Before the Music Dies: A New TuneA Lavender Flame Fanfic

As the secrets hidden in the four-hundred fifth Games unravel after their conclusion, twenty-four new tributes prepare to fight for their lives. But an enemy more dangerous than any arena is hiding in the shadows, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Everything is at stake. The Games will be more brutal than ever

before.

Hunger Games - Rated: T - English - Adventure/Suspense - Published: 1/29/12

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?

Miss Us When We’re Gone

Cama Caline Ray, Age 18, District Three Female Tribute (“The Cheerful Optimist”)

“You’re gonna have to be a lot quicker than that if you plan on having a shot,” said Trey. I looked at the robotic mobile dummy, and then at the stopwatch. It was a pretty slow time for incapacitating an opponent, according to the averages Trey had given for the Careers, and especially compared to Saber’s, which were faster than those. The robot was a really basic challenge, more about strategy than the physical skill of disabling. But Trey did have a point, so I nodded and stepped back, closer to the wall since it would be my district partner’s turn now. Here, there was always a next time.

“SA-BER!” Trey called over his shoulder, and he came in almost instantly, with smooth, silent steps. Saber wandered out a lot during the training like this. It was probably just because he could train with Trey at any time and didn’t have to be so focused during the regular sessions. Plus, he didn’t seem to need much practice.

“What?” he scowled.

“Your turn, boy.” I tried to watch what he was doing—as Trey had once suggested—I really did, but I lost track of the moves after the first few, and they were passing so fast that I wasn’t sure what they all were. The robot beeped and stopped fighting, meaning it had theoretically been incapacitated (if it were a human enemy). Trey announced the time. It was barely a second off of beating Saber’s previous best, making him swear under his breath and punch the dummy again, harder than necessary. “Eh. Ya wanna go again?”

“Doesn’t damn matter here, does it?”

“Cama, then; you’re up.” Trey reset the robot dummy as I approached it, feeling a bit more adrenaline than it probably warranted. He stepped back, closer to Saber. “In three. Two. One. Now.” The robot activated, coming towards me, slightly slow to start with. I took a step backwards, leaning into it, bringing my hands up.

“Don’t be scared of the thing!” Trey said, as the robot swung its first punch. I countered, catching its mechanical arm with my elbow. Okay; first mistake. Don’t waste time on defense.

I thought of causing whiplash and went for punching the eyes. It twisted, out of the way, and knocked me off my feet with an outstretched leg. I stumbled a bit getting back up, almost getting hit again, the whole right side of my body throbbing. Grabbing its left hand and pulling on it, towards me, I tried again, throwing myself forwards into the hit. The robot’s head jerked back, and it beeped, going motionless.

Trey read the time. “Pathetic.”

. . . . .

“Here, Cama, put these on the table,” Mother said, handing me some napkins as she returned to the stove. There were exactly eleven, no more and no less, one for everyone. Mother liked being exact, so that we didn’t waste anything.

In the other room were the triplets, and I could hear Ricky and Vellian giggling over what the television announcer had just said. Father was getting home from work, and Allow was probably in his room.

Cali stirred the stew and replaced the lid on the pot. Mother was a really good cook on her own, but Cali always wanted to help her in any way she could. It was nice, but there was a part of me that thought Cali felt like she owed us. She wasn’t actually related to me, but had been part of the family for three years after her parents died the day their house burned to the ground.

I tried to forget, like Cali did.

Breffin came into the room with Blena, hand in hand—they would be an adorable couple once they got married, everyone said—and checked on their toddler, already in the high chair, while Blena talked to Mother.

Sometimes I got the feeling that Mother wanted them to get married already so they could move out; three less mouths to feed she’d probably say. But they wanted to wait until we were all out of the Reaping. The triplets and Allow still had five more years to go, counting this one. Cali would never have to worry about getting reaped; this year, it would be me, and then she wouldn’t be eligible. She was the only person I told about the training. I would’ve told Novaskye, but I didn’t feel like fourteen-year-olds were meant to handle that kind of knowledge.

I moved some of the now-empty bowls off the counter and into the sink, hoping it would be a night were there was enough running water. I had a feeling there would be, for some reason.

“Cali, could you slice the bread?” Mother asked, outside her conversation with Blena.

As she did, I retrieved the water pitcher from the fridge and set it out; there was no ice, so I hoped it stayed cold for a bit. Father started to come in, but barely got through the doorway before Mother said, “Tindle, get everyone else here, will you?” He stopped almost comically, attempted a wink in Cali and I’s direction, then stuck his head back out of the room:

“OH, EV-ERY-ONE! GET I-IN HERE!” he called, as we all laughed except for Mother.

Cali moved the bread and pot of stew over to the table as the triplets and Allow found their way into the kitchen, Ricky and Vellian still at their usual giggling. That was one thing that could be counted on, always, even when only a few other things could.

Maybe I was just taking too much for granted. Three was far from one of the poorer districts, and we weren’t exactly the extreme lower class of the district. There wasn’t too much more to want than what we had. I wouldn’t have traded my family or our old traditions for the world.

. . . . .

After dinner, Cali, Novaskye and I sat upstairs in my room, one of the Science Channel shows on in the background. “I still don’t get why he would put this question on here,” Novaskye said, looking down at her homework. “It’s just kind of morbid. He probably didn’t mean it like that, but still….”

“Well, what’s your answer, then?” Cali asked.

“If I had twenty-four hours to live? I guess I’d want to say goodbye to everyone; I dunno.”

English classes were not an emphasis in District Three, so writing was generally on an essay prompt or a book report or something like that. It was probably for the best, since it wasn’t required in our industry. “Or maybe try to do something radical,” Novaskye continued, “Cure that disease from Six, get a new community home in Twelve, stop the Games—” She stopped suddenly, probably because she noticed that Cali and I were both staring at her.

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Nova,” Cali said slowly. “You’ll get reported.”

“Well, the first two are still fine.” I tried to backtrack. “I’m sure those are decent answers.” Her teacher would believe them, at least, and it was enough to go on to write for the prompt. Novaskye nodded and picked up her pencil again.

The television show cut to the commercial, which was about three times louder than the show itself. I lowered it, just to eliminate distraction, as Cali said, “I wonder why they have to do that, honestly, if you weren’t paying attention originally, you’re not going to start then.”

