technique more than weapon skills."

"I would be watching if you would stop talking," Saber said through gritted teeth, still staring at the screen.

"You say that now, boy, you tell me that once you win."

Sometimes even I thought it was stupid that Fourteen was putting both of us through the Games.

At least that other guy in Seven hadn't been of Reaping age when he was recruited! Unfortunately his daughter eventually was, but that was a different story altogether.

Enter the arena, learn the way it works, inside and out, pass it on. That's what I was supposed to do, and what I did.

So of course I'd spread the information to everyone involved with Fourteen that I could. The Head Gamemaker was planning something, and she probably wasn't alone. I'd bet that at least the President also knew, possibly other officials or even the rest of the Gamemaking panel. If they were dumb enough to try and attack Fourteen, fine, let them, and let them just run themselves into the ground. We had warning then, and we beat the Capitol any day. Small but mighty; the smallest and least known district, maybe, but we could take anyone, anytime and anywhere.

I was snapped back to the present when Saber said, "But that was a dumb move."

"What?"

"She just ran off."

"Who did? You crazy?"

"What's-her-name from Ten ran away from a fight."

Oh. Right. The Games that Saber was re-watching. I looked at the battle. Sure enough, Ten had moved on.

"Eh, she's dead now anyways. Give it a few months, no one will remember those Games." Part of me doubted that. Not that I was big on seeing children slaughtering each other, but those four days were really somethin'. Record-setting and the works, certainly a memorable cast.

"You keep watching, take some notes." Saber nodded, not really looking up, and I walked out. I needed a way to get information to the others. Someone who could actually get it back to Fourteen. But how? Communication was actually scarce―basic instructions and the names of who you could "trust" before you left, and then almost nothing. There weren't many contacts here in Three―but we did have a way of getting messages through the system.

"BREAKING NEWS." The words came from the television, along with a jingle that indicated a District Three broadcast, not even one from the Capitol. "Mayor Gage Perolla has officially dropped out of the upcoming mayoral race, and will not be running for re-election. When interviewed he refused to give a motive, but several agree it's related to the recent death of his niece, Callia Marshan, in the four-hundred fifth Hunger Games. He was expected to be re-elected, but as he's no longer a candidate, who's topping the polls? Stay tuned for the ten o'clock broadcast tonight."

The next sounds I heard were clearly from the Games―so the interruption was over.

I focused again. Yeah, I could get the message through. Definitely.

"―SA-BER!"

"What?"

"Don't get whiny with me. I need you to drop something off. You know where." I scribbled a few notes, kind of in a bullet-point list, on the first scrap piece of paper I grabbed and shoved it at Saber, still in the other room. "Go on."

He did.

I hoped the note would be enough information to get spread through the system. A suspicious call from the Head Gamemaker. A meeting in the Capitol on Sunday. A war to begin.

I turned the television off so I didn't have to watch the Games yet again. Ignorance was bliss, as they said. Also a potentially fatal flaw that would bring down the Capitol.

And if the districts wanted to go with them, then so be it.

. . . . .

Litiea Hellion, District Ten, Victor of the 396th Hunger Games

These things at the landing station that called themselves people were pathetic.

Several, however, had a shred of sense and jumped out of my way.

By the time I managed to reach the hovercraft, I was probably running late, but it didn't matter. The image of whatever-her-name-was Head Gamemaker freaking out due to my absence was amusing enough to keep some expression on my face.

It did not slip my notice that I was pretty much alone for the ride. One Capitol guard sitting as far away as he could from me in the cramped space, and the pilot/co-pilot team in the cockpit.

I wasn't thirsty at the moment, but I couldn't help asking: "Is there any water here?"

The Capitol guard apparently assumed the question was directed at him, after looking around like an idiot to see if there was anyone else. "In this hovercraft?"

"Yeah, 'in this hovercraft', genius. Thought I was asking about District Ten?"

"I don't like to make assumptions."

"Just answer my question." There was hesitation. I tilted my head to the left a bit and grinned at him.

"Err, I don't believe so. But we'll be arriving in the Capitol within the hour―"

"And if we were to crash?"

"I'm sorry?"

I shook my head. "Are you deaf? I said, if this vehicle were to break down right now, how long do you think we could survive without water?"

"Aren't you able to survive twenty-four hours?"

"Is that a question?"

No answer right away, so I dramatically stretched. "Fine. I'm taking a nap so I don't have to be in your company."

I shifted so I could rest my head against the window, and closed my eyes.

Rain. Blood. The shriek of two swords colliding. The cannon of the girl from Nine.

I jabbed the weapon out at Three, who jumped back, swung his sword out, forward at me as I ran to the right. I cut a straight line down through the air, the blade colliding with his shoulder. A scream, more intensity in the blood rain, a quick counter-attack.

Searing, burning pain erupted in my side as the sword dug in and then came out. For a second, he thought he won.

I threw my arm out, barely aiming, and was pulled a bit too far to the right. I turned the force around, and the weapons collided again. I jumped forwards, slammed the sword into his stomach. Still, he was just refusing to die.

I slashed at the air, maybe hitting him one in three shots, felt something dig into my arm and the quick rush of flowing blood.

I lifted the sword into the air and brought the end of it down, stabbing him clear through the base of his neck.

Boom!

I woke with a jolt, reaching out to grab for the nearest weapon. No such luck. The Capitol guard looked disturbed, and I took a few deep breaths, shook my head to get rid of the thoughts. What I needed to do was focus. I adjusted my glasses to get rid of the maroon stripe that was cutting across my blurry vision.

I tried to think about where I was going, what I was doing, what my objective was, what was in it for me. To the Capitol, to go to the meeting, to stay alive. I had no interest in "helping out"; but I didn't have a death wish, and I knew better than to straight-out argue with the Head Gamemaker or President. What was the point anymore?

I'd spent my whole life trying to keep the people of the Capitol happy. Doing the work of District Ten. Fighting to the death for their entertainment. Going on the Victory Tour. And, especially last year, doing the assassin work. Edalene. And a few others who were in the way.

I didn't get to kill my fellow victor from Ten. Or that girl from Four, who they let go even after almost inciting a riot. Creating an "accident" was considered, but no. Apparently it wasn't worth any risk to them.

I didn't even get to know everything―but I had a feeling that today, I'd know some of it. I'd been told that Edalene had known too much. But even I couldn't have predicted her almost letting it slip to all of Panem. So that just made convenient timing for me. What… Tara had done, I didn't know, but I assumed it was also "knowing too much". Either way, I didn't get that job.

I looked out the window. We were flying over some district, but it didn't have enough defining features for me to recognize it. One? Six? Who cared, anyways?

"We'll be landing in five minutes," the guard informed me.

"Lovely."

I felt a bit sick when we landed―quick, spiraling, down down down… Then, a few feet and a slight thud as we touched the ground. For a second, I felt like there just wasn't enough air, and I wanted out. I flew down the stairs to the concrete in record time and hopped off the last one, actually grateful for something solid under my feet.

Then I relaxed, and chilled out. The guard got me into a cab, and the driver blathered on and on to me the whole way to the Gamemaking Center―about how I would love it here in the Capitol, as if I'd never been there before, about the sights, about every last place we passed on the way, about the song that was playing, about the traffic. All in the most high-pitched, squeaky Capitol accent I'd ever heard that broke at the end of almost every sentence. I wasn't sure how I could hear by the time I stepped out, in front of a tall, skyscraper building, dark silver-gray and complex.

The Gamemaking Center, Capitol.

. . . . .

Keith Rienman, District Eight, Victor of the 403rd Hunger Games

Being stuck in a room with the Head Gamemaker and President, waiting for the other victors to get there could be described as awkward, at best.

For the first few minutes there was a bad attempt at conversation, because President Paylor was just too intimidating, I had no interest in talking, and Lavender Flame had to be the most socially awkward person I'd ever met. She started almost everything with nervous laughter and, "Ah…", and then fiddled with her hair. Constantly.

And I had to keep a firm grip on the arm of my chair to keep from strangling the President. You killed her, I thought. Because I wouldn't do what you wanted. And here we are again.

Finally, Kizzy got there, then Litiea Hellion arrived, then Trey Dracco from Three. Last, Sassy Hemlocke, One. A Career. I wanted to laugh. She had to be the nicest victor in Hunger Games history, and even walked in, after realizing that we hadn't started yet, apologizing because she was late. And I didn't even think she was.

Paylor started off with a "thank you for coming, even though I would've killed you if you didn't" speech, minus the last part, but it was fairly implied. It was always implied.

When she finally went quiet, Lavender started to speak up. "We… we called you here, because the first thing we need to talk about is the Dark Days."

Okay, really, I did not go all the way to the Capitol for a history lesson.

"You all know that, a long time ago, there wasn't a Panem. But the world started to destroy itself, and our country was formed―the Capitol, and thirteen districts.

"But there was an underground group, who, they―they called themselves, District Fourteen. It wasn't too much of a secret, we, them, the Capitol, knew all along. And eventually the Capitol let them become a district, because they agreed that there needed to be a district for transportation. It was too late when they found out that all of District Fourteen wanted to rebel."

The information took its time setting in. Slowly, I realized that this didn't tie in with the history I'd learned in school.

"District Fourteen started the Dark Days, declaring war on the Capitol. But Thirteen got the blame."

I couldn't help but try to gauge the reactions of my fellow victors. Litiea and Sassy looked shocked beyond belief; Kizzy looked bored. Maybe she'd already heard this. And Trey's expression was unreadable, just eerily blank.

I didn't even know what to think. This was so long ago, why did it matter now? Unless…

President Paylor stepped in. "Eventually Fourteen grew too strong; Panem was forced to let them go. Anyone other than the President who knew what was going on was killed, all of the evidence destroyed. Thirteen was attacked. And it gave us the Hunger Games."

A cover-up! I screamed mentally. You're telling me that's all the Games are? You've taken so many lives, destroyed so many families, to keep a lie going!

"But there was one written record," Lavender put in. "And we put it in the arena, for the four-hundred fifth Games. We could watch the tributes, edit the footage, see who could help us and make sure they were the only one who got out. That was Kizzy."

"The Quell was changed," Paylor explained. "Made to be early and to have the objects."

I was aware my mouth was hanging open; I closed it. Great Panem, were these people insane?

"But we believe that they―District Fourteen―are planning another attack. On the arena, the tributes. So they have to be prepared, trained. I believe that, if they are abducted… they could get information back to us. Very valuable information."

"That's where you come in," Lavender said softly. "We need your help, in organizing all of the training. We have the tribute list." She handed a few pieces of paper, laying on the desk, to Kizzy. "When you're on your Victory Tour, we've arranged it so that you'll be able to meet these children. Make sure they trust you. There are a few notes there to help; all you need to do is have them agree to the training, and, for some, volunteering."

She turned to address the rest of us. "Sassy," she said. "Sage is on the list for District One. Please, don't tell her anything just yet. She'll know soon enough."

The reaction was mixed. I assumed that, the daughter of a victor, from a Career district, would be a fine contestant, very willing. And Sassy would be proud of her, but this― this―was different, this was a turn in events. She nodded, slowly.

"And, Keith," Lavender said, looking at me. "Kenton's on the list."

I gaped at her. Kenton? Di-Did she just say that? Kenton, my little brother, scarcely sixteen. He was so carefree; he loved life so much, you, you c-couldn't just… take it all away from him. But would the alternative be worse? What would happen to him if he didn't agree? What was worse than possibly being taken hostage in a district we'd never heard of before? I forced myself to nod, and heard myself say, "I won't tell him." No one else was going to die because of my actions. No one.

"And, Trey―"

"―Saber." A nod.

"Right."

As far as I knew, Trey didn't have any kids. But, almost all of us had someone we knew going into this now. They were tearing apart our lives.

"That's… that's all you need to know, for now. We'll be in touch," Paylor said. "The training will be organized before the tour. I can guarantee you this won't be easy. There will be hard work involved, and very trying times even before the Games."

No. Duh.

The meeting seemed to unofficially end, but all of us victors had to sign our names to this document that basically said we wouldn't tell anyone about this. Like they'd believe us.

Lavender spoke up again:

"And for now, I suggest you all go home and take a good look at your districts, just in case."

A Trail of Victories

Kizzy Ericssen, District Six, Victor of the 405th Hunger Games

There was just something wrong with my house. Starting with the fact that it was "my house". Seriously, I was seventeen, what was I supposed to do with a house like this? There were seven spare bedrooms, easily, and I didn't know who in Panem needed that much space. It was so large and… empty; it kind of gave me the chills, like it was haunted. I'd been living in back alleyways and under trees and on the driest part of the sidewalk I could find for years―why, all of a sudden, did I need to be so sheltered like some little kid?

Antara seemed to be very pro locking me in a box to make sure I didn't do anything stupid. Like I'd ever done that. Either way, I was getting visited by my dearest mentor twice a day to make sure I hadn't ditched.

This wasn't how I pictured being a victor, though I hadn't devoted too many of my thoughts to it. I guess I imagined myself doing happy little victor things, not helping to plan a war and whatnot. What "happy little victor things" were, I didn't know, but that was apparently what that victor from One was up to, because if she wasn't a happy victor, I didn't know who was.

And today I had to at least act like I was just as thrilled, because it was the start of my Victory Tour. The weather wasn't pleased with this at all―the sky was purple, like another sick, twisted invention of the Gamemakers'; wind howled and slammed rain up against the walls. To top it off, I was pretty sure it was hailing.

Excellent way to start the tour.

I heard a door downstairs slam against one of the inside walls, and then, "KIZZY ERICSSEN, GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Antara. Naturally.

"Get over it, the world is not going to end with my absence―hi." Still a few steps up the staircase, I was greeted by my support team―Aurelius, Ms. Twine and the prep team included. They all just sort of looked at me expectantly, like I was supposed to be saying something else. "Look, if you came here about the Panem Guide cookies, I swear I'm not even a member anym―"

"Kizzy," Antara interrupted sternly.

"What; I'm not!"

"Kizzy!"

I sighed. These people clearly had no sense of humor.

. . . . .

Forty minutes, six months worth of Capitol gossip, and a rather painful prep session later, I was deemed "acceptable", and left alone for a few minutes. My outfit was tolerable: gray fur boots and jeans, a silver-blue sweater-dress. I was fairly sure the prep team had done some sort of body polish on the parts of me that actually showed, and my hair was curled and extra-shiny, my nails done in a clear coat. Apparently we were going for a sort of "natural" look―young and pure and innocent till the end.

I retrieved the tribute list I'd gotten from Flame and folded it one more time, put it in my pocket. Not noticeable.

Finally I knew that the team would be getting impatient with me, and I went downstairs to let

Aurelius and the preps do their last-minute fussing. I was the last person to leave the house and step onto the porch, where I had to stay still and try to not go blind from camera flashes. Really, how did all the other victors do this? I didn't get to breathe, and the cameras were still going off in little scattered bursts when I climbed into the car, folding up the umbrella.

For the whole ride to the train station, I was still seeing stars.

They faded once we actually got on the train, and I skipped lunch, going straight to my familiar quarters. I had a feeling that the tour was going to be incredibly boring in between stops: being trapped in a relatively small space with my support team was not my definition of fun.

I needed something to do, something to keep me busy and my thoughts off of whether or not these windows were breakable, and were the knives in the kitchen easily accessible, and what was the quickest exit, and could you strangle someone with one of those cords, and how well would these pillows work for smothering someone―no, no, no! Stop it! Shut up!

I had a lot of nervous energy to get out.

I just exploded, jumping up and taking all of the linens off the bed and throwing them across the room, swiping my hand over the counter in the bathroom to knock everything off it, shoving over the night table, taking three of seven pictures off the wall, emptying all of the drawers, and then letting myself fall in the pile of sheets on the floor, breathless and overheated and tired.

There was a knock on the door.

I reached for the nearest pillow and threw it in the direction the noise had come from. So, of course, the door opened.

"Enjoying yourself?" Antara asked.

"Go away," I mumbled.

"Is that a yes?"

"Go away!" I repeated, louder, and threw the closest thing to me―another pillow (great Panem, the number of those things was ridiculous)―at her.

"Don't do this, Kizzy." The tone was sharp, and I felt like a little kid, letting myself sink further into the blankets. Then, softer, "Don't let the Games become you." I heard the door close. She probably left, but I didn't even look up.

And I just wanted this stupid tour to be over already. I didn't feel like dealing with District Fourteen or these new tributes. I didn't want to face the crowds that secretly longed for my death, didn't want to look into the eyes of parents whose children I had killed…

Sobbing, heaving breaths tore from me, too intense and it made my lungs hurt, lurching me forwards every time I tried to inhale. I gave up fighting the tears and let them flow, a bit too powerfully and fast.

Slowly, it died out to a burning feeling behind my eyes and a pounding headache.

There was something wrong with me. What had happened to pre-Games Kizzy Ericssen? The one brave enough that she would've not even pretended to put up with the Head Gamemaker; the one that could deal with anything, survive everything?

I answered myself:

She grew up.

. . . . .

District Twelve: home of the coal mines.

Most of my prep was on the train, but there were adjustments to do in the Justice Building while everyone arrived. Aurelius changed my hairstyle to something that would stay put despite the breeze, the prep team looked at the lighting and adjusted my makeup, and I tried to forget that in a few minutes I'd be faced with the whole district.

Antara was the last person I saw before I had to get on the stage.

"Who were the tributes from here, again?" I asked, twirling one of the layers of my dress around my hand.

"Carolina and Mist. You fought with the girl in the final battle, the boy died in the bloodbath."

"―right."

"Just try to convince them that they don't hate you as much as they think they do."

The call came over an intercom that I had to get in place. I stood, took a breath in, and waited just out of sight of the audience, behind the curtains on the left side of the makeshift stage. When I was introduced, I walked out, tried to smile. I looked out. One of the podiums for the tributes' families and friends was empty. My family's podium would've been empty if I'd died...

My too-practiced speech came so naturally I didn't really hear myself say it, and I couldn't think of anything to add. I didn't know these kids. Yet you're the reason they're dead.

I wanted to run. I could've done it.

"Kizzy Ericssen, District Twelve wishes you the best of luck―"

No one would've been in my way.

"―we hope you enjoy your tour―"

Why didn't I do it?

"―and have a great time back in the Capitol when you mentor this year!"

I could feel all the cameras focus on my face after the mayor said that last part. How had I forgotten that? Of course, I would be mentoring. While I'd been caught up thinking about District Fourteen and finding the tributes and the training, I hadn't even realized where I'd be during the Games. Those tributes for Six this year―I was in charge of managing them! Whose sick idea was that?

When the crowds started to leave, I bolted back into the Justice Building.

. . . . .

A long time ago, there were apparently celebrations for the victor in each district, but not now. There was just the ceremony, yet the train was still parked in Twelve for the night―rest time—and I had

to find a way to escape, because I had to track down the tributes.

There was some mid-afternoon meal, not really lunch, about an hour after we got back on the train. I barely ate, pushing some kind of pasta around my plate with a fork, pretending to take my time. Slowly, everyone began to leave as they finished eating. Ms. Twine first, then a mix of the styling team, finally Antara. I was alone. One of the servants asked if there was anything else he could get me. I said, "Only if you have a time machine," and left.

I had my best―well, only―idea, and headed back to my quarters, pushed open the window in the bedroom, and climbed out so I was just sitting on the thin ledge. It was a further way to the ground than I thought. Come on, Kizzy, you survived the Hunger Games, you can do this. I edged my way closer to falling off, and finally half-jumped away, pushing off the side of the train. I almost landed on my feet, but slipped and fell on my side.

I scrambled to my feet, coughing up dust that was tinged gray from bits of coal. Damn, Twelve really did live up to its industry.

I slipped the tribute list out of my pocket and scanned it until I found the first tribute that would be here. Belle. Sixteen. Secretly had a daughter. Lived at―"4411 Pyrite Lane, The Seam," I whispered to myself. "Meggie's Children's Home."

It was a starting point.

The streets were fairly empty, and I avoided the few people who were out and about. I guessed that I got a few extra glances from people if they noticed (and believed) who I was, but I barely looked up. Everyone else seemed to be inside somewhere; they wouldn't see me.

But I had absolutely no clue where I was going. I wasn't lost. I knew where I started, where I currently was, and where I was going to end up, but I just didn't know quite what happened in the middle of all that. Where "The Seam" was looked pretty obvious to me, because even coming from Six you heard about how it was the worst part of Twelve. And the place I was standing in looked pretty shabby to me.

I looked at all the signs I could find and wished that Flame had included a map. I'd see what I could figure out ahead of time for Eleven and the other districts, but I was here now. Finally, I just kept walking in the same direction, actually more jogging because really, how long did I have before someone would notice my absence? When I had to turn, I kept taking lefts and hoped I wouldn't end up going in a circle.

I was at another intersection, closer to the edge of the district, I thought. And one of the signs was, sure enough: Pyrite Lane.

I started to run, down the cinder streets as fast as I could while still being able to read the addresses. But it was a long road, and the houses were far apart. I reached what looked like the end, and I'd yet to see 4411. There was one more place, which I knew from the start was going to be it, even further down, next to what looked like a dying meadow.

I moved towards it.

The building in front of me looked like one of the places in Six I'd hide out in on a rainy day. Dingy, falling apart, surrounded by dead plants. It seemed abandoned; I couldn't see any lights on.

And the person who greeted me at the door was three.

I looked down at her, this tiny, pale and malnourished girl, with dark hair and eyes. "Uh…"

She turned around and ran. "Meggie; Meggie! It's Kizzy! Kizzy's here!"

Okay, so she didn't really talk like a three-year-old.

Then the yelling changed. "Belle! Be-elle!"

Finally someone else appeared at the door with her. About my size, and obviously from the "Seam" area… there was no way she'd moved there from the better parts of town. Pretty enough. She looked over me, evaluative with gray eyes, then said, "Go on back in, Trinity." The little kid left.

"What's going on?" she asked, folding her arms. Her eyes didn't wander for a second.

"Uh, I'm looking for Belle. Hatton."

Something crossed her face for a second; then she swallowed, closed the door behind her. "That would be me."

"What would you do to keep me from telling someone about your daughter?"

"Who? What? Who told you?"

"Answer the―" I was pinned against one of the building's walls at the shoulders, out of air.

"Who. Told. You."

"Flame," I got out, hoping it sounded a lot steadier to her than it did to me. "H-Head Gamemaker―Flame."

She shook her head, let me go, took a step back. And then, "Anything."

"Great. Let's find a place to talk."

. . . . .

The lights of District Eleven disappeared from the view out the train window. I turned away, went back to my quarters. So far, so good: all of the tributes had agreed, though it was certainly an odd cast. Seriously, some of these tributes were just weird.

But Ten blew them both out of the water the next day. Starting with the fact there was no address for the female tribute. All I had to go on was "she wanders", courtesy of Flame. But years of being in that situation helped―though the tribute, Felina, was one personality shade off being my utter opposite.

And somehow, it was still Ryan that made things interesting. He was the one who answered when I knocked, and his look could not have been more stereotypical District Ten―the button-down shirt, jeans, boots. The top-hat didn't quite fit, but that just really didn't work in any picture.

Somehow, the beginning of the conversation, alone and inside, didn't go too terribly after the initial, What in Panem are you doing here? reaction, which I was almost accustomed to. He did not respond so nicely to my saying that he had to volunteer for the Games, for a reason that I could only tell him once he agreed. "Why?" "It's complicated."

Finally it came down to, "If you're not even going to tell me what I'm doing until I agree, why in Panem should I?"

This was the hard part, and about a thousand reasons fought against each other. The list from

Flame suggested that he could volunteer to honor Namitha―his best friend who'd gone insane after losing her mentor and all her allies, and then died in the latest Games. But I didn't know what to say. I'd even fought against her in the last battle, and now I was supposed to convince Ryan to take our side?

What came out was, "Do it for Namitha."

Immediately, it was evident that saying that was a really, really bad idea.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You can make people remember."

Something in the air changed, and the conversation proceeded from there.

. . . . .

The crazy girl from Nine in the Games had definitely given me the right impression of her district, because I was seriously becoming convinced that everyone there was nuts. The female tribute, to start, was in jail, and that was apparently why she was on the tribute list―the Games or a death sentence, for killing her father and three boys in self-defense.

When I finally argued my way through security, which ended in them actually contacting Flame―and I imagined that conversation was hilarious―I was brought to Cell 19. The little information print-out taped next to the door already had an execution date on it. April 10.

The kid didn't really strike me as a serial killer.

"You noticed that execution date yet?" I asked her when the guards had moved to the end of the hall.

"Yeah," Ikky said, really quietly. That sort of added to the fact that she looked closer to thirteen than the fifteen that the tribute list said.

"Anything to do about it?"

It was hard to say, but I thought she was glaring at me through the bangs that covered her eyes. "Maybe?" she asked, looking at the papers in my hands. I just sort of stopped for a second. The words didn't sound particularly hopeful, but she didn't seem like she'd quite given up either. I had about no interpretation of what she'd said.

I tried; "Uh, sort of?"

. . . . .

After being dragged through all those other districts, being back in Six halfway through the tour was a relief. But, of course, since it was my home district, it included the presentation of my talent. Teaching. What in Panem was Antara thinking?

The video they showed hadn't come out too badly—me working with kids, being interviewed about it, so on. They skipped the parts where things about the Games got blurted out.

Being in Six didn't last long—soon we were getting "shipped out" to District Five. The tributes there were just sort of sad. The girl was small, only twelve, an orphan, and had some weird disease. The guy—Tam—had paraplegia; his legs didn't work. Easy to tell what both of their motivations were to join the whole District Fourteen fight deal. But Tam wasn't easily convinced. "What, are you nuts?" he'd

asked. "'Cause I'm not, and I ain't going into the Games."

He'd started to push his wheelchair into another room.

"Wait!" I called after him. "We can fix your paraplegia!"

Needless to say, that made him hesitate.

. . . . .

Back in the Capitol, things were just as glorious as ever. Another big ceremony, a party that went into the early hours of the morning, an interview that afternoon with the Games Announcer.

Our last evening there, it was announced that Flame wanted to talk to me. That generally wasn't good news. So I felt a bit sick the whole way to the Gamemaking Center, remembering the first few trips I'd taken there. Let's see: District Fourteen being out to kill us all, having to recruit the tributes for the Games... yeah, that wasn't shaping up to anything good this time.

Flame didn't show up at the Training Center. Or at the tram station. Or in the lobby of the Gamemaking Center. Or in her office, for that matter, where I was told to wait. I felt a bit creeped out by the fact that I wasn't facing the door, but towards the window.

"Hello, Kizzy."

I jumped about two feet in the air, but Flame only laughed slightly as she sat at her desk.

"I'd assume the tribute-collecting went well?"

"Uh... yeah," I said, sort of waiting for the ominous announcement.

"Good." Flame took a long sip of coffee, set the mug back down on the desk. "I heard there were problems in District Nine?"

"Well, they didn't like me barging into a prison, if that's what you mean."

"Ah, yes," she answered, too absently, one-handedly fiddling with a strand of her hair.

"Or the orphanage in Five."

"You seemed to handle that one yourself, Kizzy."

"Uh-huh." Just say it. World's ending or whatever. Come on.

"You seem nervous." Flame changed the subject. "I mean, I just wanted to check in. You don't have to panic or... anything."

It took too long for those words to set in, and I couldn't decide if I was supposed to be insulted or not. Seriously, I'd had to come all the way down here for nothing? "You're not announcing that the world's about to explode today?"

"Ah, no; not really," she smiled, seeming to watch my reaction.

I didn't know what to say then. "So, what, I can leave? That's it? No huge impending disaster this time?" I demanded, scowling.

"No; but there was something I thought you might want to know."

"Which is?"

"The epidemic in District Six, several years ago—"

"Yeah. I know."

"It wasn't completely natural. It—it was, biological warfare. With Fourteen. A warning, a threat, from their spies..."

I felt myself pale a bit, feeling sicker.

"What they could've done to the Capitol..."

My mouth went completely dry, then the rest of me.

Flame looked almost sympathetic. "I—I'm sorry, Kizzy. I mean, do you see now, why we have to fight?"

I thought I nodded, but it was too distant. I knew one thing.

Fourteen. Was. Going. To. Pay.

Of Heart, Liberty, and Justice

Evander D’Avranches, Age 17, District Two Male Tribute (“The Humorous Brother”)

One; two; three. Straight in a row, all three arrows lodged in the middle of the target. But just not close enough together. Not fast enough.

“Look at this kid,” I heard someone scoffing from behind me. “Like a twig, he can’t fight—”

I whirled on one foot, bow already loaded, and let the arrow fly, purposely just missing the guy. He held up his hands. “Hey, man, just sayin’.”

“Is there a problem I see going on here?” one of the instructors asked, walking on over, just barging in. “Fighting is not tolerated!” Her voice sounded older than she was, a bit high-pitched with some weird accent. She tried to look down at us over her glasses, sliding down a sharp-angled nose, but she was probably about my short height and it wasn’t effective.

“Tell that to him! He started it!” someone else blurted out, and I was pretty sure they were talking about me, so I laughed, then grinned widely at the instructor.

“Do I look like I started it?” I asked, lowering the weapon even more and cocking my head a bit.

“Children,” the instructor said, and walked away.

Somewhere across the room, a bell sounded. Someone had conquered the climbing wall, and was making quite a ceremony of ringing the bell at the top.

I picked up the bow again, turned and moved a bit closer to the targets set up on the opposite side of the range. Almost no one used this area, because almost no one had chosen a concentration on archery. Oh, no! Of course not! They wanted the knives and swords. “Ooh, shiny!” I mocked under my breath, and a kid nearby gave me a weird look. It was hard to tell if he’d heard me or not.

I tried shooting in groups of three again, this time aiming each one for a different target. The timing wasn’t much better, but it was some.

The whistle blew twice. Collect your weapons.

I went to the three targets, pulled out the arrows and found the loose one, went back to the other side of the range to collect those three, then moved to the center of the room. Everyone was there, though most were in other sectors of the room, like Aurelia over at knife-throwing.

The whistle blew once. Resume.

I did, and this time, I smiled each time I heard the whish of an arrow zooming through the air.

One of the other instructors, a less uptight one, came over. “Speed problem?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and it sounded a bit too suspicious, complimented in the way I stared at him. Sorry, but the way he carried his own bow was a bit unnerving. He pulled a set of three arrows out of his quiver, looked over at an empty target.

“See, just load, shoot, and then re-load. Don’t just use one at a time. Actually, don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Ha,” I said, not really laughing. The instructors here generally didn’t care as much as they pretended to. Fight broke out? Someone died? Just like the arena, they’d say. That’s it. And just like whatever was going on with the District Fourteen deal. But that part, I couldn’t say out loud.

He held the grip with one hand, all three arrows balanced in his other, only one aligned. He released it, aligned the next, shot, and the next. Somewhere in my head, I didn’t hear the arrow hitting the target. I heard cannon shots and last screams and pounding footsteps of someone closing in for a counterattack. I saw the life going out of another kid’s eyes as they hit the ground, and the glint of the Cornucopia, and a sword swung out at my neck.

“You okay, kid? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head, blinking. “Fine.”

I raised my own bow and followed his example.

“See, like that,” the instructor encouraged. “Gotta get used to it.” He walked away.

I swallowed, blocked the vision out of my mind, and aimed.

. . . . .

“Heard y’started a fight today,” Aurelia told me on the way home, watching the sidewalk.

“As if.”

“No. That’s good.” My twin looked at me with the same blue eyes I had as we kept walking. The praise, if you could call it that, was weird. I probably hadn’t heard it since she taught me how to throw knives.

“Uh, I guess,” I tried, suddenly not feeling much like talking.

“You guess?” she snarled, snapping suddenly. “What are you, someone from Twelve?”

“No,” I defended. “A Career. Like you are.”

She scowled. “Right. You better remember it.”

“I can’t help if I don’t want all of this!” I blurted out. She was somewhat right, though. I didn’t know what had possessed me in the few weeks since Kizzy Ericssen had showed up at our front door, wanting to talk to Aurelia and I. Seeing and really meeting a victor, knowing up close what those Games had done to them… it was just a bit discouraging, I guessed. I’d get over it. And that’s what it’s like for the ones who live.

“Grow up, Ev. You won’t win with that attitude.”

But something told me I couldn’t win with any attitude at all. Could you actually win—or was it just a case of not losing, not dying, staying alive? Was it actually worth it to lose everything else? You could never be close to anyone again, some victors explained. You never left the arena; the Capitol and the Gamemakers never really let you go home. You could never shake off the people you’d killed. You were never all together, never sane, never in one piece.

I was a Career. I couldn’t think like that. Losing was not going to be in my vocabulary.

“I know,” I answered finally.

We didn’t get a lot of transition time before Aurelia said, “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

“What?” I followed what she was looking at. People were gathering around the public screens that showed the Games, and any other required viewing. There wasn’t supposed to be anything today.

President Paylor dominated every television in District Two.

Aurelia and I pressed a bit closer, staying out of the crowd’s way.

“—that these measures must be taken. District Officials will be informed of these new parameters Monday morning. That is all.”

“What in Panem…?” I started, but Aurelia looked unconcerned.

“Doesn’t matter; let’s go home.”

I tried to shrug off the little bit that I’d heard, but it still tugged at me. New parameters for District Officials? Measures to be taken?

Most importantly, What does this have to do with District Fourteen?

. . . . .

Caecilia struggled to find where the serving platter was on the table, her blind eyes bright but frustrated.

“Oh, for Panem’s sake!” Dad blurted out roughly, shoving the plate at her. Caecilia backed away a bit. “Happy now?”

My little sister nodded, biting her lip.

Dad scowled and reclined into his seat. Naturally—Mom wasn’t around, so nothing was preventing his temper from taking over. But this event was still definitely out of the norm. He generally wasn’t like this to Caecilia, either, only to Aurelia and me. Somehow, my brain connected this and the ominous announcement I hadn’t heard. That was doubtful, though.

Aurelia just kind of looked at me, until I helped Caecilia get the food on her plate.

Dinner mostly passed in silence, Dad glowering at the table while the rest of us ate. Mom never made an appearance.

Afterwards, I helped clean up, but there wasn’t much work to be done. So I went up to my room, closed the door, looked at the case for my bow settled in the corner. My homework could wait another day, I decided.

So for hours, a few words ran through my mind, trying to turn into thoughts and sentences.

Fourteen; announcement; training; Career; Games; family; victor.

. . . . .

Jessalyn Daniels, Age 17, District Seven Female Tribute (“The Travelling Dreamer”)

On my way back to the office, I dropped the package in the mailroom, got a drink of water, fixed my ponytail, and told one of the lost visitors that they were supposed to go to the right, smiling because that one turn seemed to be the grand center of everyone confused.

When I finally got back to the mayor’s secretary to ask if she needed anything else, all she said was, “No, I don’t think so—go on home, it’s too late for a girl your age to be out.”