I shrugged, and traced the lines of stitches between the quilt’s squares. “How do you spell ‘incubation’?” Novaskye looked up from her paper; glancing at it over her shoulder, I saw that her handwriting still hadn’t improved any. At least she didn’t care too much.

“Uh…” Cali started, “I-n-c-u…b-a-t-i-o-n.” The last four letters came out in a rush, the more obvious ones.

“Thanks.” Novaskye went back to working, leaning against the headboard.

“You know what you’re wearing to the end of school dance yet?” Cali asked, good-naturedly trying to make conversation.

“Not really,” I said. “I never worried about it before, did I?”

“But this year’s our last chance,” she pointed out.

“I guess.” I wasn’t so sure I wanted to talk about it. Under normal circumstances, maybe those dance-dates could’ve been something, but not for me, not now. Of course, there were still some odds, but since in just over a month I’d be getting reaped… well, the Games would be a big obstacle, wouldn’t they?

. . . . .

Jullius Castallen, Age 17, District One Male Tribute (“The Beautiful Volunteer”)

District One was strange when it came to Careers. On one hand, you had those like my district partner, Sage, who wanted to get involved, though it was mostly due to how they were raised. Then there were those who branched out on their own and were super drawn into the Games—my friend Lucus, Sage’s friend Lace. Then there were the ones whose family pretty much forced them into it. At that thought I looked across the gym, where one thirteen-year-old girl was practicing throwing knives at a

target taller than she was, her mom a few feet away. Laecia Anders. Who watched her sister’s brutal torture and murder one year ago. I felt terrible for her, still trapped in the world of the Games. Still being asked what she thought of the love story.

Near her, a seventeen and a fifteen, another brother-sister Career pair were also with their mother, the girl with a friend. The Falone kids, their dad was a victor, so everyone around here knew their names. The boy was vicious as could be, the girl a bit more subdued. But both were plenty happy to be Careers, even if their mother forced their father’s old life on them.

And then there was me. I liked to think I was in the last group, forced in. My father was the district’s top trainer, pulling me along so we could get into the Victor’s Village. I almost did not mind the pushing of the Games so much as the pushing of the attitude towards them. The arrogance of being from a Career district. The stereotype of One victors being popular and beautiful. I hated it. They, and I, had no right to be popular. Murderers, and for what? Glory? It was nothing.

Even our training was odd. We were not exactly Two, which had the most professional training center, whose tributes were strong and ruthless. We were not Four, where it was a random shot if the tributes had been trained at all or not, even if they were volunteers. Nor were we Three, who just sometimes popped up with a tribute smart enough to slide their way into the Career pack. We always had volunteers, sometimes they were just strong kids but not trained, some were trained by family, and some were trained here, or a combination of the last two.

This year it all got even stranger, with Sage and I being selected ahead of time and specially trained by a victor, working on all kinds of things: weapon use, agility, strategy, survival skills, hand-to-hand combat. Learning the ways of the Games, perfecting our strong points, brushing up our weak ones. Because of a fourteenth district I had never known about.

“Jullius! Stop with the dallying, time to go!”

A lot of the kids around looked at me. All they saw was a stuck-up monster.

. . . . .

I hated our house. It made things look so much more cheery than they actually were. If it were up to me, we would have ditched the two-story too-big place and found a condo somewhere in the district. But Father said that was only for the poor part of the district. I argued that District One did not have a high low-class population.

On the outside our house just looked… I don’t know, pure, maybe perfect. There was a white fence around our property and then a stone path cutting through the grass to the front steps. Father kept the curtains closed all the time, so you could not see inside—just the white columns and outside walls and front porch, the windows. There was not much decoration outside, unless you counted those columns—just a few potted plants alongside the steps.

Inside, though, was extravagant to the point of being dysfunctional. All decoration, no point. And more white. More purity. Not a speck of dirt anywhere, which was why my sister Haily could not get a dog like she wanted—it would ruin it. If Mom was still around, she would have allowed it.

But my room was a break from all that. There was still the horrible color scheme, but it was simple, no decoration, nothing without some purpose that I needed. Even then, it was basic, function over looks, like how I wished I worked sometimes.

If I planned on getting out of the arena, the Games, alive, I could have set my hopes on leaving when I turned eighteen. Let my family have the Victor’s Village place, set out on my own for the other

side of the district, as far away as I could get. I would feel bad for Haily, but how would she view me after going through the Games that she despised? She would still like Father after, but maybe not me.

No, definitely not me. Even I didn’t.

. . . . .

I went to see Tearry around three that afternoon. She lived on the street behind ours, and her house, unlike mine, definitely stuck out from the rest. Her practical joke-like nature showed up in the decor that her parents let her have a lot of reign over. I had always found that a bit strange, since she was not the pushy type and her parents were not total pushovers. But in any case, the door swung open quickly when I knocked.

"Jullius, what in Panem happened to you?"

"What?" I asked, having no clue what she was talking about.

"You look half broiled to death. Come in."

"Oh." I followed her as she closed the door. The weather was definitely leaning towards summer, some of the rain coming in, the afternoons warmer than any time of day directly under the scorching sun.

“Mom! Jullius is here!” she called.

Tearry’s mother appeared from the living room. “Hello again,” she said. “Want some lemonade? I just made a fresh batch.”

“Sure,” Tearry and I said at the same time. Once again, I just followed, into the kitchen, sitting at the table with Tearry. Her mother poured two glasses and offered a snack. I said no thanks; Father would probably kill me if I put on any more weight before the Games, though I could probably afford some.

We ended up taking the lemonade outside, in the shade of their patio, sipping and talking, and every few minutes Tearry waved at whichever one of her neighbors was taking the trash out or walking their dog or doing yard work or whatnot. Perfect little suburban neighborhood. The perfect horror movie plot, if that made me sound paranoid.

But paranoia wasn’t always a bad thing. Look what it had done for the Careers last year, how it could’ve helped the boy from Eight or maybe even Six. Kizzy had been pretty wary of everything, so had most of the top five, eight, probably excluding the girl from Nine. I didn’t want to sound cynical or anything, but really, it was good in the Games. Which was why I should’ve shoved it from my mind, because I didn’t really want to consider what would happen to me as a victor. Everyone compared me to the victors that had it the worst from the Capitol, though not for that reason, when maybe they should have.