“All right,” I said, picking up my backpack, which was a bit heavy with homework, but still lighter than usual. “Have a nice night.”

“You too,” she said.

I was near the doorway when I remembered. “Oh, uh… next week, I might have to be a little bit… well, late… I’m helping work tutoring after school, so….”

“It’s fine.”

I smiled; “Well, bye, then,” and walked out.

It was well past sunset outside—pretty sight, really; but still I wondered what it looked like in the other districts, in the Capitol. If the clouds and the sky reflected the same midnight shade or something slightly different was only one of the questions. What about new opportunities and “whirlwind romances”? What was out there, beyond the endless woods?

Time would tell.

. . . . .

“So I hear you can both use an ax,” Cypress said.

I shrugged. “Only in the lumber yards.” And I hate those.

Next to me, my district partner, Alder—a fifteen-year-old with an odd smile and staring hazel eyes—remained silent.

“It’s still significant,” Cypress corrected gently. Her voice was odd for a victor, let alone one that had been put in charge of training us for the Games. Always quiet, always soft, and she actually didn’t say much. “But the type you use there might not be suited to close-distance combat.” She gestured for us to follow her down the stairs to her basement, which was set up for our training.

She pulled two axes off a rack against the right-side wall. “Tomahawks,” she explained simply, handing each of us one. I weighed it in my hand—it was definitely lighter than the usual sort of ax I handled, maybe a pound and a half—and the handle was shorter, close to a foot. “Good news: you can throw them too.” She looked at Alder. “Even one-handed.”

Alder just kind of glared at her. I knew that he’d agreed to this because the Capitol would fix his mangled left hand, but apparently something had gone wrong, because they’d had to amputate. And with the change made in the haphazard way that it was… well, it was apparently going to be hard to get him a prosthetic. He, really, didn’t seem to care so much after that. But I could see why the comment might bother him, even if it wasn’t meant like that.

“So, there’s the throwing line,” Cypress continued. “And there are the targets. Give ‘em a try.”

I supposed that she assumed we didn’t need much instruction. But truth be told, I hadn’t done a lot of ax throwing before. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try, right? I stepped forwards to the duct-tape line on the floor.

Wham!

The ax collided with the target, not exactly spot-on but not terribly off, either. Alder didn’t do too much worse.

“See, good,” Cypress said encouragingly. “But don’t put so much swing in it, more forward motion. Move like how you want it to.” She retrieved both of the weapons and brought them back to us, then grabbed a third off the rack. “Like this.” Cypress demonstrated. “Put your weight on your right leg, and step forward with your left.” I looked at the ax, lodged pretty close to the center of the target.

“Go on, try again.”

I stood on the throwing line, trying to balance all the advice in my mind at once. I shifted most of my weight to the right, then raised the ax back, adjusting my grip, and stepped forward with my left foot, bringing my arm forward and releasing the weapon.

Still, it shifted a bit to the right.

“Don’t twist your wrist,” Cypress told me, reaching out to straighten my hand the next time I held the tomahawk. She took two steps over to help Alder with his technique.

For about another forty minutes, I was throwing the ax again and again at the target, my accuracy slowly getting better, Cypress offering advice less and less often.

“Well, how about you two go upstairs and take ten, refill the water,” Cypress said. “We’ll finish with agility for today, and I’ll show you how else you can use those tomahawks tomorrow.” Alder and I nodded and set our axes back on the rack on our way out.

Back on the ground floor, I sat at the kitchen table and drank a cold glass of water, slowly, in small sips. Alder sat at the other end of the table and didn’t say anything. “So, I saw your mom at the Mayor’s the other day,” I said, just trying to make conversation. And it was true—his mom worked as a maid.

He lifted his head and looked at me for a few seconds. “Yeah. So?”

I shrugged, and the conversation just sort of died. Really, it was pathetic. A few sips of water later I added, “You seemed pretty good with an ax.”

“Guess so.” He lifted his glass a few inches and tilted it back and forth, watching the water sway.

“Think we should go back downstairs?” I asked when it was nearing the ten-minute mark.

“You can,” he said. “I’ll go soon.”

“All right.”

I headed back down to the basement, where Cypress was arranging two parallel obstacle courses. I smiled—this, I could do. I was a fast runner, better at that than I was with an ax.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Could you help get this second one arranged?”

I did, setting up the rest of the obstacles in a similar fashion as the first course, but shifting the order and arrangement.

“Very creative,” Cypress commented from behind me. “You might make a good Gamemaker.”

I laughed, then stopped, not really sure what to make of that. I couldn’t be a Gamemaker; I was in District Seven, and a future tribute, not to mention I wasn’t even out of the Reaping yet, scarcely old enough. “Uh, thanks?” That was just throwing me off more than it should have. Maybe it was just the implications, the fact that she thought I’d enjoy creating an arena made for killing off tributes, slowly. The sort of arena that I would be entering.

Alder came down the stairs, eyeing the courses.

Cypress clasped her hands together. “Ready?”

. . . . .

I let myself fall on my bed after another long day in a series of long days. An hour of strategy talk with Cypress and Alder before school, tutoring after, the rest of the night at the Mayor’s, home to do my schoolwork, and a dread of going back to the lumberyard tomorrow, bright and early.

I closed my eyes for a moment and untangled the elastic from my hair, set it on my nightstand.

Zera sat up in the bed adjacent to mine. “What’s with you?”

“Huh?”

My sister stared at me. “You look like you’re going to pass out or something.”

“Oh,” I said, and exhaled, rolling over. “Nothing. Just a bit tired.” My family was used to me always being out of the house, so telling them about the training wasn’t completely necessary. A few tributes, according to what Kizzy had told me, were able to tell their families limited details.

I shut my eyes again, tighter, trying to block out some of the aches and pains from training.

“Jess?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, mostly into my pillow.

“Why do you, like, care so much? About leaving? About… more?”

“I dunno,” I said, and the words almost slurred because I was too tired to think of a good answer. “Because there’s more to life than this, y’know? We can make our….” I yawned through my next words: “Our own choices.”

“Uh-huh. Well, night. You want the light off?”

“Sure.”

Zera reached over and hit the light switch. My eyes burned less, and I shifted so I could pull the blanket over myself. And before I plunged into sleep, the right answer came to me. Because you don’t have to play everyone else’s game.

. . . . .

Andrew “Andy” Radke, Age 17, District Six Male Tribute (“The Insubordinate Firebrand”)

So the whole District Fourteen thing had thrown me off a bit. When I wasn’t at “training” now, I was wandering around the district, because I couldn’t make myself go home. At home, everyone would wonder why I got back late. Ashly would wonder what I was up to.

But most of the time, great Panem I wished I was at home, or wherever she was, probably at her own house.

There were too many things that could’ve slipped out of my mouth without my noticing. Even small things. My bipolar-or-whatever-she-was “district partner”, how much I wanted to punch Kizzy Ericssen in the face, and whatever. And Ashly didn’t need to know about any of that—at least, not yet.

My birthday had come and gone with the Victory Tour, I realized when I finally looked at a calendar. For that whole afternoon, I paced along one of my favorite hideouts, a sort of cliff ledge that was high and isolated like the one I’d lived at during the Games. By then, I knew Ashly was really going to be concerned and I didn’t want to have to worry her like that. But I figured I was getting cocky— oh, my poor girlfriend who can’t survive in my absence! … That was sarcasm, by the way.

And then I sat on the edge of a boulder and looked down at the dirt. I didn’t want to admit it, but I really, really wanted to go back. I wanted to be able to talk through what I was doing with someone. What was I doing? Sure, I wasn’t completely sane, I always did dangerous things, but this, this was something else.

Actually, I knew why I was doing this. Kizzy had said if I didn’t I’d be tried for my actions during the Games—here meaning, not watching mandatory viewing. But whoever’s idea this was clearly didn’t know me. “So?”

Or maybe they did. Kizzy had looked at the papers in her hands.

“And you have a girlfriend, right? Ashly?”

She’d thrown in anything else, and I would’ve never agreed in a million years. But that wasn’t how the Capitol worked, it wasn’t how their Games were played… and they’d landed on the one thing that could get me to play their game.

I jumped down the ledges, running and enjoying the adrenaline, until I was back in the district.

. . . . .

“Andy!” Ashly threw her arms around my neck and pulled me into the house, shutting the door behind us. “Where have you been—it was a long time….” She drew back a bit, looking at me with too much concern. “Andy?”

“What?” I asked, finally snapping into the moment.

“You seem… distant….” I felt her touch my face, lightly.

"I'm fine," I said, still feeling a bit zoned out. "I just... there's something I need to tell you." And I'd broken. I'd lost it. I really, really had.

"Okay," Ashly said, a bit too quietly.

"Not here," I added. The fear in her eyes was not a figment of my imagination. I leaned over and pressed my lips against hers, briefly. "Let's just go upstairs," I mumbled, realizing I was probably really, really freaking her out.

She twined her fingers up with mine and we went up to her room, just to be alone. I knew about how much I planned on telling her—if I could help it, at least—but where to start, I had absolutely no idea.

"I'm going to volunteer for the Games," I said, and then realized that was a terrible way to start off.

"What? Andy—… why?"

"I... I just have to. But it'll be fine. I—I'm preparing for them." I made myself actually look at her. "I'll win. I really can."

"Oh," she said, partially sighing, and sat down on her bed. "Oh."

However I'd expected this to go, this wasn't it. Plus, I felt like I needed to give some sort of reason. Ashly knew, better than anyone, my feelings towards the Games, the Capitol, and this—this definitely didn't fit in with them. I sat next to her. "It'll be fine," I said again. When she looked up at me again, I knew something wasn't right. Something just seemed broken.

"Why?"

"I have to. Look, it's just part of a stupid agreement. But Kizzy's teaching me how to survive them."

"You don't survive the Games," she whispered. "No one ever really lives through them. They tear you apart." I watched the tears finally spill over. "Andy, whatever it is, don't... you don't have to do this….”

But I do, I thought. "It's okay," I tried, wiping a few of the tears off her face. "It'll just... it'll be fine."

"Andy." This was a bad idea. I didn't answer, but just pulled her closer to me, held her there, probably too tightly.

"It's fine."

She shook her head, against my shoulder. "Y-You have to win, And'... you have to w-win...."

"Shh... I will... I promise…." I slowly, slowly stroked my hand through her hair, trying to calm her sobbing. "Shh... Ashly, Ashly, Ashly... it's okay….”

"W-Why are you—you d-doing—this?"

I tightened my grip on her. "It doesn't matter. It's fine." Breathing required more focus than it should've. "It's fine...."

When the Capitol was in control, nothing was ever fine. How many times had I said that? About as many times as I’d said that I wasn’t going into the Games without a fight, unlike the rest of those cookie-cutter clones they called tributes.

But the Capitol had their ways. Oh, they had their ways, all right.

. . . . .

“ANDREW. Are you listening?”

“Uh, I’m gonna have to go with ‘no’. And it’s Andy.”

Kizzy Ericssen looked about ready to kill me, glaring intensely at the wall and scowling. I really had no doubt that she would’ve been able to, and the small collection of knives in her hand was a good incentive for me to shut up. But still, I needed some entertainment for the day.

“Well, Andy, do you have a death wish? Do you want to get slaughtered in the first five minutes? ‘Cause right now, you’re off to a damn good start to get there.”

Victors. Ugh. Once you got Kizzy off on a rant, there was truly no going back.

“Not particularly,” I answered, trying to make it sound just as nonchalant as I possibly could. “I thought I might try living.”

All but one of the knives in her hand collided with the targets set around the room, with pretty good accuracy.

“Look, you wanna die, go ‘head. I’m looking forward to it. Or maybe better yet, don’t. You be a victor. You go on your stupid Victory Tour and make a speech for the people whose kids you killed. You fight your way through the arena with the Gamemakers out for your blood. You be on guard for days straight, looking out for people to fight with. I can say that no one will ever pity you.”

I shrugged. The last knife hit another target.

My district partner, Zattiana, had already left, and that was probably a good thing. This was extra training time that I’d really gotten myself into. But somewhere between telling Ashly about this and now, I’d promised that I was going to do my best. And that was one promise that I had to keep.

“I don’t need pity.”

“That’s what I said,” Kizzy mumbled, and I just kind of sighed, because I knew she was going into one of her flashback-moments or whatever they were, which she never bothered, say, explaining or anything. So I’d given up on them. “But when you’re dying of thirst or hunger or some injury, don’t come crying to me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

I did, and went home.

. . . . .

Belle Hatton, Age 16, District Twelve Female Tribute (“The Noble Mother”)

I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could, locked it again, glanced to see that the curtains—faded, dingy, and worn-through—were tightly closed. A bit of late evening sunlight found its way in, and I let myself be glad that training was over for the day. I didn’t need the near-daily reminder of the deal I’d made when everything had just started to fall apart.

Hope toddled over to me, beaming with her still-crooked baby smile, like the world wasn’t being torn to pieces. “Mom-my!” My daughter made a good attempt at hugging me, throwing her skinny arms around my legs and almost falling over my boots. I felt like breathing was easier for a minute. Relief ran through me—if everything went according to plan, if everyone kept their promises… Hope’s name would never see the Reaping. No one in Panem outside of Meggy’s Children’s Home would know she existed. Except for a few, apparently.

It’d been a complete secret her whole life, even before, since that Peacekeeper…. Images ran through my mind too quickly to block out. It was no wonder I didn’t like leaving here.

“Hiya, Hope,” I said, semi-forcing a grin and barely getting to ruffle her hair before she was distracted, tripping on her way over to something across the room.

“She had a good day,” Dharma informed me. “Almost has that whole ‘shoelace tying’ thing down.”

I watched Hope try to pull herself up onto my bed. “Uh-huh.” Being at training really made me miss being here. Of course I was glad that Dharma was a good enough roommate that I could trust her to watch Hope during the day, but I didn’t want to miss whatever time I had left with her. Even if—well, the way it had happened hadn’t been my choice—Hope was the best part of my life.

The floorboards gave long, low creaks as I sat next to where Hope had managed to get on my bed, my arms folding automatically in their usual manner. “Mom-my.” Hope tugged on my sleeve. “Co-uld you te-ell a sto-ry?”

So she really was my daughter. The thought almost made me laugh. “Hmm,” I said, pretending to think as Hope scooted closer to me. “What haven’t I told you about yet?”

She laughed at nothing.

“The o-one with the twe-elve prin-cess-es,” Hope said.

Right, I’d forgotten I’d promised to tell her that one. It was classic in District Twelve, but with more versions than anyone could ever count. I’d suspected the ones I’d heard were probably not even close to the original.

Dharma sat on the other bed, making her curly black hair bounce around her shoulders.

“Once upon a time,” I started, closing my eyes to remember, “there was a President who had twelve daughters. They slept in a room with twelve beds that was all locked up at bedtime. But every morning, their shoes were worn out like they’d been dancing all night, and no one knew why.

“So the President told all of Panem that anyone who could find out where the princesses went at night would get to marry his oldest daughter, and be President after him.”

Wanting to keep some of the gore I’d heard about out of the story, I abbreviated: “A lot of people tried to find out, but they all fell asleep before they could. But then, a Peacekeeper came along, and on his way to the President’s house, he ran into an old woman, who told him to not eat or drink anything the princesses gave him, and to pretend to be asleep once they left.”

Dharma still seemed to be listening just as intently as Hope. I took a deep breath.

“Then she gave him a robe to wear, and said it would make him invisible, so no one could see him and he could go with the princesses. He went to the President’s house and did everything just as he’d been told. When he pretended he was asleep, the princesses all got dressed in beautiful clothes. But the smallest princess was scared that the Peacekeeper might’ve still been awake.”

I remembered the look on Mother’s face the first time she’d told me this story, after I’d been old enough to understand it.

“Then all of the princesses went through a trap door, down into the floor. The Peacekeeper followed them, through woods with trees in wonderful colors. They sailed over a lake in boats with

princes, and went into a huge castle, where they danced for the whole night. After, the Peacekeeper secretly went with them back to the President’s house, and the princesses went back to sleep.”

The trap door, the tunnel under the Home. The magical forest, the woods. The princesses escaping to dance, me wanting to escape with Hope.

She seemed barely awake, so I finished, “The Peacekeeper told the President all about what had happened, so he got to marry the oldest princess and then rule Panem.”

The endings to the stories are different, I would muse later, drifting in and out of sleep.

. . . . .

Our mentor hated that both Gunner and I were from the Seam and made no moves to hide it. Looking at Gunner, I could see where she was coming from—barely thirteen, small and scrawny, still afraid of his own shadow. He made me wonder why he’d been chosen for this. My best guess was that the Gamemakers still needed their bloodbath tributes. The thought might’ve been depressing, but really, it was just the dark side of the truth.

I, on the other hand, was doing fairly well. I had to hide some of my skills, because there wouldn’t be an explanation for them in their minds, but I had insisted upon using a slingshot as my primary weapon. Kalina wasn’t happy with that either, saying that it wasn’t practical.

"Heh," Gunner said when he walked in, his way of greeting in a sort of accent.

"Hiya." I looked around at everything set up for today, but for once, there wasn't much. I supposed it was going to be more strategy than anything. "Heard from Kalina?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Nah."

"Hmm." I folded my arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. Kalina was late as often as possible, probably to avoid us. She was one of the few Twelve victors that originated from the merchant class, and she thought she was above the rest of the district by enough of a margin that communication with us would be just shameful. But I could see why she’d been selected to train us—she did have some intelligence, and she’d managed to get the girl from last year to the final four before she was killed by District One.

“What d’ya think those ‘re?” Gunner asked nervously, eyeing some things across the room and wringing his hands.

“Targets?” I guessed. Fairly small in contrast to the gray wall of the building we used for training, seemingly mobile, wood maybe, but without the usual rings that made me think we’d be aiming for them. The conversation ended either way, because I wasn’t particularly interested in talking and Gunner was too shy to continue.

I wondered how far the Victor’s Village was from here, and why Kalina hadn’t decided to hold training at her house. It was less convenient for us, but more for her, and why would she bother caring? Maybe she wanted to make this less obvious.

“You two—grab your weapons! Anything, doesn’t matter!” When the door slammed behind her, Gunner jumped about a foot in the air. Not in the mood to irritate her further, I went for a set of knives with long blades, only two serrated. Gunner had as few as possible, seeming to shake just from holding them. I almost wanted to sympathize with his fear. Somewhere, I was probably scared, too; but I couldn’t afford to be. Not here, not in the arena.

And not even in my own mind.

. . . . .

Ryan Lawrence, Age 18, District Ten Male Tribute (“The Remorseful Companion”)

“And so we have the conclusion of the Games,” Mr. Carson lectured, turning off the projector. Modern History 12 was seven minutes from being over for the day, but I was ready to bolt out of the room right then. How he dared to cover the four-hundred fifth Games was unnerving, because it showed he clearly didn’t have a shred of character.

I could’ve sworn he was looking at me when he smiled, “And of course, our victor, Kizzy Ericssen. Of District Six.”

District Six. Not Ten. Not Namitha.

“Are there any questions about her victory conditions?”

“Ryan,” Kayla practically hissed at me, throwing an eraser my way. “Ryan.”

“Yes—Sadie,” Mr. Carson said.

“You okay?” she mouthed. I looked down to find the remaining blank pages in my notebook were mostly crumpled, my pencil out of my hand, fingers white and perched at the edge of the desk that I was clutching to keep from exploding. That insensitive, imbecilic—

I nodded, shaking all over.

Namitha… I’m sorry….

“I didn’t get how long the time was… the next-to-last question in the study-guide,” Sadie said. “Between the last cannon and the victory?”

“Carson just needs a good slap in the face,” I whispered back to Kayla, apparently a bit too loudly, because the teacher turned our way.

“Mr. Lawrence,” he said, ignoring Sadie for the moment. “Did you have something to share with the class?” I heard laughter mostly coming from the back of the room, and the raw fury made me let go of the desk and stand abruptly. I was sure I was glaring out daggers.

“Yeah, I do, actually.” I almost spat the words at him.

Even Kayla gaped at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Please, do share,” Mr. Carson said amusedly, back at his desk.

And then I had no clue what I was planning on saying. But it wasn’t like I was backing down then. “I think,” I started, “that good teachers don’t avoid tricky topics. Because good teachers, unlike you, aren’t cowards. And a tricky topic is the tributes that don’t win. The ones who don’t survive.” Even the ones who had laughed were dead silent, listening. “So by focusing on the victor, you’re just proving that you couldn’t teach a good lesson to save your life.”

I sat down, out of words and air. It really wasn’t much, and I was sure I was probably going to pay for saying that, but I’d made my point. That was for you, Namitha. This is all for you.

. . . . .

“Unfortunately I can’t let you two actually decapitate each other,” Litiea said, no hint of a joke in her voice. “So today, we get to experiment with a bit of Capitol technology—” she kicked a box towards Felina and I “—straight from Head Gamemaker Flame.” It was obvious from the way she said it that, a part of our training or not, Litiea did not have high opinions of either the Capitol or the Gamemakers. I couldn’t exactly blame her, but I wasn’t going to advise making that so obvious.

Felina was eerily still beside me, but the stillness and quiet was almost normal. I generally couldn’t tell if she was even breathing, so I’d stopped being so concerned. I peered over into the box. Inside I saw what looked like a mass of black fabric, and then, tucked in against the sides of the box, two swords.

“So suit up,” Litiea said, pulling the contents out of the package and shoving a bundle at each of us. “Then meet me in the basement.”

All of ten minutes later, I did. Litiea seemed to look at a few papers, which I assumed were directions or something. "Today is about realizing your blind spots. Defense, really. It looks like these weapons have minimally sharp blades, but when they connect with your suits, they flash red. And every time they flash, it's recorded here." She held up a small, electronic-looking thing. "The fewer flashes, the better, obviously, and then you know where your weak-points are." Litiea examined one of the weapons before handing it to me. "It looks like magnetism or something similar.

"So I'll just stay out of your way for now, and watch on this screen.” She tapped the device again. “Thirty seconds before you particularly start." She gestured around to the nearly ceiling-height "walls" set up around the dimly lit basement, like a maze. "Go on in."

The mock battle about to begin, I chose one of the entrances and ran for it, taking as many turns as I could, so I'd have the most time to think, before I heard the whistle blow. I had no plan. I had no strategy. I had no luck.

Felina had taken the entrance to the left of mine. Logic therefore said to head left, because Litiea wasn’t going to wait for us to find each other forever.

… Which way was left from the starting point? I was pretty sure I was still facing the back of the room, so that meant it was the side that was currently my left. I turned to go that way, had to turn so I was heading back to the front of the room, turned to the right, which was my old left.

I hated mazes. I really did.

Which way would Namitha have gone?

I kept coming back to “left”. Still no sign of Felina.

Taking a few more steps forwards, my heart pounded louder and my breathing grew less steady. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like in the arena. Just keep moving. I started to turn again, and then something caught my leg and I flipped over, clear through the air, and landed hard on my back. I couldn’t help crying out before my breath caught too much to make any sound. Cringing more and more, I forced myself back up, still looking for the cause of the pain rippling through me. I didn’t see it. Maybe tripwire or something.

Come out, come out, wherever you are…

I wanted this battle done and over with.

My sword drawn and kept close to me, I glanced around the next corner. It was too dark to see much, but then I spotted Felina, her eyes mostly, wide and green and watching me as if to say, Your move. I extended my sword ever so slightly, and then—bam!—Felina was less than a foot in front of me,

her sword colliding with my shoulder before I could counter. I felt the impact but it didn’t really hurt, though the red flash of that part of my sleeve seemed to imply otherwise.

By the time she came back around, I was prepared, swiping my sword up from underneath hers, going for disarming and failing, still catching her in the side, another flash of red light proving it. Too gracefully, she brought the weapon down, almost knocking mine out of the way, and jumped back, jabbing one side of the blade out at me, hitting my stomach.

Some of the air left my lungs. That hurt more than I expected, even through the suits.

Angry now, I quickly drew the sword up and to the right, the red light following close to her neck. The change in angle sent new waves of pain through where I’d hit the floor.

Felina seemed to be in an odd state of calm, crashing the side of her weapon against mine, knocking it away from her. She moved forwards, still aiming, closer to me until I was in too narrow a space to get out, almost pinned against the wall behind me. Near blindly, I tried to create more space between us with swipes of my sword, until Felina shifted her position to block my arm, her other hand holding her sword to my neck. The red light, so close, was a bit blinding. Then she paused, as if waiting for something.

What now? I thought. We start over?

No one let Namitha start over.

The whistle blew again, several times. “That was pathetic—!“ I heard Litiea yell, from somewhere beyond the maze. Her sword still against my throat, the look in Felina’s eyes grew slightly colder, her expression unchanged. “You, Ryan; not Felina!”

I groaned mentally. I’d just been outdone by my own district partner—a girl, smaller and younger than I was! Who in Panem did she think she was? This was not happening a second time; I’d make sure of that. “Don’t look so satisfied,” I hissed, even though she didn’t, really.

Litiea chose then to speak up again. “Come on out, so we can see what these charts look like. Panem knows you need all the help you can get.”

. . . . .

Delora Marris, Age 18, District Four Female Tribute (“The Apathetic Recluse”)

The ocean retreated as I approached, back towards the moonlit horizon. The water was too clear for a reflection tonight. I squinted, trying to make out something moving in the distance, but it faded into the sky’s darkness without flaw. The tide came towards me again, not with much more force than the cool, salty breeze on my face. When it went out, water and sand rushed down over my feet and ankles into the waves. Other than the rustle of the palm trees and stir of the sea, it was quiet.

I moved back slowly and finally turned to walk up the beach, sinking too far into the dry sand with each step. At the edge, the pavement was rough, but tolerable. Most of the district’s lights were off, only the streetlamps even flickering. Continuing on in a dark night—it was an act of a Career.

The end of another block came closer, the light at the end black, then a soft blue.

“Out for an after-training stroll?”

The voice was so low it didn’t quite startle me. So its source had to be close, but I couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” I said, now thinking that it wasn’t Troy or Eric, but it had to be someone from my regular training.

They took a step forwards, not completely in my direction, but definitely closer than before. My eyes strained against the shadows.

“Must’ve been a long day,” they shrugged. “If it’s this late.”

“Only eight,” I answered. “I’m not ten.”

The boy rolled his eyes a bit, the hazel color easier to see. “Right. I forgot, little Delora is just too much of a Career to be scared of the dark.”

I relaxed slightly because something clicked in my mind, and I remembered his face. I couldn’t swear to where, but I wasn’t getting a bad vibe from him. “Careers aren’t supposed to be afraid of anything.”

“Really?” He smirked, but his voice was still quiet and more amused than patronizing. “Last time I checked—”

I didn’t hear the rest of his words when something solid clamped over my mouth from behind. Instantly, panic exploded somewhere inside me and went sprinting through my veins, wordless terror that seeped out in a scream that no one could hear. A cold hand closed around my wrist, and I heard some fragment of a sentence before I was being pulled backwards, away from—

The thought hit me like a wall of water, and I tried, in the dark, to lock eyes with the boy I’d been talking too, trying to shout uselessly as my other hand was held back and I was running out of air, I was trying to kick the attacker but not getting enough force—I wasn’t even sure I was on the ground, pushing myself forwards, out of their grip, attempting to hit the ground running. Why wasn’t the other boy doing anything? What—

My eyes opened, but I wasn’t aware that they’d been closed. Someone, similar looking to whoever I’d been talking too—they weren’t a friend, now—was taking a careful step away from me. I was inside. A fire burned low nearby, giving oddly loud crackles and sparks every few moments. The place was most likely abandoned; it looked like it might’ve been some kind of diner in its day, but now there were layers and layers of dust on everything and old boards haphazardly bolted over the windows. Beside my attacker was the other boy, and there was a girl about my age sitting on a sort of counter, leaning forwards with her chin propped on her hands, auburn-ish hair falling in front of her face.

“Rigel,” said the one who’d first approached me, shaking my hand. “Antony—“ he gestured to the one who’d attacked me “—and Faith.” The girl waved one hand, looking bored.

I wasn’t running; I was crazy. I had an odd inclination to trust these people, despite what they did. I just knew, somewhere, that they didn’t mean any harm. I would’ve known.

I realized how ridiculous I had to look, standing there with my jeans folded up, hoodie shifted to the side, sneakers draped over my neck and shoulders by the shoelaces. My already almost boyish hair was probably a wreck, gray eyes wide and salt-burned. “Right,” I said, letting my shoes drop to the floor. “Why do I know you?” I asked cautiously, in case I didn’t.

“Your brother,” he started, “was my best friend for three years.”

It didn’t take up to pull up those memories, then. Of the two boys especially—younger, maybe—talking to Zalen in his room, only a wall away from mine; staying for dinner and walking home from school with him. But Zalen was two years older, and he was executed five years ago. Planning a revolution… with some friends. These ones, I was sure.

I had to get out of here, but there was no escape I could see. Now, I didn’t panic. I didn’t feel afraid, but I almost wanted to. I swallowed, with difficulty, and nodded again. “He’s dead,” was what came out.

“Yeah. We know.” He paced over to a table that looked like it was ready to collapse under the weight of air, and leaned back on it like he didn’t notice. “The question is what you do.”

“You were the ones he was planning with.” My voice shook, anger, I hoped. “You turned him in, didn’t you?” They turned him in. They got him killed. They destroyed our family, ripped my parents apart and made my sister grow up alone, convinced everyone that we were traitors, making me become a Career to make them think otherwise. I would kill them. I would, the second I had a chance.

“No.”

“Of course not,” Antony added from closer to the doorway. “He was on our side; but he was less careful.”

“What side?” I had to ask, trying to be casual, wanting more information. What to do with it, I didn’t know.

The three of them all exchanged glances.

“What. Side.”

“Don’t act like you’re stupid,” the girl said. “We know the tributes are being prepared this year, and you’re one of them.”

“Faith,” Rigel snarled at her. He was clearly in charge.

That made me stop for a second. If they did know, I didn’t have much to lose by admitting that I knew what they were talking about. But I didn’t see…. Oh. Oh. How much did they know? Why—about Fourteen? “The side—you’re—Fourteen.” There. If they didn’t know, they couldn’t get much from that, could they?

“Told you,” Faith said, singsong, and shrugged.

“Zalen was too,” I tried, a half-question. “It wasn’t just a riot he was thinking of, it was, this, it was the arena, plan, the, what the, the, uh… this.” Well, that was a terrible failure of a sentence.

“Yes,” Rigel began slowly. “We thought, you might be sympathetic to our cause. You’ve seen what they did, especially to you.”

My old thoughts. Watching my parents fall further into depression as my father lost his job, the Peacekeepers always watching us. My “friends” abandoning me quickly, and tiny little Nerissa being so isolated at all of seven-years-old. I’d always blamed Zalen, but beyond that, it wasn’t really him. It was the Capitol. Always, the Capitol.

“And?”

“You might consider joining us. There are groups in a lot of districts, even here. You could be in on it all. Tell us what you know about the tribute preparation, and in return, you know what’s going on with Fourteen.

“You can still go against them; you can still get back at them, the Capitol.”

I believed them. I did. My hatred hadn’t faded, and some part of me knew that they were playing on that vulnerability. But yes, I wanted to do this, I could still prove my family’s loyalty if this was secret, and I could get my own way as well. My family’s honor restored, the Capitol made to pay. “I… will. Join you.”

He nodded like he’d expected this. Of course, he had. “But can we trust you?”

It wasn’t a real question; it was a formality. But I smiled like I hadn’t in five years.

“Completely.”

Lurking in the Shadows

Airah Trevor, Age 12, District Five Female Tribute (“The Wimpy Blackmailer”)

“Figure they do the same thing at home?” Tam asked about the fourth-graders we’d just watched burst into song yet again.

“I hope not,” I said, wishing that would end the half-hearted conversation. I could not have cared less about the fourth-graders. They didn’t have anything to their lives worth finding out about. Besides that, I didn’t want to concentrate on them. It was a nice enough day without interruption—the sky was bright, bright blue, almost painful to look at, and it was too warm for the season, but a good kind of warm, no breeze. It seemed like just the right time to stop being so sick, for nearly the first time in my life. And the perfect time for Tam to adjust to being able to walk again, after being paraplegic half as long.

That was all supposed to put me in a good mood, but I still didn’t want to talk. Tam obviously did. He was okay as a district partner, I guessed. Charming, clever, sarcastic… the list went on. But much too talkative. “Would drive their parents crazy!” he continued, undiscouraged. “All those songs stuck in their heads—imagine hearing it, all the time. On and on and on. Just never ending. Song after song after song—” That was where I completely stopped listening. On and on and on, just like his talking.

“It would have been enough, if that was all; if all the land and skies were empty and plain….” I resisted the not-too-sudden urge to clamp my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear any of it.

“If the clouds were always here and the sun never shone, it would have been enough, if that was all….”

I was starting to really come around to the idea of going off to the Capitol. Maybe I’d always been up to the idea. It would’ve been just my luck no matter how it happened. I could get out of stupid District Five and the community home and away from everyone that pretended like they cared. No one would miss me; I wouldn’t delude myself. I was going to volunteer anyways. And besides that, even if I had gotten the medicine without this agreement, it wasn’t going to work permanently. I was still going to die early, and at least this way I wouldn’t be waiting around for too long.

“If the trees couldn’t sway and the flowers never bloomed,” the fourth-graders sang, “It would have been enough….”

“—Airah?”

I tried to not explode right then. “What?” I tried carefully.

“You seem a bit… out of it. Y’know, slightly.”

Sarcasm intended, I was sure. “I guess.”

“You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” I snapped finally. “Fine.”

Suddenly the heat was stifling and I wished there was more wind, and everything was way too bright, and I really didn’t want to go to training. That wasn’t Tam’s fault, but he was there and still being annoying even if he was trying to help and I just sort of wanted everyone to shut up already.

“It would have been enough, if that was all; if the moon always rose and the seasons never changed….”

“Let’s just go to training,” I mumbled, wanting to get it over with for the day. We were already on our way, but I sped up until I almost left Tam behind altogether. He wasn’t completely adjusted to walking and probably wouldn’t be for a long time, if he even lived to see it. I probably wouldn’t, for one.

Just because we were district partners didn’t mean we had to be friends.

Unless, of course, you asked Tamberlain Ektra.

. . . . .

Maybe it was just me, but our mentor really didn’t seem to like us. Or maybe she just didn't really like anyone at all. That was probably because of her daughter, what's-her-name—Vitality?—dying in last year's bloodbath. Whenever a victor's kid died that early on, they got laughed at, among other things. I didn't remember the child of a victor ever winning the Games, at least not in my memorable lifetime. Really, it was unlikely. Maybe not technically, but just in general.

Good thing I wasn't related to anyone anymore.