“You okay? You seem out of it today,” said Tearry.

Today, and every day.. . . . .

Quinn Kirkan, Age 13, District Eleven Female Tribute (“The Different Minder”)

The dust rose and fell in waves, settling like snow over the sun-warmed earth. A breeze whipped around the girl approaching the fence, a gust sweeping through as she ran her fingertips along the metal. She couldn’t remember when she had been there before. The rough and silver wire pricked at her hands,

but she seemed unbothered; this was commonplace. Dull blue eyes took in the scene happening beyond the little squares, workers with scythes that swept through the grasses, the sound green and yellow diamonds that danced across the edges of her vision. The breeze re-tangled her light hair and made her dress flow around her like water. Uneasy, she sang. “A day came to start, and we looked out on it, out on the dawn; the sun always risin’ and the day always there….”

Drip, drip, drip. I approached the fountain, the water clear and bright and blue. The flow of water was stronger now, wavering in little bursts as it fell towards the pool, a steady, quiet sound. White and pale pastel-colored circles rained down. My reflection moved with the stirring of the water, spreading around the circle. Around me, mirrors, mirrors. No windows and no doors, the walls and floor and ceiling solid looking glasses. There was only me, and the fountain. No lights, but I was just able to see all around myself.

“Quinn! Quinn, that you?” Someone took hold of her arm, and she recognized him, a single word drifting in her mind. Leo. “Oh, there—that’s where the birds’ve got the tune. C’mon, I’ll get you home; your parents are going mad again.” He pulled her along in the right direction, but she was stumbling some, glancing around curiously. Home sounded good to her, it was all warm browns and light reds and they were the perfect little swirling shape that she liked the best out of all of them.

She looked happier, almost skipping along. “And while it passed, we grew up, we moved on, it was something new, something ne-ew… some-thing, new.” Soon she was just humming it to herself as Leo talked, about the silly little birds again, about how she really ought to stop worrying her family so much—and she didn’t mean to, really—about how she got lost in thought in song and sometimes he wished he could, too. He smiled, but it looked like he didn’t want to.

I took a step back, and then towards the wall, the view growing. I reached out for the mirror; it was cold glass, like the water, and then it fell backwards. All of the mirrors fell back, shattering into little broken pieces, bits of what they were before scattering along the— The…? There was no floor anymore. I looked down, and above, there was only black, the shards floating, little beacons of light flashing all around me.

“Y’know why birds sing, Quinn?”

“Because….” There was a pause. Little dancing shards of light, all around in the blackness— “Because the silence says too much. And people—scared of that—birds don’t want people to be scared, so… they sing….”

She heard someone sigh.

I was still hovering in midair, looking for something to grasp on to. When I reached for the lights, they would jump away, and then there would be two, then four, then eight. Oh! They were all over now, blindingly bright, I shut my eyes tight. When they opened, it was cold, and dark, and I was alone, out in woods. It smelled like rain as the little drops came down—pitter pat—against the damp soil. I could see stars, the moon, between the shadows and the tree tops. Beautiful, really…. “Like a star in the sky….”

“Though their tears may fall, when you hear them call, another song will rise—” The two of them went up stairs, up up up, thump thump thump, one two three. There was a slow, low creaking of a door opening.

“C’mon, Quinn.” Slam! She jumped away from the noise, dark brown coils falling through her eyes.

I continued forwards, deeper into the forest. There were twigs and pinecones and needles on the ground with the leaves and rocks. I saw water again, a river, maybe stream, this time. It glowed softly, silver, the water looking thick and moving slowly, lazily through the basin. I reached the edge of it and

followed the silver’s flow, downstream. There was a bridge made of old wood boards, and I crossed. On the other side there were animals now, cute little squirrels and owls and rabbits. All kinds of baby animals too, bears and types of cats, little groups of otters appearing in the stream, their fur looking oddly dark against all the glow.

I smiled. I liked it here.

Hello, dears,” someone said kindly. Mom. “Quinn, you’re absolutely covered in dust. So windy lately, ah, well. Good to see you too, Leo.”

Something slammed against the house. And again, harder. Then a whistle, long and low, dark blue waves. She moved away from the outside. “And while it passed, we grew up, we moved on, it was something new, something new-ew… some-thing new.”

“It’s just wind. Come on, relax.”

She stepped closer to him, Leo. Her mother shot a nervous glance at the silver cylinder dangling on a chain around her neck. She thought. Letter. Grandma. Fourteen. Traitor. Death. Secret. Lies. Games.

The forest grew lighter, lighter and airier and paler. It started to fade. No. I didn’t want to leave here yet. Where was it next? Where was I next?

Everything started to spin, all confusing, and when it slowed, the light started to grow dimmer, everything grew more solid, and I felt less sick. There were woods again, but golden. It was autumn, all the trees were dead but covered in bright, warmly colored leaves that fell and crunched under my feet, little diamond shapes appearing. Under them there was hard-packed dirt and dust, and above there was a slight orange sky. Ahead was a little wooden house with a chimney made of dark brown bricks, smoke rising in little puffs towards the sky.

The air was crisp and fresh and clean.

“Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true….”

Mom spoke again. “If you need anything, I’ll be just in the other room, all right?” She left with quiet footsteps.

“Forget your woes, and let your troubles lay—“

“Why don’t we see if there’s anything on the TV, Quinn?”

There was movement, a new room, more light and noise.

Dust fell from the top of the door frame when I opened it. Inside was charming—old furniture, a burning fireplace, nothing modern like electricity or water or heat. There were wooden floors and gauzy curtains over water-stained glass windows. An old gas stove, a movable, porcelain water basin. Across the arm of the couch there was a quilt, a basic table with two chairs nearby. There was yet more dust settled over everything, and I felt warmer inside here than I had out with the trees.

Then, there was a breeze. It blew the curtains aside, blowing leaves into the room, swirling around me in shades of brown and orange and red and yellow and gold, a whirlwind of color and shapes, engulfing me, and elevating me, and I let it.

. . . . .

Gunner Krigg, Age 13, District Twelve Male Tribute (“The Neurotic Coward”)

No no no no no no no no. They were following me again, they just had to be. I could just feel it, mostly in how I couldn't move, not one muscle, not one inch. Move, Gunner! I managed to breathe in, then out, but not for a second time. Someone slammed a locker shut near me, I jumped, and it snapped me out of it at least. I was wringing my hands again. All I had to do was leave, quickly, before they got an idea in their heads. I didn't have to talk to anyone, the doors were close by. I was not letting this happen again, not today.

The hallway turned blurry in front of me; I was going to be sick. Someone shouted from behind me, and I was instantly moving faster. I was out the doors. It wasn't going to be today. Not today. Not today. Thank Panem. I exhaled just a bit, and nearly tripped down the steps, and almost hoped that it would be somebody else, so they would be caught and in trouble and discouraged for a while. Not this week. Not next week. Then I'd be staying at home, alone, and safe, and away from them.

Someone bumped into me on the sidewalk, I almost got thrown into the street. Shaking more, my hands going back to the wringing, I tried to stay out of their way. I went straight home; it wasn't a far walk, but it looked like it was going to start storming, and I prayed, prayed, prayed that it wouldn't until I got home.

Halfway down our street I ran, as fast as I could go, up to the door, pulling it open and closing it, extra firmly, behind me, locking it up. There, that was today done with, I was home now, nothing to worry about... nothing to worry about.

“Heh,” I said to Mom, and quickly dropped my backpack in its place by the door. The thud was a bit too loud.

She looked a bit suspicious. “How was school?”

“F-fine,” I got out quickly. Then, “How are you?”

“Fine.” She was still watching me too carefully, concerned, I guessed, but being watched was still kind of strange. Stop looking at me! I made an excuse to go upstairs and left.

. . . . .

I walked out of my little sisters’ bedroom after the nightly reading. I’d used to have Mom read our only picture book to me every night, and then I’d started to read it to Mitzi and Amandla. So it had become routine. Maybe even less nerve-wracking, since it happened every night. But the unpredictable reactions to the same story made me a little antsy about it. Roelle wasn’t around to read to anyone, moved out, and Dad usually didn’t. So it was me.

Tonight I had to go out, for training. At night. In the dark. And now probably the rain. Could I have just said I was sick? It probably wouldn’t have worked, and I didn’t want to have to face Kalina about it, or Belle even, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, not compared to leaving right then.

I was not going, no no no no no. I’d just say Mom hadn’t let me, they’d believe that, why hadn’t I said it before? Why? WHY? My hands twisting around each other again, I felt like I was going to scream any second now, no, no, I wasn’t going to, I was backing away from the door. Go, just get it over with—no no no…. Not going to, not going to, I was not going there. Not today and not ever.

“Aren’t you setting out about now?” Mom asked from behind me, making me jump.

“I—uh—no—yes—uh… yes,” I squeaked, trying to get the word out because I wouldn’t be able to a second time. What did I just say? “I’m—“ my voice cracked, as I picked up the bag I’d prepared “—just leaving. Leaving.” I took a not so deep, shaky breath in. “Uh, so, I’ll be back… later. Bye.”

“Have fun,” she called after me, having given up on avoiding the training. Fun, right, it could’ve been fun, I didn’t know, I didn’t know, it could’ve been terrifying at the same time….

I left, quickly, and the door closed behind me too loudly, I almost fell off the steps. I started ahead, feeling off-balance, like I was getting lost. But I wasn’t, was I? I knew the Seam, and the square, and the path to the Victor’s Village. I wasn’t lost, I wasn’t going to be lost.

Outside of Kalina’s house, she was waiting with Belle. “Heh,” I said, a bit out of breath. It had nothing to do with exertion and more with being nervous. I was still a bit dizzy from looking around so much, my hands were back to their wringing, I was totally on-edge and worried that I was going to pass out or something.

“Hiya,” said Belle, bored.

“Running late, are you?” Kalina looked irritated.

“I—well… kinda,” I said quickly. “S’rry.” I had to look at the ground, and realized that was a mistake, because there was no sun shining on it. Night, dark, drizzling rain. Without much more introduction, Kalina lead us back down the path of the Victor’s Village. Why? Why did we have to go back again, it wasn’t a good street at all, we should’ve just met somewhere else—oh, but then I would’ve been lost, oh great Panem….

“Come on, we don’t have all night,” Kalina snapped back at us. “Well,” she added slyly, “we might.” No no no no… we don’t.

We stopped, and I dared to actually take in where we were. The… Meadow? Belle looked interested. It was right by where she lived, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? She was on familiar territory, I wasn’t, I wasn’t.

“Tonight we see how quick-witted both of you actually are.” She looked doubtful that we had any skills at all. “In there—“ she waved her hand over the high, dead grasses of the Meadow “—are five books, inspired by last year of course. Your job is to go in, find and collect all five, which might be hard for you, and come back here. Unless one of you actually turns out to be good at this, you’ll likely have to fight for them, which is most of the point.”

I gulped. Belle was older and bigger and better at all of this than I was. “No weapons?” she asked.

“No,” said Kalina. “As a review. You start when I say ‘go’.”

I looked out at the field, or what I could see of it in the dark. It could’ve been easy, as soon as I had the books, I would just get out of there, and I could go home. Quickly. Except there was Belle, my likely biggest obstacle.

“Get ready.”

I shifted into a position where I’d be able to run, facing out into the Meadow.

“Get set.”

Now I felt sick, leaning slightly forwards, totally tensed up.

“Go.”

My body reacted before I did, pushing off the ground like I was trying to fly, instantly amongst the grasses, a slightly majority up to about my shoulders. I stumbled forwards—how hard could Kalina have made it, if finding them wasn’t the whole point?

Not too hard, one book was just a few yards away. I grabbed for it, my hand shaking enough to miss it on the first attempt. Oh no no no. I was shivering all over, maybe partly from getting rained on even though it wasn’t that cold, and fear. What was I going to do in the arena?

I tried to move fast, going through the grasses, finding another book further in, off to my left. I kept feeling like something was going to spring out at me, or I’d trip, since I was looking mostly at the ground.

Only two books, only two, two… that wasn’t enough, I’d have to go off the other way, by where Belle was. Couldn’t she just move? Did she have all of the other three? I was not going over there to find out, but it was my only choice if I wanted to get outta there anytime soon.