Today she'd brought us into a wide, open room of her house, with all of the windows covered up and the door closed behind us. I didn't know what the room was supposed to be originally, but it didn't really matter, because unless it was meant to secretly train people for the Hunger Games, it wasn't being used for that original purpose. I saw what was set up for today and resisted the urge to bolt from the room. A ropes course, starting at ground level in the left-side corner closer to us, going up to the wall, turning at the wall, weaving up to near the high ceiling, and it gradually went down again, back to the floor.

No. No no no no no. I wasn't going near that thing.

Even Tam looked a bit uneasy. He could barely walk—how in Panem was he supposed to navigate this course?

"This week," Ms. Falon started, "we're supposed to focus on agility." Her always-angry expression deepened. "Which seems to be a bit of a problem for you two." She looked around the room, like she hadn't even seen any of this before. "This might be a fine place to start. If you get through this once, we can work on your actual times. The goal would be to follow the course as quickly as you can until you get back here. When I say 'go', you'll start, understand?"

I wasn't doing this. I wasn't going to. My throat was tight, and my eyes burned. I blinked and shuffled over to the beginning point. My vision was blurry, breathing not steady enough. She was going to give the signal, and I wasn't going to move. Either I'd actually stand up and flat-out refuse to, or I just wasn't going to be able to function at all.

"Get ready, get set...."

No....

"Go."

Tam stepped onto the rope netting. This wasn't safe at all. I wasn't going to move. I hadn't yet, I could just stay here, maybe. After a few difficult-looking steps, Tam looked back at me. "You comin'?"

"N-no," I said, weakly. "I can't; I won't... I'm not doing this."

Tam stopped moving, still staring at me. Ms. Falon was obviously not happy. "Airah, you're going to have to do this," she said sharply. "You're losing time on your score."

"Come on," Tam said, offering me his hand. "We'll go through together, then."

The tears almost ran over. "Okay," I choked, not knowing what else I could do. Tam helped me up onto the netting, and then let go, too quickly, and I almost fell back. There wasn't a lot preventing us from hitting the floor, mesh right underneath the looser rope, but no edges, nothing to hold on to. I took another step, placing my foot right on a knot in the rope. Tam turned around the first corner and stopped, waited. He wasn't concerned about being timed. How much could I slow him down?

Ms. Falon looked like she was about to burst into flames from anger, seething. "The teamwork is sweet," she mocked, "but not the point."

Tam gripped my arm and pulled me up to the next level at the corner, ignoring the words. Now the ropes were steeper, and I felt like I was climbing stairs, but I still wasn't breathing enough, not nearly enough. I was tired and I just didn't want to keep doing this, and we were getting further and further off the ground. I stopped again, the room spinning around me, feeling like I might be sick as I sank to my knees and clutched the rope just in front of me.

"Come on, Airah,” Tam tried. “We can do this.”

I shook my head, able to feel the blood rushing through it. Who was I kidding with my abilities? I was twelve. I’d started to recover from the sickness and learned about hand-to-hand combat and strategy and even gotten to be decent with a slingshot and daggers, but this, of all things, I couldn’t do.

What was I afraid of? Maybe not the height, maybe just falling, but I wouldn’t fall, I wouldn’t fall.

I forced myself upright, feeling hot and dizzy and unable to breath. And somehow, we kept going, and right when I thought I couldn’t, Tam dragged me along. We reached the highest point, and we were both just small enough that we didn’t hit the ceiling if we crouched down a bit, but that made it harder to keep going, and I felt sick again, dreading heading back down.

The first segment in that direction was steep, and I’d fallen, down to the next even area, scared out of my wits and with a bad rope-burn, but alive and fine otherwise. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for Tam to catch up before I really opened them.

When we were closer to the floor, I’d sped up and almost ran the rest of the way down, more than happy to be on the solid ground again.

Ms. Falon looked from the time on the stopwatch in her hand to us, and then back again. She threw the watch against the wall, frustrated. “I hope you’re both happy,” she spat, and I’d stepped away instinctively. “Better enjoy it now, because you obviously don’t have much longer.”

. . . . .

Kenton Rienman, Age 16, District Eight Male Tribute (“The Carefree Shadow”)

I was standing in a room with two other people. One was my mentor and older brother, Keith, who at the moment looked ready to seriously injure someone. The other was my “district partner”, Evangaline, who was trying to backtrack in the conversation. Somehow I felt like that was supposed to be my job, but Keith’s moods didn’t usually last too long.

It hadn’t been a terrible conversation, but ever since his Games, Keith could take anything the wrong way, and he was still mad about things from last week, so forget about being easily set off again now.

Especially lately, Keith had been… well, unstable, at best. One day he thought the world of you, next day he freaked out when you couldn’t throw a knife. I had a feeling I knew what it was. All of this was making him be in direct contact with the Capitol again, and he obviously didn’t like it one bit. Look, I wasn’t the biggest fan of theirs, either, but it seemed a bit cruel to be so cold about it all the time. There wasn’t a lot we could do, so why worry?

Keith wouldn’t hear that. He was thinking about the old “love of his life” that had died in a mysterious accident. Our family knew that it wasn’t an accident. Keith had refused to do something the Capitol wanted, just what, he wouldn’t tell me, but that said enough in itself.

I decided to enter the conversation, right when Keith said, “Well, fine, you go ‘head and do that, see how it works out for ya.”

He was talking about Evangaline’s idea, when she’d suggested another arena strategy. She meant well, really, but didn’t seem to know how she intimidated a lot of people, despite her rather plain dressing style and such. But that probably didn’t have a ton to do with Keith’s attitude right then, nor mine.

“Hey, it was just an idea,” I tried. “Don’t take it too personally.”

He scowled, but backed off quickly.

. . . . .

The next day, something weird happened. Not some huge phenomenon or anything, but, the phone rang. The phone never rang… who would call? Not a lot of people had a phone in the district, so calls came from the Capitol, the Mayor, or one of the other victors. Generally not good news, but that wasn’t a hard and fast rule.

Keith was the only other person home at the time, and he definitely wasn’t going to answer, so I did, though I was a bit out of practice and all. “Hello?”

“Ah, hello,” the caller said, almost sounding nervous. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite swear from where. “This is Head Gamemaker Flame; is Keith home?”

“Yeah—uh, yes. Uh… hold on.”

I’d admit it: I hadn’t seen that one coming, so it kind of caught me off guard. I’d never even met the Head Gamemaker, and yet even saying that much to her scared the living daylights out of me, which was saying a lot.

“Keith!” I yelled up the stairs.

It was probably a good thing I hadn’t had much time to think. If I had, I might’ve mentioned the training in some way, and that probably wasn’t a safe subject to talk about. Then again, maybe I should’ve, since my brother was taking his time answering.

“Kei-eith—phone, for you!” I called.

“Fine,” he snarled, reaching the bottom of the stairs and grabbing the phone out of my hand. He disappeared off for a few minutes, and when he came back, he was in no better a mood. “Have to go to the damn Capitol again,” he grumbled, practically spitting out the word Capitol. “Report or something stupid.”

I wondered how many other things could’ve come after the “or”.

. . . . .

I was just relaxing in the living room after training, watching a set of promos for the upcoming Games Day. I didn’t have much interest in the videos or the holiday, except that it meant another day off school, and it meant that Keith would probably sulk in his room the whole time. Games Day was April twenty-sixth, exactly two months before the Reaping, and it was half-celebration, half-memorial. To the Capitol, it was a way to get everyone excited for the upcoming Games, and a way to bring recent ones back into the spotlight. But like I said, to me: it was a day off from school.

I heard voices coming from the kitchen. My parents, definitely, and I wasn’t a big eavesdropper, but I thought I heard my name, so I couldn’t help but go to listen. You have to wonder what they really think of you sometimes, you know?

“Are you sure this is the right thing? He’s already so caught up in the Games…” my mother said, quietly enough that I strained to hear.

“Keith doesn’t deserve our help, Jessebell. Great Panem, he doesn’t even support the Capitol; it’s dangerous. Kenton’s a good kid, if he didn’t want to be dragged in—“

“—he’s worried about his brother, that’s all. But I wonder if he really wanted to join… what it is that they’re up to now. Keith is so secretive, and Kenton… well, he has his own problems.”

Problems? What problems did they think I had? There were the Games, maybe, but wouldn’t they know if they were really starting to get to me? I was just training, now, it wasn’t like I was so far gone.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

Yes! Thank you, Father!

“So do we really just let him be involved in all this? He’s so young—“

“—plenty old enough for the Games, I’d say. He should be glad for a chance like this. He’ll be like a Career, and straight out of District Eight, of all places!”

My parents’, and especially my father’s enthusiasm for the Capitol and the Games made me slightly uneasy. I stopped listening and turned away, went back to watching the promos. If they didn’t want me to be in the training, they should’ve spoken up sooner. It was a bit late, now, but maybe it was to start with. Keith would’ve said that. Was I becoming more like him, another victor? Was that even good or bad?

Plus, they hadn’t mentioned it, but I’m sure my parents were worried about what the training meant. Something was obviously going on, and they were going to be worried that it was ant-Capitol, which I knew, and Keith knew, but they didn’t, not really. My father was one of the richest men in the district, besides the fact he was related to a victor. He didn’t want anything to change, he said Keith was only over-reacting to the Games, and that was all.

I turned off the television, went upstairs. I had some homework to do that would be a good distraction, and then some videos to watch for training. Keith would be going to the Capitol tomorrow, so maybe a day off from his hostile moods would put my parents in better spirits.

I was their favorite son; I should’ve been doing something about it. And I didn’t say that just to brag, but really, it was the truth. Keith had let them down by being so rebellious, and I needed to make up for it in any way I could.

Had what my mother had said been true? Was I turning into a Career, and a future victor? Or into just another bloodbath tribute?

. . . . .

Ikky Delacroix, Age 15, District Nine Female Tribute (“The Dangerous Prisoner”)

It was the slightest bit amusing to hear the questions that arose from the block called the “fish tank”, exclusively for new arrivals. Thankfully someone would generally give them the run down of the unofficial rules the rest of us usually agreed upon, namely, just shut up and keep your mouth closed. But still, a lot of the fish asked why the cells had windows. “Couldn’t someone get out?” they’d ask. A hack generally reminded them—quite loudly, if you asked me—of the high, razor wire-topped walls, armed guards, and observation towers. District Nine prisons didn’t fail any security standards.

Even my cell had a window, and in their eyes I was nothing but a murderer four times over.

I looked out of it a lot, even though there wasn’t much of a view. There was just the recreation yard to see before the walls blocked out the rest of the world. But within it, there was usually something to watch. Most people took the time they were allowed out to get away from their cellie, if they had one. The occasional black-market trade was general obvious to us even if the hacks were oblivious—purposefully, I thought.

At the moment I was watching a group that had gathered close in a corner, around a bench. I could almost hear the shouting clearly, and it looked like it was going to get rather violent quite quickly. I backed away from the window, sure no one was watching me, and then lay down on my bed, which was bolted to the wall.

Tomorrow I’d be able to leave, and I was one of very few people who could say that. Not forever, certainly, just for training with Henrik and our mentor Bryce, but it was something different in the cycle.

. . . . .

We waited in the basement, watching the newest type of obstacle course that had been assembled. Apart from a bit of other machinery, there were seven platforms, level at the moment, but it looked like they might’ve been able to move, except the last one, furthest away from us.

I glanced over to see Henrik’s thoughts of this, having to look up to meet his sharp brown eyes. He was only a year older than me, but I was short for my age, and he was tall and rather stocky for his. He still looked calm, at least compared to how I felt. I hoped it didn’t show too much.

Bryce appeared then, cheerful as usual. “Hey, guys, sorry ‘bout that wait. I see you’ve discovered today’s mission.” He held his arms out in presentation. “Brought to you by the Capitol and Head Gamemaker Flame, I present…” he faltered, “this unlabeled training station that I have no dramatic name for!

“So insert the dramatic music of your choice here, and then listen up. Once I turn it on, these are going to rise and fall. Your job is to jump from platform to platform to reach the last one, which won’t move, and then do the same to get back here as fast as you can.

“You up for it?”

“Could we see what it looks like switched on first?” Henrik asked, turning away from the course for the first time to look at Bryce.

“Sure,” he shrugged, “if you want. Stand back.” We both took a step away from it, nearly in unison. Bryce flipped the switch on the wall behind us, and then, all at once, the platforms moved, not ascending or falling in any pattern, and at different speeds. Henrik watched it carefully, and I wondered if he could see some constant that I couldn’t.

Bryce turned it off. “Ready now?”

I nodded, as did Henrik.

“You start standing on the first platform. Don’t worry ‘bout it; that one doesn’t move too fast at first.” Henrik stood about two feet away from the right end, so I stood the same distance away from the left, with about the same length still between us.

“On three!” Bryce called, already standing next to the switch. Every part of me was tense, partially with dread of the first platform movement, partially in preparation.

“One!”

I glanced at Henrik again, whose gaze was fixed on the far wall.

“Two!”

I wanted to close my eyes; I didn’t.

“Three!”

The ground started to rise from under me, and my arms flew out instinctively for balance. Henrik quickly jumped to the next platform but almost fell off, wavering. I tried to dig my feet into the metal to keep from being unsteadied. If I didn’t start moving then, I wasn’t going to work up the nerve. I hopped off, straight onto the next platform that rose to meet my fall.

I watched the movement of the next platform in comparison. This jump seemed further than the last—but they hadn’t looked uneven from the ground; had I missed something?

When the platforms were about to be level, the next one coming up, I leapt. No, not quite fast enough. The platform was too high, I just barely landed on it, and then it was moving downwards, too quickly, and I was almost thrown forwards, but then something pulled me back.

Henrik. That threw me off for a good second or two. I hadn’t even seen him move after I did, and that was rare.

He barely jumped to the next one, almost just taking a long step. I tried to do the same, but it wasn’t long enough, I was falling into the gap between the two platforms. Throwing myself forwards at the last minute, my hands curled around the bottom of the other side, my upper body dangling over the metal strip.

I pushed myself upright, balancing, and pulled my legs up underneath me, standing carefully, slowly. Henrik headed off to the next platform. Still not feeling steady, I sprung forwards, landing heavily and having to straighten myself. Two more jumps to go, I thought.

The next jump was easier, the platform ahead of me mostly lower than the one I was on. One more until the final landing, and that wasn’t moving, but it was higher than this platform usually was, just like the jump I’d almost missed. “Together?” Henrik asked, and I nodded.

We jumped. He almost didn’t make it, one foot slipping off at the last moment. I pulled him forwards, and we turned, carefully, looking back. It was all the same jumps and leaps, all of the same struggles as the first time. But then, it looked a bit less daunting. We had gotten through it the first time, if barely, and we could do it again. There was no guarantee we'd be beating any record times, but we would make it. Slow and steady wins the race, they said. I looked at Henrik again. He was steady as ever, and looked back.

"Together?"

The word echoed in my mind. I looked ahead at the course and jumped to the next platform, Henrik right behind me. Bryce was smiling his usual goofy smile, as if pleased by our strategy, or perhaps lack thereof. This obstacle course vaguely reminded me of life, though I wasn't exactly making deep comparisons at the moment.

I threw myself off the platform to the next one, and then the next, feeling more confident. Then I stopped; the platforms were quicker now, and when Henrik caught up, I considered being the first to move, to prove that I could. That was the philosophy I was supposed to have. Instead, when I caught his expression, at the same time, we extended our hands—his right and my left, and held on tightly for the next move. The combined weight pulled us back enough that we didn't fall off the platform.

Right around then, the next one didn't seem to move so quickly.

. . . . .

Saber Star, Age 18, District Three Male Tribute (“The Loyal Traitor”)

“Three. Four. Seven. Ten. Eleven. And Fourteen,” I recited.

“Are?”

“The districts we’re stationed in.” I tried too hard not to snap, so it came out bored. But I cared, or I was supposed to.

“Fourteen’s not a district,” Trey scolded immediately.

“Then why in Panem do we still call it ‘District Fourteen’?” I blurted out, hitting the papers in my hand against the table. “I get that we want to be in government again; I get all that, I don’t know why we won’t acknowledge that we were before.” The papers fanned out across my half of the dining room table. I sighed in frustration and leaned heavily against the back of my chair.

“Listen to me, boy,” he barked, leaning closer. “You don’t want them to know you’ve got any free will. They think for a second you’re not the perfect weapon they raised you to be—“ he snapped his fingers, an inch away from my face “—you’re dead. Fourteen doesn’t put up with ‘creative thinkers’.”

I glowered at the practice test in front of me. Practice practice practice. Words drilled into your mind, so you could never forget and pull them up when you needed them. Even in pointless homeschool tests that weren’t a part of the real curriculum.

“And in case you’ve forgotten, Fourteen is a state, no matter what they damn call it. Besides, you’d better do more review if you don’t know that learning from mistakes is one of the main morals.”

I scowled. “I know.”

“We’ll get back there soon, boy; just give it a bit.” His version of “comfort” seriously failed, and I didn’t even want it.

“Question seven-‘a’,” I continued, pretending we hadn’t gotten off topic. I read the question, answered aloud almost robotically with the names of our members in Three. Trey cut me off before I could answer the next one.

“Hold on, don’t be so eager.”

“What now?”

“There’s an update to this answer. And a bit of something else.”

I didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to give the answer I’d studied for and move on. But something else? Like what?

“There’s someone knew in Four—Delora Marris.” I added the name to the list, barely finishing writing when Trey added, “She’ll be in the Games with you.”

“A Career? What, are you kidding me?”

“You’re not so different,” he shot back, waving me off. “She’s your age. Her brother was in the group before her, got caught a few years back and got his head chopped off for it. The Mulish trio recruited her not too long ago. She was apparently more than happy to join.”