I started to half-run over, tripping and falling flat on my face, burned by the dead grass, over a big rock sticking out of the ground. The more I looked, the more there were. How had I not noticed them before then? A few feet later, I was in a small-ish clearing, and Belle was right on the other side of it, staring straight at me. She had the other three books.

No no no no no… here, just take these two, I don’t care, I don’t….

She set the books down, behind where she was standing so I couldn’t see them.

Yes…?

I still had a book in each hand, moving them.

She came up to me fast, with wide jumping steps, before I could move.

No no no no no no!

She spun to be by my side, grabbing me by the shirt collar and pulling on it so I couldn’t breathe, spinning me roughly. I coughed and almost fell. My right hand started to hurt, really, really hurt like it was being pulled off. The book was slipping from my hand but Belle’s grip was getting tighter. I twisted around and had to shut my eyes as I kicked the side of her leg, and all the pain in my hand let up to just a throb when she cried out so I scrambled backwards. I hadn’t meant to actually hit a pressure point, really!

She lunged back at me, off-balance, and punched my shoulder hard enough that I fell back, over, and had two seconds to move the books to have one hand free before my head was knocked to the side, and my left ear was ringing. I tried to move, but Belle had me pinned down as I tried to push her away.

She reached for the books again, shifting to knee me in the stomach and I couldn’t even do anything. No no... no, just let me go, I’m not fighting anymore….

She opened my hand when I was still outta focus and took the books, and when I looked again she was far away. I squirmed until I could sit up. It felt like everything hurt. I leaned forwards, on all fours and slowly pushed myself up. I was lost. I had no idea where I was. And it was still raining, the water was starting to soak through my clothes.

Kalina and Belle came back, in a bit. I wished there was something to lean on, I was feeling nauseous.

Kalina led us back to the edge of the Victor’s Village, lecturing the whole way. She left us alone there, going on to her house. I turned as fast as I could to start going home, but Belle was talking.

“I have to win,” she hissed at me. “I’ve got a reason to come back. I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to win.”

I gulped.

“I am not allying with you. If I find you in the arena, I will kill you. You’ve got no motivation to get back here. I do.”

I almost ran the whole way home.

. . . . .

Evangaline Jones, Age 17, District Eight Female Tribute (“The Abandoned Confidant”)

Reese skirted along the wall on the other side of the yard, trying as always to see over the brick wall into the next yard. He jumped, his little bitty arms reaching up to try to grasp the top of the wall. Landing harshly, but upright on both feet, he moved over a few feet, onto the highest part of our land, and jumped again. Typical of my baby cousin and any rambunctious five-year-old. "Maybe you need a pogo stick!" I called to him.

He frowned. "They're in the kindergarten," he whined. "Not here." Apparently that was distressing, and I wasn’t even sure that it was true. Eight wasn’t exactly one of the first five districts that had pretty decent schools.

"Maybe you'll get one. For your birthday, before you start school."

"I don't wanna go to school. It's boring."

"It's not so bad," I shot back, the same argument we'd had for months. "There are plenty o' kids like you there. And even more walls to try to get over, more toys, more books, more everything."

He frowned and plopped himself down on the ground, not minding the mud from yesterday’s rain shower.

“Olivia’ll be there,” I said. That would be his fellow five-year-old that lived in the house on the other side of the wall he was always trying to see over. My poor little cousin was having his first crush on a girl—and one who thought he was a total and complete idiot. I wasn’t sure if Aunt Jen even knew about the reasons of his latest endeavor.

“She don’t talk to me anyways.”

Well, if you were less obvious about the fact that you stalk her maybe she would. “Maybe she will.” Reese got up from the mud, some of the band aids scattered over him starting to come off. If he was leaving, it would be a chance to dig up the antique knives I hid out here, now used to practice for training with. Aunt Jen knew about the training (and the knife-throwing in our backyard) but really didn’t want Reese to know. He was too young to really understand even the Reaping.

“Where’s the watering can?” he asked, changing subjects. He liked to flood sections of the yard and say that he was watering the mostly dead grass.

“I dunno. Where’d you leave it?” He walked off to find it, not answering. I was glad that watching over the wall and talking to Olivia and flooding the yard and not going to school were his biggest concerns in life. He didn’t even know that I wasn’t his sister. It was easy to think it, maybe, for him. When he was born—after Aunt Jen’s boyfriend had already left—I was in my first year of the Reaping, six years after my mother ditched me here.

“It’s not there!” Reese said, frustrated. I laughed at him, unable to help it. Being here wasn’t exactly so bad.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it so much.” I came up with the first foolproof distraction I had. “Let’s go get you some more sugar.” Because you obviously need more energy. He all but ran over, his limbs moving at odd, clumsy angles. On the wooden back porch, I opened the torn screen door and it gave a loud screech, slamming on its own behind us. The real door was propped open, against an interior wall. Reese toddled after me into the kitchen, the linoleum floors much colder than the wood boards under my feet.

“We got cookies from yesterday,” Reese reminded me, as if I could forget.

“Mmhmm.” I opened the fridge; it was Saturday, so it wasn’t remotely close to full. Aunt Jen got paid on Mondays and shopped then. There was almost a whole half-gallon of milk left, so I pulled it out and poured us each a small glass before putting it back. The cookies were from last night, we always made them on Friday, still in a plastic bag on the counter. Reese snagged it up, somehow just able to reach. I grabbed napkins and moved the glasses of milk to the little square table, sitting across from him.

“Mommy’s gonna get home soon,” Reese said, not seeming to care, since he was biting off half a cookie.

“She won’t mind.” I took one too, but unlike my cousin took the time to dunk it in milk first. I heard the jingle of keys and the front door’s lock unclicking. Looking, Aunt Jen was closing it again, setting her purse in the entry area closet.

“I’m home!” she called.

“We’re in the kitchen!”

“Hey, kids,” she said as she walked in. She was still dressed in her work clothes, nice since she worked at the district’s best clothing store. “Snacking, I see.”

“Her idea!” Reese defended, still chewing and pointing at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Try chewing with your mouth shut, oh young one.”

Aunt Jen laughed. “No prob there. I miss anything exciting?”