“Fine,” I shrugged, giving up the fight. “Anything else I should know?”

“You’d be smart to ally with ‘er.”

“The Careers,” I said. “Seriously. Listen to yourself.”

“They might just want you,” he said. “And she’s probably been told the same thing by now. It wouldn’t be so terrible of an idea for you to work together.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, mostly just to drop the subject.

“And maybe you’ll finally get yourself a girlfriend,” Trey added, just to taunt me.

“Ha. Right. Now there’s a thought.” I exhaled through my teeth. “Question seven-c….”

. . . . .

The door slammed closed at just past one in the morning. Trey yanked back his chair and sat at the table, glaring at nothing. "Good to see you, too," I said.

"Not now, boy. We've got bigger problems to deal with."

I'd heard this only a few times within the past year. Once when it was announced that victor from Ten was dead, once when he'd gotten a phone call straight from the Capitol, and some others. "What is it?"

He'd just gotten back from meeting with two others in the district, I knew, hence the odd time and probably his mood. He never let me go with him, and if I bothered asking why, he said it was because of the free-will deal. Like it mattered to anyone here. No free will, no free will, no free will. I'd heard it millions of times, easy. The spies in our district wouldn't bother reporting me as being suspicious, especially if there was some sort of problem.

"More security crackdowns," he said, moving again to get something from the fridge. "The ones the President announced a while back; they're really kicking in, now."

Well, that was a lot of build-up and worry over something so idle.

"And what? That can't be so big a deal, right?"

"It can be if they want it to be. It'll be hard to get the plans together if we're more concerned about keeping it a secret than doing anything."

"It's always been hard," I countered. "Why do you start caring now? We don't have time for it."

"With all the officials keeping their eyes open, we're sure to be on their watch list. Since I've been going to the Capitol, and all."

"Yeah, but with the approval of the President," I pointed out, hating that he was acting so stupid like this. "And the Head Gamemaker. And you're not the only one. If anyone, they're watching Rienman or Hellion, not you. Why would they?"

"Can't underestimate people's paranoia, Saber." He sat down again, beverage in hand. "Especially if more people know about Fourteen, they know what to look for. They're not so blind, and it's not just the President giving orders anymore."

"So who is it that knows? You, the other four victors, the President, Head Gamemaker, and the tributes, right?"

"Now the Peacekeepers have to know that something's up. They've caused us enough problems and deaths already. Not to mention the victors doing the training, even if they don't know all of it, and the tributes' families; if it's slipped to anyone, we don't know. It's the endgame, we don't have time, like you said; no time for problems."

I stood and closed the curtains. Inside this house was safe, we both knew, but we didn't need to advertise that we were up at this hour. Outside, it was just starting to rain, a bit of thunder rumbling far off. "Whatever, then. Worrying doesn't help if there's nothing you can do about it."

. . . . .

I had one slight problem with secret-keeping. Maybe two, depending on how you looked at it. Their names were Deena and Cama. One was somehow what most people would call a "friend", the second one was my district partner. Both were talkative. And cheery. And optimistic. For some reason, they found interest in talking to me, even though I could've been less than interested in talking to them. The fewer people I talked to, Trey said, the better. Less of a risk factor in me accidentally blurting out, "Oh, yeah, by the way, there's a District Fourteen," or something like that. Did he really think I was that stupid?

But either way, conversation wasn't my strong-suit. So whenever Cama was over for strategy-talk, she and Trey did most of the talking, because he was a better actor than I was around other people, and he and I could talk strategy anytime. Cama didn't seem to mind too much, but she always tried to bring me into the conversation, awkward and failed attempts that I shrugged off, with Trey's help.

So I spent the afternoon listening, and pretending to just be really concentrating instead of zoned-out. Cama seemed intent on impressing Trey one day. She threw out any ideas she had, any at all, and some of them weren't even so terrible, by normal standards, at least, but it was amusing to watch Trey find their flaws time after time after time. Oh, normal District Three citizens. The district wasn't half as smart as everyone seemed to think.

Sometimes, it made me wonder what they would've thought of Fourteen.

. . . . .

Felina Armanous, Age 17, District Ten Female Tribute (“The Accidental Killer”)

I was wrong. I knew this when I woke and heard voices of Peacekeepers around the corner from my location. I’d thought that I’d found a safe place for one night; I was wrong. I had, essentially, two choices: to remain where I was and hide, or to move on to somewhere better. It was illogical to close my eyes, so instead I focused them on the bottom side of a balcony above me as I slowly rolled over onto my back, my palms flat against the pavement, pushing me into a sitting position. I then stretched forwards, upright, and with one hand retrieved my bag.

I took in one long, quiet breath. The footsteps and voices I heard were definitely coming from behind me, so I had to move forwards. I was in something of a narrow alley between two apartment complexes in the urban part of District Ten. The balconies would offer concealment from above, the buildings walls from the left and right. Before sundown I’d noted that the path I’d taken to get here—the same one the Peacekeepers were taking, it must have truly been the most logical—had a rather lot of turns. Left left right left right right left right. Going back that way, without knowing a quicker route, was risky, besides the Peacekeepers.

But going forwards might have been worse. It was unknown, but very likely to be better than my only other apparent option.

I started down the pavement with light footsteps, moving as little as possible besides the necessary motion of walking. My arms were still at my sides, and I looked to either side of me with only my eyes. My breathing was shallow but maintained as even as always.

I turned a corner, going to the right, in the general direction of the main road that branched off. Surely they were convinced there was no urgency to their mission, and that weeding out the homeless wouldn’t require pursuit. They would be surprised that I had heard them and that I was so careful in my movements. I had enough of a head start; I had given them no additional reason to follow me. Getting out of this system of streets unnoticed would be simple if I played it right.

Except, I heard footsteps and talking for a second time, much closer, but they didn’t sound so familiar. It was a different group, nearer to me than the other. The urge to run and move away from them came to me quickly, but I suppressed it. Rashness would not be helpful. I did need to adjust my plan, but not as I really wanted to.

I looked at my surroundings to see what I had available for my use. I thought I saw the answer, but didn’t want to put my trust in it to the point I would run. So I simply moved towards it at the same pace. Before me was a ladder, bolted to the brick wall behind it. The rungs were thin but could surely support my small amount of weight. Looking at how high up it went, it had to be a fire escape. Yes, my assumption on the weight limit would then be correct.

There was a part of me that didn’t want to start climbing. I identified the feeling as fear, but imagined it to be a wisp of air and exhaled it. That was better. Now it was detached, floating in the air around me without the power to affect my choices. A thought came to me, and I retrieved an empty tin can from the curb, placing it in the right-side pocket of my jacket.

I watched myself place one hand on a rung that was near as high as I could reach, the other lower so my arm was still near my side. I placed one foot on the very bottom step, the next just one above it, and proceeded. One more rung at a time, one step, one move.

Approximately every ten seconds, I stopped to listen for the voices and footsteps of the Peacekeepers. When I was halfway up the ladder, they were dangerously close. I took a moment to focus on my breathing, and carefully took my right hand off the next rung to pull the can out of my pocket. I turned slowly towards the street to my left, drew my arm back, and aimed loosely for a trashcan next to the building on the other side of the alley. I didn’t hit it, but I hadn’t really been planning to—it was an expendable reference point. The Peacekeepers turned at the clatter, calling to each other, What was that?

I trusted nothing in others except their intrinsic level of stupidity. It was a wise choice.

It wouldn’t delay them for long. I turned back to the ladder and reached up again, getting further and further off the ground. When the fear returned, I exhaled. Closer to the top, there were rungs missing every steps, and it was too dark to really see it much ahead of time. I’d be dangling for just a moment, and then I’d pull myself up to the next one.

Now the upper half of me was above the edge of the roof, so I leaned over to shift my weight in the right direction, until I was on firm ground again. I stood slowly, already moving so that the sign with the name of the complex would be between the direction the Peacekeepers were and myself. I hid in the corner of the sign, crouching between a support to my right and the back of the sign behind me.

Remaining as still as possible, I shrugged off my backpack and pushed it into the part of the corner that even I couldn’t fit in. I wrapped my arms tightly around my knees and kept my head down, knowing I had to stay awake. I could stay here just slightly past dawn—I’d noted that the other side of the sign faced east. To reduce the risk of falling asleep, I’d leave as soon as I was sure the Peacekeepers were gone, if it was before sunrise.

Estimating, it was roughly twenty minutes before I couldn’t feel my heart beating as much. Thirty before all of my muscles relaxed. Thirty-five before my breathing completely evened out. Fifty before I felt the urge to move that I had to resist.

I made myself think in order to stay conscious. First, starting with the number one and doubling until I lost track. Second, guessing the time. Two? Third, remembering all of the contents of my backpack and how long they would last. Fourth, planning a route out of here for the morning. Fifth, mulling over the results of the previous day’s test in training. Sixth, listening to see if I could hear any evidence of the Peacekeepers.

As time passed, I wondered how this would compare to my time in the arena. The constant fight-or-flight, doing what was necessary to stay alive. The thoughts were too consuming, taking up my attention, so when they ended, I was lost.

Still awake, I felt like I had a dream. I was running through a field with grass that was too tall, my dark hair trailing out behind me like there was a lot of wind. Ahead of me were my parents, throwing berries into the air. I recognized them as the ones I’d accidentally brought home, the cause of their deaths.

I screamed a warning, but then there was no one to hear me.

. . . . .

Alder Black, Age 15, District Seven Male Tribute (“The Cynical Hypocrite”)

My house was right where the Branch and the Old Woods met, which suited us just fine. The Branch was essentially the river valley of the thin, practically-a-stream Oak River that cut off the lumberyards from the residential area going uphill to the town square. The Old Woods were the abandoned square miles of land that were once part of the yards. Now kids went running through there for the sake of dares and bets.

I heard about half of them died.

So of course, where the Branch started to run off into those woods, our house sat oblivious to the warnings. It was stupid that someone had actually gone through the trouble to build a house right there, anyways. But I didn’t care, and if my parents did, too bad for them. To top off where the house was, spring in Seven majorly failed in the “birds chirping, sun shining” cliché. Instead, all the snow melted and ran right into the Oak, and with all of the new rain thrown in, it generally overflowed to—take a guess—flood the closest parts of the Branch.

Seriously, the location really sucked, but that wasn’t the point.

The reason it suited me was it was just out there. Like, as in, our nearest neighbor was probably about a quarter-mile downstream, or just under that going uphill. Putting up with them was more optional than usual. I didn’t usually venture out of the woods in our area for anything except for school or the Reaping, but then training was added in, and that was where I was headed.

I stalled, even though I was probably already running late, and watched the drizzle run off the leaves of trees around me. Apparently it was starting to rain harder, because even though I didn’t have a clear view of the sky, there were less droplets and more of a steady stream hitting the ground, soaking the soil and pine needles and slush left over from last night.

Moving on.

I had to go all the way up to the town square before moving towards the Victor’s Village, far to the right of the square and general direction of my house, when you were looking uphill. I pulled open the front door and heard voices coming from the kitchen. Cypress and Jessalyn were already sitting at the table, just chatting away when I walked in and slumped into my seat.

“Glad you could join us,” Cypress said, which acknowledged that I was late without being directly scolding. She was an okay mentor; but she didn’t seem to get that the Games were different than when she won, and not everyone ended up in an arena just like their district. “I was just thinking you might want to hear this.”

“Oh, really?”

“We were talking about alliances,” Jessalyn added.

I scowled. “Right.” I’d been watching the Hunger Games for most of my life, but I still didn’t have much idea of what was behind alliances. I knew about the Careers; I knew that tributes from Five and Six usually went at it alone. The tributes from Nine allied more frequently than not. But Seven was one of those that didn’t have any “rules”. Last year, both of the tributes from here had a different alliance, but the year before… the year before… Hickory had been alone, but the girl wasn’t. And before that, neither of them had any allies, and they were both dead before the anthem first played; the boy from Eight won that year.

“Now, I’m sure both of you would be fine on your own,” Cypress said, “But you shouldn’t rule out an alliance either. A good ally is always an advantage.”

Unless they killed you in your sleep, that was.

“Of course, you won’t meet the other tributes until you get to the Capitol, as it usually is.” She was clearly trying to hand the conversation over to us. We were the only tributes we knew of, so we were the only possible alliance at the moment. I didn’t want help. Why let the Capitol say I’d only won, or gone as far as I did, because of an ally’s pity? And out of everyone, I really didn’t need it from Jessalyn.

“Yeah,” I agreed, not caring. “We won’t.”

“So, you two might want to discuss the possibility of an alliance between you,” Cypress added bluntly. “Meanwhile, I’m just going to get the tapes to review today.” She walked out, leaving us alone. Purposely, of course—how could it not be?

I was not going to let Jessalyn make assumptions or let the topic go, even if it meant talking. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said. “I don’t want an alliance. Not with you; not with anyone.”

“I thought so,” she answered. “But you’ll probably be fine alone.” She said it like a compliment. Maybe she even meant it as one, maybe I even wanted her to, but I naturally didn’t want to think that. Plus she was quiet for a split second afterwards, possibly a record for her, which indicated she had feelings otherwise. Of course. We could pretend whatever we wanted to for now, but once we were in the arena, we had no allegiance to each other. “And maybe….”

“What?”

“If we do see each other in the Games, maybe we could not kill each other for a while?” she suggested. I thought about why she would say that. I didn’t believe she would have a problem turning on me, and she knew I wouldn’t have a problem doing the same to her. But when someone killed their district partner, if they won… if they won… some viewed them as traitors. Two tributes had gone that route last year. One survived.

“Yeah. Sure,” I scowled. “Whatever you say.”

She didn’t push the issue again, and stayed quiet until Cypress returned and then ushered us into the living room. I watched the tapes more carefully than usual, but listened less. They were all different “scenes”, but from last year’s Games. First I noticed Kizzy, who seemed to have no problem taking out her district partner in the bloodbath. Then the girl from Eight, who killed her ally with his own sword in his sleep; and then the pair from One ditching the Careers, the retaliation of the day after. Who could watch all this and still want someone with them in the arena?

The tributes created their own games—relationships built on lies and deception, hatred disguised as love, betrayal when it fell apart. They didn’t see their competitors as obstacles, but as more pieces in a bigger picture that would bring them to the end of the Games, as the victor.

So that would be what I had to do.

. . . . .

There are reasons most District Seven artwork is based upon the woods. One is that it’s the main subject we have access to. Or that some people just find them “pretty”, which apparently warrants having numerous related oil paintings and woodcarvings, back in the Capitol. Another is that it’s quiet and good enough at tricking you into thinking it’s peaceful that it can almost be relaxing.

Note the word “tricking”.

I didn’t really blame the woods for the accident, but really, there were more reasons than that. I awkwardly managed to sit on an old tree stump, the lack of my left hand making the process more difficult. Hickory would’ve laughed at me, but he wasn’t there. He was buried, but really still in the arena, forever deemed a tribute instead of friend and neighbor or anything else.

Somewhere around here, there were probably a few trees I’d managed to hit with an ax, when he was teaching me. I didn’t want to see them, so I probably hadn’t noticed any on the way. They would be both encouraging and deceitful. I did have some clue what I was doing; but so had he, and look where that ended him.

Look where preparation ended a lot of tributes.

To a world beyond, one poem read. Not able to see or hear / The differences in our world. Yeah. Right. That was one way of putting it, but it was the idiot’s way, or maybe it was just naïve; who knew? Well, the author, assumedly. Whatever their name was.

I traced and counted some of the rings of the former tree until it started to get confusing, then stopped and just listened to the silence.

What It Takes

Henrik Armfeldt, Age 16, District Nine Male Tribute (“The Protective Twin”)

My life a while ago was very easily summarized. Maybe not “simple”, but it was a quick story. There were pretty much five main characters in what would’ve made a horrible-to-me, wonderful-to-the-Capitol reality show.

Myself. Arguably handsome (no comments, please), calm, patient, above average in levels of intelligence (again, don’t comment). I had a twin brother, Frederik—see below—a slight crush on my fellow reality show character Desiree, and a friend in her twin Georges. Our show could be called “The Twins”.

Frederik had one motivation. To marry and live happily ever after with Ikky Delacroix. Yes, that would be the fifteen-year-old serial killer that I was in training with. I had to admit, I was starting to see some of her better qualities. The other problem with his plan? They had never spoken.

Desiree had a similar motivation, but concerning Frederik, who pretty much pretended that she didn’t exist in that matter. It was obvious, and I was clearly not getting anywhere in making it otherwise. They dated once. Try telling that to Frederik, and he would give you a blank look.

The other twin brother of the show, Georges, was an artist through and through. Except, “no one understood his work”. He was a perfectionist, almost annoyingly so. But better yet, he wouldn’t talk to any other characters, so we got to hear all of it, all the time.

And then there was authority-hating, teenage-rebel-type Ikky—four-time murderer, supposed love of my twin’s life, my district partner, my ally, maybe almost my friend. Wherever she came in, things got complicated. Quickly.

So that was the non-existent reality show of my life. There was a bit more to it, of course, but really, really, it would’ve been cut from any decent script. Unless the screenwriter was very, very fond of the Hunger Games. That was where it got worse.

. . . . .

Look, I really tried to be mellow when it came to dealing with my brother. We weren’t exactly the type of siblings that hated each other most of the time, and weren’t always arguing or anything, but I wasn’t free of complaints, either. Maybe, for one day, I just wanted to come home from another training session without being bombarded with questions about Ikky.

It was almost better than dealing with his depression issues when she was supposed to be executed, except now he seemed to have no interest in my impending volunteering. Unlike when the

infamous Kizzy Ericssen had shown up at our doorstep. Good thing Dad wasn’t around, or he would’ve freaked. Apparently the deal was that Frederik had the actual motivation to agree to the training, but I was a better bet, and likely willing to take his place. “Right?”

But then Frederik, at the next mention of Ikky’s name, burst into the room. Sneaky little eavesdropper. So he got told to, in Kizzy’s words, shut up unless you wanna go to the Capitol and eventually left. Needless to say, I accepted the deal with Kizzy. And I swore to my twin that I would do everything in my power to protect the “great love of his life”. (He was sixteen. Weren’t sixteen-year-olds supposed to know nothing about love?)

When I got home, there was yelling coming from the back room, so I headed upstairs instead.

“Training today?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, trying not to invite more questions. I didn’t really want to talk, and I still had that right, didn’t I?

“What’d ya do-o?”

My brother made a point of making it sound like an innocent question. “Nothing ex-cit-ing,” I answered in the same singsong, just to mock his tone.

He gave me his best angry face. “Nothing exciting like what?”

No more games; no more beating around the bush. “Like target practice, again. Your little girlfriend almost killed me, by the way.”

“Really? How?”

No concern, no comment on the fact I called her his girlfriend. “Oh, y’know, by almost decapitating me with a knife. Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough.”

“Huh. And have you learned anything from that yet?”

I sighed tightly. I needed to look at this from his perspective. His brother—me—was spending more and more time out of the house, leaving him alone. He was stuck in an awkward situation with Desiree, and the fact that I was now almost a friend of Ikky’s, while they’d never spoken and he was no closer to his goal. The training was demanding and exhausting, so when I was home, I became irritable quickly despite my best efforts. Not to mention that the Reaping was approaching, the day when Ikky and I would both be carted off to the Capitol, possibly to come back in standard wooden coffins, still and colorless, emaciated and blood-coated. Possibly doomed to suffer the same fate as twenty-three kids did every year.

“No, of course not,” I replied finally, hoping it came out as a joke. “I happen to have a hobby in almost being killed by small, fifteen-year-old girls.”

“Ha. Course you do. Couldn’t consider being normal at all, you know?” He was right.

. . . . .

“Clock is ticking, guys—the clock. Is. Ticking,” Bryce called, closer to the doorway. Ikky used the flat edge of her sword to edge me away from the backpack we were both trying to get our hands on. I ducked lower, under it, and spread forwards to grab at the strap and straightened, swinging my own weapon back to block her automatic movement.

Exercise: run from “tribute plates” to “Cornucopia”, obtain backpack, run off into the “arena”, in three minutes.

I jumped upright, as she sidestepped over to be just behind me, threatening to trip me the second I moved, grabbing the bag back almost too easily and running. I didn’t block her fast enough, and sprinted towards the white line, clumsily getting ahead of her, whirling around, sword raised.

“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve—”

The deal was that if neither of us achieved the goal in time, we were doing five more laps outside. If someone won, loser did ten.

“Eleven, ten, nine—”

Ikky tried to disarm me, but no, no, I wasn’t going to let her. It took more effort to fight her off than to withdraw. I moved back, stepped to the left before she could move, and in one swift motion took the backpack, turned, and then fell flat on my face, her fault.

“Four, three, two—”

I lunged forwards, towards the line, footsteps uneven.

“Time!”

I wasn’t there, not yet, but I’d been so close. We both stopped for breath.

“Not too bad, guys, but still room for improvement, don’t you think?” Bryce said from behind us.

Yeah. Sure. Whatever he said. I gulped down air. Ikky threw my water bottle at me; I caught it, drank half of what was left in one swallow, the rest in three, choking on it for just a bit too long.

“Oh, fine, take a minute. No sense getting dehydrated. But be outside in two or less, ‘kay?”

I nodded in agreement, slumping forwards some. I could literally feel each heartbeat, each rush of blood through my head, each breath in and out. It was hot inside, too hot, and outside it was probably even more stifling.

“You did better,” Ikky offered quietly, brushing the red-brown bangs from her eyes. “This time.”

I nodded again, not completely sure what to make of that. “Uh, thanks.”

It was difficult, but I tried to ignore the pains shooting through me, from where I hit the floor or moved at a bad angle or held pressure too long, moved too fast. “We’d better—go. Outside,” I got out, still breathing hard. I set the bottle down and started to move towards the door. “Stay together, for the laps?” I offered.

“Deal.”

. . . . .

Corsage “Sage” Hemlocke, Age 18, District One Female Tribute (“The Detrimental Daughter”)

Games Day today. I loved it, every year, as torturous a reminder it was that I had a full two months left to wait until the Games. But I didn’t watch the first part of the celebrations, which was practically the Reaping, with all the history stories and whatever.

Then came one of my favorite parts: the Recap. Every highly exciting moment of the past few years of Games. Usually, there were the most clips from the latest ones, and fewer as it went back. It started with last year, 405 flashing across the screen. The briefest version of the bloodbath that I’d nearly memorized—first the guy from Nine, killed from behind because no one knew then the pair from Six had snuck in weapons. Then his killer, Tod, I thought it was, by his own district partner. By then, our tributes—Chenille and Fabian—were there, quickly taking down the girl from Eleven and boy from Twelve. Mom had been really happy with that.

Then there was the boy from Five, killing the Ten male, but dying himself after attacking Kyler’s district partner. Last it showed Maine and Vitality separately going for the Careers, the latter dying in the process. Bad few years for Five, lately; probably sucked to be them right about then.

It went forwards, showing snippets of the battle that night, between Seven-Eight and the Careers, the death of the mute from Seven. The clips didn’t focus at all on the mysterious objects, because it skipped over the discovery of the first one, and went straight into a montage of all the different Night Two battles and deaths. That was the best night the Hunger Games had seen in, like , forever. Maine and Kizzy with the prairie dogs, his bloody, riveting end; Charity stabbing Kyler in the back; again, the Careers, this time with the hopeless Alliance of the Mockingjays. Great Panem, seven deaths, equaling the bloodbath number! I never quite got over that.

Then there was the next night, the whacked crazy girl killing Charity (pathetic on her part). Chenille and Fabian turning on the rest of the Careers, both battles. During the original Games, Mom had seriously looked about ready to cry every time they were on screen, what a sap. She’d seriously wanted a District One victor. Personally? I was fine watching the Two girl slowly kill her former allies. Better than fine.

And then there was the final battle. Wait… the final battle? What in Panem? They skipped the death of the girl from Nine. That was totally fine by me and all, that was the one death I hadn’t liked, I did not need the image of all that water in my head, even if she had it coming, but… really? Who the hell edited this thing? Then again, you know, she was the only tribute not killed by someone else, so maybe it was just too anti-climatic. Would’ve been better if her stupid little ally had snapped and offed her while she slept.

I re-winded the footage, realizing I’d zoned out and hadn’t even watched the fight.

404. Starting with the bloodbath again; nearly all of the ten kills going to the Careers. The girl from here died quickly that year. Mom was her mentor and had really tried to pretend she hadn’t seen it coming. Because really, a Career death in the bloodbath was shameful.

The little twelve-year-old girl from Three, who was totally worthless as a tribute, lost her ally quickly, and started just losing it completely. The girl from Seven took pity on her, giving up killing the boy from Nine to save her from the Careers. What an idiot. Her new “ally” clearly had nothing to offer, except she made some pretty good guesses regarding the icy arena and was decent with snares. But no strength, no supplies, no deals made.

That night, they quickly showed the Careers hunting, taking down some of the solo tributes. Next day, there was this huge clash between the two largest non-Career alliances, with somehow a lot of survivors. The boy from Twelve betrayed the District Eleven male, a few other small battles, killing off the Seven-Three pair, some Careers, the boy from Seven, and girl from Ten. But they didn’t even show all of those.

The finale consisted of an avalanche from all directions that led the four tributes left to a clearing in the woods, the girl from Four winning in the end of the long fight that followed. Career victory, but not for One.

403. That wasn’t a particularly great year. Keith Rienman, the victor, got unfair amounts of attention in all the footage. I imagined being onscreen that much after my Games. It would be glorious. Mom absorbed it all, but didn’t use it to her advantage as much as she could’ve. I wouldn’t be like that. I’d use the Capitol’s attention for all it was worth.

Years 401 and 402 passed, clips mostly from the bloodbath and finale, another major battle or two each. Year 400 had more, as another Quell. Tributes picked their district partners—a perfect opportunity to give someone what they deserved… if they weren’t prepared. If they were, well, it was still a good opportunity to mess with them. I would’ve picked Lace—another Career in training—if I was there, and I could’ve. But it would’ve had to be the male tribute. Whatever. I’d missed my opportunity to be a Quarter Quell victor: twice. Twice! What a stupid system here.

After the Recap, they played the memorial for last year’s bunch. First a “quick glance” of them, like a tribute ID, and then their “best moments”, and death. It was really sad, by which I meant pitiful, when a tribute only got spotlight time over the week in the Capitol. Ha to them.

There were interviews afterwards, with the President, some of the Gamemakers, including the Head and even the one from before her, some other high-up Capitol people, experts on past Games. Some of what they had to say was interesting. Most of it made me want to put a sword through the television.

That sounded like fun.

. . . . .

“Yes, Kizzy’ll be mentoring this year, won’t she?” Mom asked from across the dinner table.

“She won’t be any good at it,” I pointed out. “Couldn’t mentor her way out of a paper bag, really.” I smirked at the thought of tributes growing dependent on their mentor’s advice. It was stupid in general, but I seriously doubted Kizzy would want to help anyone. Not that I blamed her for that, but advice-giving was just not going to be her strong suit. She didn’t know how to play the crowd, her strategy had been screwed up the whole Games and she hadn’t even cared.

“And what makes you say that?” Coming from Mom, it could sound like an innocent, if naïve question.

“She used up all ‘er ideas already, and they weren’t even good ones.” I looked down at the mostly empty plate in front of me. “Can I leave now?”

“Of course, I’m sure you have homework and whatnot.” Dad looked less convinced, but didn’t comment. Homework. Of course, I did, Mom. Of course. I just didn’t plan on doing any of it, that was the tiny little problem.

I pushed my chair out and went upstairs to my room, where the last of the Games Day celebrations were still airing—at the moment, a commercial for “the Games Experience”, basically a luxury trip to the last arena. Or not-so-luxury, from some perspectives. Still, I wanted to check out the full promotion of it, but it was late and I was too lazy to find it on the guide.

I had official training after school tomorrow—and a competition day, at that! —so I wasn’t going to have much time for re-watching then. Day after was Saturday, and I was stuck with Mom and Jullius for some sort of anatomy lesson most of the morning, but then I’d have time in the afternoon. I bookmarked the whole event to remember.

It was rare that I actually planned things, but when it came to the Games… well. That was a different story.

. . . . .

Autumn “Fall” Yates, Age 13, District Eleven Male Tribute (“The Helpful Gentleman”)

“Along comes the happy little squirrel, and then—“ Nigel moved the stuffed animal into one of the snares, letting it dangle, “dead” from the pole “—snap! It falls, and strangles.” Quinn backed away slowly, almost hitting the wall behind us.

“Easy enough, yeah?”

“Seems like it,” I said, smiling and knowing the question was only directed at me. The whole idea was a bit grotesque, and I was definitely keeping my fingers crossed that I’d never come down to using it, but still. The little fake squirrel looked a bit comedic hanging like that, still swaying a bit.

“A day came to start, and we looked out on it, out on the dawn, the sun always risin’ and the day always there,” Quinn sang again. Strange girl, really wasn’t all right in the head, but she seemed to mean well. At least, she tried to hold her end of a conversation.

Nigel sighed sharply, looking like he was hoping to mentor me instead. “Here. Take a bit of wire, both of you.” He undid the traps he’d set and handed me two of the wires, holding the other two out to Quinn.

“And li-ife didn’t wait for us, never saw the change, only saw the dark.” Nigel dropped the dismantled traps on the ground in front of her and walked back towards the pole, which leaned up against a fake tree. If it was real, and I had a chance to climb, I could’ve shown him that I was better than he thought, a safer bet, honestly. I was small, but I was bound to have a growth spurt soon, right? And I would be fourteen before the Reaping, which always sounded better to sponsors. Quinn would still be thirteen, I wouldn’t be. I didn’t claim to be better—sure, she was quicker and could use a scythe, but no one else would know that.

“You,” he said, pointing at me. “Give it a try.”

I fumbled to not drop the wires, looking at the pole, then at Nigel, backwards at Quinn and her zoned-out expression. Sure, it looked easier when you didn’t have to do it for yourself. I took the first wire, tied a clumsy loop at one end, and slipped the majority of the rest of the wire through it, like Nigel had. I wrapped the other far end around the pole, probably too loosely, leaving the snare on top.

Nigel walked on over to examine it, then tutted at the new trap. “Your knots are all going to come apart in a second, kid, even if you know what you’re doing. Remember, you want to strangle this thing, not tickle it. If a squirrel laughs at you, that’s a bad sign.”

“Well, that hasn’t happened yet,” I pointed out, really trying not to laugh at the idea. It wasn’t meant to be funny.

“And everything was beautiful, and everything was bright,” Quinn continued.

“Shut up, will ya?” Nigel snapped abruptly, and she did, looking startled, the fear reappearing in her blue eyes. I couldn’t help but feel a bit bad.

“Anyways,” he said, towards me again, “I hope you take the arena more seriously.” His glare shot out waves of disapproval. Well, you’re a hard one to please. It was a first try, get over it.

“Well, how do you tie it any tighter?” I tried a different approach, hoping it wasn’t unwanted. Nigel took the other wire and beckoned me over. “First the loop. If it comes apart, it’s all lost, just a

string. There shouldn’t be air space. You shouldn’t be able to undo it easily, if at all. You’ve gotta think small, got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then for around the pole, it can’t be able to move up or down, even if it’s on metal out in the rain. So don’t use up too much of the tail, y’don’t want that, but there shouldn’t be any excess room in this circle. If it doesn’t mark up something moldable, it’s not tight enough.”

“But on a noosing wand you can just wrap it?”

“Right.” He handed both wires back to me, glanced over at the time. “Quinn, are you joining us today or not?” he called over to her.

“A last song to be heard, before you close—“

“Guess not, then.” The answer came roughly, as he fetched something out of a cardboard box that looked like it’d gotten left out in the rain at some point. He tossed the collection of twigs somewhat in my direction, letting them scatter and spread out across the floor. “Simple and twitch-up snares.” He looked right at me, then at Quinn, still cowering in the corner. “Possibly your new best friends.”

. . . . .

Then a shout rises from the crowd, “I volunteer!” I watch the cluster of girls in the fourteen-year-old area part, making way. “I volunteer!” she calls again, “I volunteer!” Her black hair tangles as a breeze whips through the air. A volunteer in District Nine is rare, and this isn’t for a family member. The girl grins as our escort, Regina, asks for her name, bringing out the dimples in her cheeks. “Ziporra Landers,” she says proudly. “A future victor to represent the great people of District Nine.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Regina says cheerily, clasping her hands together. “Come on up; there you are.” Ziporra almost skips over to her place on the stage, throwing a wave in the direction of the man who’s now her mentor. I wish I could share in her confidence. If I am reaped, I am doomed.

I looked up from the required school reading—a version of the three-hundred seventieth Games by Elaina Linette, and stretched, feeling a bit cramped from being all curled up in this battered corner of the couch. I did it to make sure my sisters could share it if they wanted to, but Spring and Summer seemed happy sitting on the floor, going through an old pile of math flashcards to help Summer remember her multiplication.

“Four and six.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Seven and four.”

“Twenty-eight.”

In the background, I could hear Cloud talking to Mom loudly about some guy she met at school, trying to come up with a valid reason for him to come over. Dad tried to help, making a joke about having more kids around. So my sister was probably a bit young for that, but I really wouldn’t have minded a larger family.

“Twelve and four.”

Summer paused then, looking around the room, then trying to count on her fingers, getting lost and starting over, mouthing all the numbers.

“Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six…” I sang.

“Forty-eight!” she finished, squealing. Spring gave me a look, the “she doesn’t need help” look. Sorry, sis. Your call here. They resumed.

I slid my torn bookmark back into the copied reading packet just as Mom seemed to relent, since she was looking at the old family calendar to find a good date for the occasion. Since Cloud talked about this guy so much, I was kind of looking forward to meeting him. Not that I’d probably be able to see him for long, (maybe long enough to learn his name, if I was lucky), but whatever.

All the lights flickered then, a brown out. The television stayed off, which I supposed was fine, since nobody was watching it. “Are all the clocks out again?” I called over to Cloud, who was closest to the only one in the shared part of the house. Resetting them was the biggest pain of the electricity shortages, which were getting more and more frequent.

“No,” she half-snapped. “Not yet, at least. Damn power outs. Must be something goin’ on in Six or something.”

I hadn’t thought it was that big of a problem—nothing worth getting worked up about—so I just shrugged, not wanting to push it. I looked back at my other sisters, who were back at the flashcards.

“Five and three?”

“Fifteen,” said Summer.

. . . . .

Zattiana Dain, Age 13, District Six Female Tribute (“The Unstable Competition”)

“Zattiana, today is the day!” My mother yanked open the curtains to let in harsh light from outside. “Today, you are getting out of bed, because we’re going down to the square. Isn’t that lovely, dear?”

“You mean the slum where Sentum gets his morphling?” I corrected, turning away from all the light.