Reese launched into his well-rehearsed monologue on the woes of trying to get over the back wall. Seven minutes later, I finally got in a sentence about how I’d finished my history project. And that I was happy with it, (considering it was mostly worked on around the weekday training, but I couldn’t say that out loud around Reese).

I put my empty glass in the sink and threw out my napkin. “I’m going outside,” I said to Aunt Jen, and miraculously Reese didn’t seem to notice. Slipping out of the kitchen and out the back door, it was finally totally quiet. That was good every once in a while.

I retrieved the knives I’d hidden. They weren’t actually buried but instead just a few good inches underneath a pile of stones in that area of the yard, the rock garden. It was enough that Reese wouldn’t easily find them if he were ever out here unsupervised for one reason or another.

The blades weren’t all that sharp anymore anyways, the handles and flat edges all scratched up, a bit overcomplicated, or just more than the ones you’d find in the Training Center or the arena. It always threw me off when I used the lighter, sleeker ones in training with Kenton and Keith, aiming for whichever

target was lit up, then the next one. But we were past that time, now it was mostly hand-to-hand combat going into the final preparations. So close.

I threw, not paying as much attention as I should’ve been. Mostly I aimed for a tree trunk, and hit them, though at the distance I was at and lack of force I had, they usually didn’t stick for long. It started to feel therapeutic. For all the anger at judgmental people in the world, at my parents for leaving me, at the Capitol for forcing me into the Games.

And eventually, at myself, for agreeing so easily.

In a month and a half, I’d likely be dead. Dead or still just dying. Or maybe alive, but to do what? Take on this fourteenth district that there apparently was? Win the Games, become a murderous idol? Survive to watch Reese go through the Reaping year after year after year?

I was too accepting of my forthcoming death. That was going to change.

. . . . .

Troy Reyes, Age 15, District Four Male Tribute (“The Ambitious Swimmer”)

“I seriously don’ get Seaside Pier,” Alec said, while adjusting his shark-tooth necklace.

“What about it?” I asked.

“Why does anyone call it ‘Seaside Pier’? It’s the only pier – why in Panem d’we have to name it? Everyone knows what ya mean anyways.”

“I dunno.”

“It’s named for being in Seaside County.” Lena, Cassia and Jason turned to look at Merin. “There used to be one up in Littoral, when our parents were kids.”

“But who gives a damn now?”

Merin shrugged.

“Whatever it’s called, we should go down to the end today. I heard the railing came off and there’s a diving contest out there.”

“Are you nuts?” Lena asked. My sister glared at me. “Mom’ll kill you if you try something that stupid.”

“Nah.”

“Sounds fun to me,” Cassia said. “Long as you’re not planning on—“ she gave me a pointed look “—anything extra.”

“Nah,” I said again. “Let’s just get some of those ice things first. It’s hot out.”

“That would be because it’s May,” Merin said. Lena still glared. Alec and his brother Jason didn’t seem to mind the idea. But looking at them, I felt this pang, not guilt, but something close. In a month, I knew because of the training arrangement, I would be volunteering for Jason. It was to help my volunteering seem more believable for my age, not like I was hand-chosen to be a tribute this year by the Capitol.

“Sure, sure.”

We kept walking. It was hot, and humid—not like that was a shocker, it was District Four—but something else was making me break into a sweat: the whole pier was filled with Peacekeepers. Every few yards along the sea view areas, there were two. At least one in every gap between shopping booths. A small patrol at the entrance. Even more amongst the crowd, their stiff uniforms making them stand out.

Just the security measures again, I thought. That was common. That was what this was. Just the security.

We bought the popsicles, and went to the end of the pier.

. . . . .

Games Year 384. Victor: Sassafras “Sassy” Hemlocke, Age 18, District One Female. Combat Strategy: Betrayal.

“Currently living in District One, stable, married, has a daughter Sage. One of the organizers of this year’s training, her daughter a Career herself alongside her other tribute Jullius Castallen,” Eric added out loud. What he’d assigned Delora and I today was, basically, re-enacting the major hand-to-hand combat battles all of this year’s lead mentors had fought in their Games, including his.

We watched the first clip, from the bloodbath. It was scattered, all over the place, everything going on around what we were supposed to be watching was interfering. I felt an urge, either to stop watching or protest doing this again, when Sassy and the girl from Six end up on the rocky land around the Cornucopia, grappling for supplies.

Careers weren’t really supposed to do that, were they? Especially not unarmed. That was pushing the danger levels, and they’d end up with plenty of supplies anyways. In this case, Sassy sprung away from the other girl and grabbed the bag before sprinting off towards a weapon. Eric paused the tape.

“Fun place to start,” he said. It was sarcasm.

The re-enacting went slowly. He said it would speed up as we went along, but for now, he played the first half, and we mock went through it one move at a time each, the ending up on the ground painful on the hard floor. At that point Eric pointed out that most of the fights ended up like that, which I wasn’t exactly looking forward to.

Delora looked impatient, like she could’ve just fought the whole thing at once, full-speed. I didn’t really want to doubt that. She’d done pretty well in the training, but with this—either she completely shared strategy with District One, or I just completely didn’t. I forgot what was next and did everything clumsily. Neither were normal for me, and those were my only doubts about the battles.

Games Year 372. Victor: Carter Tidwell, Age 17, District Two Male. Combat Strategy: Force.

“Still in Two, alone, stable, mentoring your soon-to-be allies Aurelia and Evander D’Avranches.” He said D’Avranches with extra sarcastic flourish.

But let me tell ya: it was hard to demonstrate “force” when you were only mock-fighting. And now I’m going to use all my strength to push you into the Cornucopia—oh, wait, we’re not actually touching. My bad.

“Delora, you’re overthinking this,” Eric said as we went, more quickly, through the last set of actions. “Don’t worry if it matches the tape perfectly, just go with it.” As I was currently acting as the

District Three girl now down on the ground, disarmed—which was where we’d picked it up—she scowled down at me when Eric said it.

Games Year 393. Victor: Trey Dracco, Age 18, District Three Male. Combat Strategy: Surprise.

“Another organizer this year, stable in Three, seems to have a kinda surrogate son, one of this year’s tributes—Saber Star, district partner is Cama Caline Ray.” Trey was the first to have actually killed another tribute with no weapon—the boy from Eight, snapping his neck after nearly ten minutes of a hand-to-hand fight. I was the victor this time, learning the offense side instead of defense (or really, what didn’t work, since the opponents usually died). By now the battles were at about half the speed of the real ones, still fake in the sense we weren’t actually hitting each other.

At a faster speed, I did better, felt more alert.

Games Year 383. Victor: Eric Hayam, Age 15, District Four Male. Combat Strategy: Awesomeness.

“Oh, seriously?” Delora asked, throwing the paper down onto a nearby table. Personally, I thought Eric’s listing of strategy for himself was funny. But to each their own, I guessed. What I liked better was that he won at fifteen. A fifteen-year-old Career had almost won last year, too. I had a pretty good shot of winning these Games, really, and Eric would believe it.

“Just watch.”

The first tape of his was from the morning of the third day of the Games, the Careers—missing only the girl from Two—gathering around the boy from District Twelve who had been hiding near their camp. Small thing, wiry, fourteen. Eric, twenty-three years younger, stepped forward from the pack, towards the other scrambling tribute.

“Y’know,” he started, in the tape, “we’re short on allies this year. You look okay.” He gave Twelve a nudge with his foot. “And you wouldn’t use up much food, would you?”

“N-n-no.”

“What exactly are you doing?” hissed the girl from One.

“Wanna join up with us?” Eric’s voice was smoother during his Games, alluring, especially to someone who was facing a slow and painful death otherwise.

“Y-y-yeah.”

Eric gestured to the other Careers to back off, letting the boy have enough space to stand properly. He looked shocked, but happy with himself. “Go get yourself a decent weapon, that twig all ya got?”

Twelve nodded again and turned to head towards the supply pile. Eric pounced, catching the boy from behind and pinning him to the dirt, bringing the knife edge of his hand down against his neck forcefully, quick, a few times, until the boy suffocated and the cannon fired.

Games Year 374. Victor: Ella Falon, Age 16, District Five Female. Combat Strategy: None.

Games Year 405. Victor: Kizzy Ericssen, Age 17, District Six Female. Combat Strategy: None.

Games Year 376. Victor: Cypress Anderson, Age 14, District Seven Female. Combat Strategy: Intelligence.

“And we’re back to a victor that actually had a hand-to-hand fight,” Eric announced, skimming over the other two. Next was the announcement that now the acting was more real, no fatal or seriously injuring hits, but contact allowed.

We re-enacted the quick scene: approached by the girl from Five, Cypress, still in the pre-fight conversation, backed her enemy into a steep riverbank, making her trip. Close by, Cypress kicked the other tribute in the side of the head repetitively until her eyes went blank with the cannon.

Delora did not look pleased with having to pretend to be the Five girl in this one.

Games Year 403. Victor: Keith Rienman, Age 18, District Eight Male. Combat Strategy: None.

Games Year 386. Victor: Bryce Everson, Age 17, District Nine Male. Combat Strategy: Speed.

“Stable in Nine, married with no kids, mentor of Ikky Delacroix and Henrik Armfeldt. This time on, we’re going for full speed if possible.”

Bryce killed both of the opponents we saw by coming up close to them quick and harshly clapping his hands over their ears. They both fell to the floor, lifeless. I made special note of the technique; it seemed less painful, less violent, easier. It was one of those strategies that actually matched the victor as they were today.

By then I was really getting tired, and was glad to read:

Games Year 396. Victor: Litiea Hellion, Age 18, District Ten Female. Combat Strategy: None.

All of those fights were not meant to be done at once, my friends. Especially not now in real time and as close to real as we could get without almost killing each other. I was going to go home sore all over that night, for sure.

Games Year 378. Victor: Nigel Bract, Age 18, District Eleven Male. Combat Strategy: Trapping.

“Does that count as hand-to-hand combat?” Delora asked.

“Won’t be able to re-enact it, so we’re done, but I still wanted you to see this.”

In the three hundred seventy-eighth Games, the Gamemakers had a target, which was Nigel, the victor, ironically. About twice a day he got hit by something—a cave tunnel collapse as he slept, quicksand, these horrible bird mutt things, an ever-changing maze right in his path, lake overturn, the list went on and on to the point that it was almost comical.

What was actually the sick part was that time after time, he fed another tribute to the calamity instead. Pushed the Seven girl into the quick sand, left his fast-asleep District Ten ally in the collapsing tunnel, on and on. Not an actual fight outside of the finale, the bloodbath, and one run-in with the alliance between Eight and Nine, and I knew that from school, not from what we were watching.

Eric had said we were done from the day, so as the clip ended, I looked at the last victor’s line anyways.

Games Year 395. Victor: Kalina Asetic, Age 16, District Twelve Female. Combat Strategy: None.

Maybe next year, my name could come after the word “victor”, too.

Storm in the World

Mistina “Misty” Freeweather, Age 60, Gamemaker: Meteorologist, Capitol

Over my thirty years of being a Gamemaker, I’d learned that the tone of DAPT meetings shifted rather frequently. At times during the Games, planning the next, they were relaxed and slow-paced, with no urgency. Some were the utter opposite, during the intense prep periods—rigorous and exacting. Others were an unspoken game of who could keep their eyes open the longest. Even more were in the middle of the two extremes, somewhere on the spectrum. Tonight, despite the fact that it was nearing three-thirty in the morning hours, the latest schedule drawing out the lingering exhaustion, I’d almost have called it peaceful, serene.

When I’d come in, the lights were turned off, the table displays’ brightness up and glowing in soft neon blues on the glass surface. Overhead, the ceiling was in video-screen mode, projecting an almost three-dimensional view of the arena’s night sky. The north section, I’d say, due to the dark color and presence of the stars, wispy clouds floating by with the occasional pale flash of an aurora. Unsurprisingly, Lavender was already at the head of the table, editing a holograph and stroking Kaye’s hair idly with her other hand. She’d smiled at me as I sat in my usual place.