She ignored me. “It’s a beautiful day, really, I think we’ll get summer early this year. You know, I heard the Haldemans were opening a little shop, maybe it’s already up and running. We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Totally uninvited, she sat down on the opposite side of my bed. “Remember what the therapist said? A bit of exercise, fresh air would do you good. Just a bit of shopping isn’t too rigorous, is it?”

“Just go away. I’m not in the mood; I’m tired.” I pulled one of the blankets over myself.

“It’s been almost three days this time,” she protested. “When the medication was working, you loved going out, remember?”

“Not interested,” I snapped, knowing there wasn’t much to do but thinking I was really going to hit someone if she didn’t leave within a few seconds. Honestly, was that so much to ask? If she was such a genius, she should’ve been able to figure out that I wasn’t moving without my having to tell her everything!

“We don’t have to go for long, if you don’t want to stay. But honestly, dear, you do have to get up sometime.” She pulled my dark hair away from my face, tugging at all the tangles. I kept meaning to maybe brush it out, but never remembered. “We could go somewhere nicer, if you liked, maybe that

quaint little diner you loved that one time? Pull a dress out, do your hair up with a ribbon, you’d look adorable.”

“But I. Don’t. Want to.” I punched a nearby pillow “for emphasis”, more in frustration. I wanted the training for the Games to be over, I wanted the new medication to get here today, I wanted to have more control of the different phases, but were any of those things going to happen? No. No, they weren’t.

My eyes burned and I had a headache, my throat was tight and my stubby nose all stuffed up. Stupid, it was, and my pillow was getting wet from the damn tears. And my mother was actually trying to comfort me, rubbing my shoulder and all. Honestly. Would she just leave already?

“If I agree to go, will you leave me alone?” I asked, through gritted teeth.

“Was that a ‘yes’? Oh, how lovely. We can go by the Haldeman’s and to that diner, only if you want to, of course. But still, we won’t have to be out long, if you’re still feeling tired—“

“—Ugh; fine, let me get ready.” I had to take her “answer” as yes, too, and she held to it, for once, leaving the room, shutting the door behind her. I forced myself, slowly, out of bed, only thinking of making it up for a second before heading to the shower, eventually putting on decent clothes and doing my hair like she said. I gave up on staying here today; it just wasn’t going to happen.

Not a lot else was going to go right either, it turned out too quickly. I wasn’t concentrating, and kept tripping over things because of my stupid big feet, and then my hairbrush slipped out of my hand twice when I zoned out for just a second. The ribbon kept coming undone and it still looked like I’d been crying, and I was sick of it.

I half-stomped down the stairs, and to make it worse, both Mother and Father were there, so I had to put up with both of them. While I ate the stupid toast Mother had made for breakfast, she rambled on and on forever about how the baker she bought the bread from had seen my mentor the morning of her Reaping Day. Big whoop. Lots of people probably had, just didn’t remember. I probably had, signing in and all.

After, when it finally ended, we started out for the square. It wasn’t too far from where we lived, but it was muggy and hot outside and all of my movements were sluggish. Mother said the weather was “nice and warm”, of course.

First there was the window-shopping, typical. It would bore most people to tears, but no, Mother loved it, looking at antiques and knick-knacks and unusual furniture. I followed along behind, just keeping my mouth shut about my opinions. She’d pretend to care, but in the end she’d ignore them and buy whatever little thing that struck her as so appealing at the time. Materialistic, maybe, like all the idiots I knew.

Then she was dragging me along into a series of candy stores, talking me in to pouring scoops of colorful, sugary things into the clear plastic bags at the ends of all the aisles. I thought they were too sweet and all the swirls of colors were headache-inducing and hard on the eyes. Mother made us sit down outside a coffee place when I reported I felt like throwing up. She sipped at her coffee and I watched all the people going by, idle and uncaring about everything.

Finally getting out of that, the clothes shopping began, where Mother paraded me around like a doll, shoving blouses and skirts and dresses at me to try on in the shabby, old wooden-door dressing rooms. Most of the shirts itched and scratched at my neck or shoulders, which I hated, as any half-sane person would. So we compromised on a new jacket that I’d probably never get to use, and a plain t-shirt and some more hair ribbons.

We did stop by the Haldeman’s, but skipped the diner because I just wanted to go home already! I was tired and sick of the cheery town square and I had to get up yet again the day after tomorrow for therapy. (Ugh was right.)

At home, Father joked about everything Mother told him about the antique store, and then about how I should’ve been eating more. I put my dish in the sink and left without saying anything at the earliest time possible, close to seven o’clock. I didn’t care anymore once I got up the stairs. I just dropped my shopping bags by the door, slammed it shut along with the curtains, kicked my shoes off, and got in the still-unmade bed just like that.

I closed my eyes tightly, because it was still too bright in the room. I tried to imagine going back to school next week; most of the work was piled up by my bed, and I hated looking at it, so I shoved it off onto the floor. Not much better, now I’d step on it. Whatever. Mother would probably clean it up if she came in here, like she didn’t have anything better to do.

There was a loud crash from Sentum’s room down the hall, and I threw an extra pillow in that direction. Could he just damn learn to keep it down at all? Our parents blamed grief. I blamed addiction, the obvious answer. Maybe I would go back to school, just to get out of here. Year was almost over anyways, what did it matter? Nothing was going on, and I probably wouldn’t see the place again for eighth year. Let’s be real here.

I rolled over a few times, trying to be comfortable, moving the pillows around and untangling the blankets. Eventually I gave up on it, focused on keeping my eyes shut. There was a shout from Sentum’s room, and then too-loud laughter from downstairs, a huge gust of wind from outside.

I didn’t open my eyes once.

. . . . .

Tamberlain “Tam” Ektra, Age 14, District Five Male Tribute (“The Disabled Charmer”)

In District Five, it was an unspoken rule that when a twelve-year-old was reaped, especially a girl, someone volunteered. That was even more set in place when said selected tribute was in a bad situation. It was one of the things I loved about our district, that we still had a sense of humanity, even on Reaping Day.

On the other hand, Airah Trevor would have no such luck. And even if she did, she’d have to deny that golden chance. It was something I didn’t really understand, but didn’t want to ask about. If I was honest, even I didn’t want to go digging deeper into this whole mess that caused our training. But Airah didn’t seem to mind as much, which was unnerving on some levels. We didn’t exactly have a huge personal connection, but it all just seemed a bit… wrong. She was a little kid, not some trained warrior destined for the arena.

Training was something new to both of us, for that matter. I was still learning to walk again. It didn’t really feel as triumphant as I’d expected it to. Sure, no more people pitying me, no more people worrying about me dying randomly, no more taunting from Denno about all of it. But a long, long adjustment period. I’d been told I likely wouldn’t be at full walking-capacity before we hit the Games. That meant, even though they wouldn’t say it: there was a chance I never would be.

. . . . .

“You’ve got your three basic methods for purifying water,” Ms. Falon said angrily, pacing along the displays of each option. “Boiling it, filtering, or using chemicals.” She pointed to each in turn. “Now, knowing you two, you won’t be lucky enough to have access to anything useful in the arena. But I’m required to teach you this.”

Next to me, Airah hemmed and folded her arms.

“We’ll get to details later. But bear in mind: for boiling, you’d better let it go for at least a minute, if you like being alive. Chemicals will be either iodine or chlorine, no guarantee on anything else not killing you instead. We’ve only got membrane and depth filters, both of which you’re unlikely to find. And last but not least… don’t trust anything in the arena. The water sources are rarely poisoned, even less often the Cornucopia supplies, but beware. If either of you dies because of that, I’ll track you down, all right?”

“If we’re suspicious o’ everything, won’t we get dehydrated?” I asked. It wasn’t a real question, and she probably knew it, but I made an extra point of blinking and smiling, slowly, pretending that I had to look up at her.

“Funny. Real comedian, aren’t you? Not the point.”

Aw, she has so little of a sense of humor it doesn’t work on her.

“I was just asking,” I added mock innocently, swaying now. At the very least, Airah was trying hard to not look amused, which was a success by most of her standards. “Never sounded like a good death to ya either, huh?”

“Better than a knife in the back for doing something idiotic,” she shot back. That statement had something off about it, too. Oh; last year. Vitality. Of course.

“We have to learn all this, though?” Airah asked, off-subject. Apparently she’d chosen then to speak up about something.

“Yes,” came the simple answer.

Five minutes later, I watched the slowly emerging bubbles in the water turn into a rapid procession, boiling at last. Airah stared at her pot of water as if it held the secret to all life, and it didn’t look any different to me.

“It ain’t switched on, that’s the problem,” I offered, finally noticing. “And here I was, thinking ‘a watched pot never boils’….” I stopped when she attempted to glare at me, turning on the burner. I hadn’t thought that practicing was necessary—any idiot could boil water; what were we going to do, burn it? Plus, we’d already learned fire-starting, so it wasn’t a skill Ms. Falon required here.

Waiting a minute, counting, I turned off my own burner, the water cooling more and more until Airah reached the same point. Experimenting with the filters was a bit more challenging, but interesting enough. “Y’figure they’ll have these?” I asked Airah. “In the arena? Or will the Careers just get ‘em all anyways, but they might be focused on their weapons, so we could’ve a shot at it. Can ya imagine waiting like this out there? Must be harder.” She didn’t choose to answer any of them, seeming to pretend she had managed to not hear me.

“Waitin’ and waiting, starin’ at the filter, speaking of which—“ I flipped mine over again “—anyways, maybe there’ll be some snow or somethin’. That’d be cool; I’ve never seen snow, y’know? Have you?”

After a bit too long of a pause: “No. No one in Five has, really.”

“Huh. One day, I’m gonna start a collection, and all the money would be to ship some in for everyone to see. ‘Specially the little kids, they’d love it.”

She shrugged, giving me a bit of an odd look. “Sure.”

“Yeah, maybe not,” I admitted. “Would be nice, though, eh?”

“I guess.”

Ms. Falon broke in to check how our filters were holding up—fine, of course, they were from the Capitol—and then sent us off to the next task, an area on the floor with new bowls of water and stirrers and tiny little bottles of chlorine and iodine. It was almost cute, really, like it was all meant for dolls.

Mixing the few drops of iodine into my first water container, feeling glad that this was a bit of a lazier training day, I said, “I bet no one in the other districts thinks about snow. Maybe Four or Eleven do; I dunno.”

“Why do you care so much?”

Well, there wasn’t a lot of time left for me to care about anything. “I dunno,” I said again, looking back at the swirling water, shaking off the stirrer a bit. “Really don’t.”

I let the iodine solution sit, started on the chlorine one with miniscule droplets. The room was a bit too quiet for my liking, but Airah clearly didn’t want to talk, as per usual, and that was fine. I’d leave it alone for the moment being.

I looked around some, flashbacking to a lot of our previous lessons in this same room over the last few months. Some could’ve been lifetimes ago, the earlier ones. Some felt like they might have been yesterday, or last week. The early ones, basic strategy and overview, then weapons and agility, now refining our strong points and the survival skills, hand-to-hand combat next… I hoped we wouldn’t have to actually fight each other during that one.

In any case, we were getting closer to the Reaping, the Games. I’d always thought if I trained like a Career (as if I could, before) I would be eager, anxious to start with the bloodshed. But the training hadn’t changed me like that. I wasn’t eager to feel all that terror or adrenaline, didn’t want to watch anyone else die because of me, or not. For all that, I didn’t really want to do this at all. There were some good times, but what were they leading up to? Our impending public deaths?

I was going to give it my best shot, but what wouldn’t I do to win? Would I kill Airah, if it came down to it? Would I betray an ally? Slaughter an innocent little kid? Become a bloodthirsty, murderous Career?

No, maybe not.

But what was the alternative? Never coming home to my district, never seeing my family, Kedger, never finishing school, getting a job, getting married, having kids… never living past fourteen, just signing out of life completely?

No, I wasn’t doing that either.

. . . . .

Aurelia D’Avranches, Age 17, District Two Female Tribute (“The Disputatious Sister”)

“Hate to say it, but your transitions are still terrible,” Camilla said from somewhere behind me. “It’s great if you’re up against a Twelve and all, but the other Careers’ll have you dead in a minute if you keep moving that awkwardly.”

But I won’t be fighting the other Careers, will I?

“I’m not so stupid I’d take on my own allies before I had to,” I shot back. In District Two, betraying your allies, especially your district partner, was frowned upon, deeply. Only if it was a last resort, or if they’d turned on you first, was it ever truly forgiven. How would Two look at me if I killed my brother while he slept? How would I look at myself, for that matter? I had the terrible feeling I’d write it off as trying to stay alive.

“Not the point. You have to stop with the weird directions, at least in the reverse grip. Can’t go thinking you’ll have them dead in one move; this is an art form, not blindly killing everyone in sight. You’ve gotta be above that.”

“Oh, right. In the Games, I’ll definitely want to keep it artsy.” I scowled; this was pointless, at best, a waste of time. I’d have bet that no one else in the room was wasting away the time block like this. Camilla had to be the stupidest, most ignorant instructor in the whole place.

“Art form”, what is this, ancient combat?

“You remember what your goal is?”

Uh, getting out of there alive and a victor? Winning? Are you seriously asking me that?

“What?”

“A weapon like this is for penetration, the lungs, heart, head, important nerves. The rest is really just getting your opponent somewhere you can do that.”

There was a burst of laughter from a group in the swords sector, and just beyond them, I saw Evander still at archery, the auburn hair making him stick out. The whistle blew twice, for everyone in ranged weaponry areas. Tuning it out got annoying after a while, but automatic. “I remember,” I said finally. “From like the first day here.” That was a lot of years ago, now, but of course it had come up again, all the stupid instructors that didn’t have the memory span to remember your name or what they’d told you just yesterday.

The whistle blew again, just once, and instantly the thuds of weapons hitting targets started up again. I’d never been into long-distance kills. Just aiming and throwing or shooting over and over and over? Really?

“The other thing everyone gets told at first is to not let cockiness get in their way.”

And you’re the one talking here?

“Don’t think about it all so much. Just let it come naturally. Instinct.” Of course, I’d never thought of myself as one of those Careers that was just bursting with “natural talent”. I was more realistic than those people. I trained constantly, all the time, and worked at it, put all the effort I could muster up into it, never thinking of anything else.

Careers were made, not born. Really, it was bad enough that you had to start off as a stupid, naïve little kid that always depended on someone else, it was worse in the other districts. Even One, Four—ask anyone, Two was the first Career district, the and it would be the last. Outside, the little district kids lacked any sort of life experience when they got thrown into the arena. No wonder Five, Six, the last few districts, so often went down early. Dying in the bloodbath, their districts had to be ashamed of them. They disgraced themselves.

Why haven’t they caught on yet?

“Of course,” I answered. I didn’t wait for the order before I turned to assess the last training dummy that I’d pretended to kill. Somehow, I’d always imagined that it was probably really creepy to be in here with them in the few hours that nobody was here. Pretend this is an opponent presented to you, about to attack. Start with your lead; what do you do next?

I went at it again, this time trying to just keep moving, staying with the traditional techniques, blocking out thought and just going with it. I wasn’t in the main gym; I was in the arena. This wasn’t a dummy; it was another tribute. It was the Games, I would soon be crowned the victor, and I could almost feel it. I was feeling delusional.

“Keep your hand steady,” Camilla said. “There, like that. Don’t just use the weapon, you do have another arm and legs, you know.”

I stopped a few seconds later. “Oh yeah, that helps me tons.”

“Not my fault you’re short. Thought you said you could use it as an advantage. How’s that going for you?”

Do you have a death wish?

“Fine,” I snarled at her. “Just fine.”

I looked over at the speed and agility training area, which was clear on the other side of the room, behind me when I was facing the dummy by the wall. The kids over there looked downright miserable. That lesson had to be learned the hard way—once you signed up for a block of instruction over there, the instructors rarely let you leave easily, whether you wanted to or not. Better to just cover that one for yourself at home.

There is no easy way in the Games, is there?

A bell rang. This time block was over, and I had nothing scheduled for the next one, so I didn’t plan on sticking around. “See ya Thursday,” I said, not bothering to make it sound polite. I dropped my knife on the rack, grabbed my bag from a few feet away, and headed outside for a bit. I was one of three people sitting on the front steps, and I didn’t know the other two. Besides, they were both doing homework. Nerds these days; what were you ever going to do about them? Almost as bad as Three or Five, some of them were.

But then again, I shouldn’t have made assumptions. You had to be passing every class, at the very least, to qualify to stay in the training. Some compromise with the Mayor or something like that. For the sake of my district, I prayed that was all that was on their minds.

A little less than two months left until the Reaping. It wasn’t the time to start worrying about other, idle things. My dear twin brother probably would’ve welcomed the distraction. Though our situations were about identical, as were most of our looks, and our birthday, and our house and family and school and training and everything else… we weren’t very alike at all.

. . . . .

Evander willingly went along with the latest curriculum of our “special training”—the survival skills. I didn’t. They might’ve been useful, but there would be plenty of time for them later, after we’d gotten through the things that were actually important. I told our mentor as such, and he did not care one tiny little bit, the good-for-nothing creep. Eventually I decided to just stop caring about those lessons, and stuck with it. Fire-building, finding shelter, camouflage. That was just great and all, but if you didn’t know how to use a weapon, you wouldn’t live long enough for any of it to matter.

Maybe my brother was just better about some things. He cared enough that he didn’t want to hurt poor little Carter’s feelings or whatever. Being with him about twenty-four hours a day, I didn’t really buy into it. But he did have a weak side. I didn’t pity him; I didn’t, I didn’t, I did—…. n’t.

Bring it on, Ev. We’ll see how your little shelter holds up against everyone else’s weapons. We’ll see, won’t we?