Call me a workaholic, maybe, but I had missed the chaos of the Gamemaking Center. These ridiculous overtime hours, and busy schedule, they were just a reason to live. When I’d attempted to retire, I’d lasted a while at it—I published two more poems, and saw my son, Deman, and granddaughter, Viviana, almost every day until one week my son turned to me and said, “Mom, get a life; please. You’re not that old.” The next day I found myself back here. Lavender offered to reinstate my old contract, but I’d said no, I wasn’t really sure what I was doing yet. But I’d missed the work, and of course, my “surrogate grandkids” as the rest of the panel had been nicknamed a long time ago.

Thespian came in then, causing his usual ruckus as if oblivious to the quiet of the room. “Misty!” he said. “You’re still here!”

“—Shocking—“ I heard Lavender say under her breath, as Kaye giggled.

“Not too busy yelling ‘get off me lawn, you damned kids!’ are you?” He waved a fist at the imaginary children trespassing on a lawn I didn’t have.

“I’m afraid not,” I said.

“Too bad.” He dropped into the chair between Lavender and I, as if defeated. “Would’ve been quite the picture.”

“Don’t you have your sister to annoy now?” Lavender asked him, full well knowing the answer. He had been offering Laya an internship here since she’d started college, an opportunity she’d always refused despite their mother’s wishes. Though evidently, something had recently inclined her to finally say yes.

“She’s no fun, Lav. Always busy. Thinks she’s too old to talk to her brother anymore.”

“She doesn’t think that,” Kaye protested gently, before Lavender could argue her nickname again. “Just caught up in school, that’s all.”

Thespian rolled his eyes, exaggerating the gesture. “Of course.”

The door opened again, with a quiet click instead of the whisk of a sliding door, this time Francisco and Rainshadow. The first was glowering at the floor with slightly bloodshot eyes, likely trying to adjust back from staring at a monitor for so long. Rainshadow swiftly sat between him and Kaye, already babbling about the most recent tech work she’d done for the environmental projects, with only her lack of sleep slowing her words close to the point of being comprehensible. “And the camera work’s done,” Francisco added at one point, the District Five lilt to his voice just as pronounced as usual. He didn’t get here on a paved road, that was certain.

The room quiet again, Thespian struck up a conversation with Kaye and Rainshadow, which they tried to engage Lavender and Francisco in to no such avail. The talking just starting to fade, Kaye looked at me. “How did Viviana’s award ceremony end up going?” she asked, in her usual sweet way that made everyone so protective over her. There was a reason no one would swear when she was in the room.

“Oh, fine,” I answered. “Her Production teacher had a lot of nice things to say, about the whole class. It was touching, really—” There was the click of the door again. Glisten and Ritter entered, hand in hand as their new usual. They were finally together, after ten years of both of their stalling. Thespian had jumped on the opportunity to start teasing them for it immediately, calling them “Glitter” and asking questions about “the future”.

Quickly after they arrived, before they could get involved with any conversation, Lavender started off the meeting. We weren’t there long—it was just past four when Lavender ended it with a reminder that we all had to be at the Capitol Building by eight for a budgeting conference, and there were would be a prep session at seven. Instead of the grumbling about a lack of sleep that you’d expect, there were a few last, loose questions about previous topics as everyone started to leave.

I followed, up to all of our quarters on the fourth floor, up to my room in particular. It was more here than anywhere else that all the quirks started to reveal themselves—the varying levels of tidiness to everyone’s rooms, the way there weren’t any full pillows in Kaye’s, the emergency light that would stay on the whole night in Ritter’s, how Francisco’s had been simplified beyond being minimalistic, and the way no one always slept with the door open. The nights—or maybe days—anyone did, it was said that it was just the ghost stories we’d started getting to them.

All of our senses of time were now disoriented; when we’d found a moment to sleep, and had managed to turn our minds off, had escaped the nightmares, it wasn’t going to be at a normal time. Even Lavender was thrown off enough that she didn’t make her usual remarks about it being before noon when she wasn’t quite alert.

Now alone, I was more aware of how slow I was going, how weighed down my movements were, how my eyes didn’t seem to want to open again every time I blinked. The slight weight of the blanket discouraged me from so much as rolling over, after collapsing into bed.

The idea of sleep was whimsical, but relieving.

. . . . .

I woke in something of a panic, startled for no apparent reason. There was no evidence of something that would’ve roused me; the room was still empty and dark and quiet, nothing seemed different. Then the silence shattered, like glass into shards falling to the floor, with the horrible screams echoing around from doors over—Lavender’s. It was the saddest part that by now I, likely among the others, could distinguish whom the nightmares were hitting each night.

I sat up, stood and made my way to her room. She thrashed in her sleep, clearly still in the grips of the dream even as she struggled against it. I approached carefully, not wanting to frighten her any further.

Gently shaking her awake, I attempted to coax her upright as she came back into reality. I sighed, sat down and held her to me. “Don’t cry,” I soothed, smoothing back her hair, “it’ll make it worse.” Lavender only shook her head against my shoulder, breathing shakily.

She calmed, though tense and still, quiet. I drew away from her, rubbing her shoulder in small

circles. “You’re all right,” I said, and she nodded again. Taking her right hand in both of mine, I added, “Do you want to talk, Lavender?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, just before the quiet went on too long. Then, “Do you still have them, the nightmares?”

“Of course; you knew that already.” It was a curious question, when the answer was already out in the open.

“It doesn’t get better, does it?”

“No,” I agreed, the next line in the practiced conversation, “it doesn’t. It gets worse, if anything. Although… I can’t tell you that you’ll get used to it, Lavender, but it does… it seems easier, after a while. Normal, almost.” The logical words were lost somewhere between being thought and being spoken. The easiest ones went with the answer that was comforting, albeit a lie, the one I’d learned Lavender didn’t want to hear.

“It just seems wrong.” The pain in her soft voice tugged at me.

“I know. But that and a quarter will only get you a cup of coffee, if you’re looking to change anything.” She sighed. It was moments like these that my worry for the panel’s inconsistent dynamic seemed reasonable. No one was meant to handle this alone.

The clock read five-twenty. I released her hand. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

A nod; I rose, Lavender settled back into the light, silken sheets, curled up on her side. “It does get worse,” I reiterated, draping her hair back over her shoulder, “but it does get better.” I kissed her forehead lightly, and left, closing the door behind me.

. . . . .

Lavender Maynor “Flame”, Age 19, Head Gamemaker, Capitol

The morning passed in a tired haze. First there was the prep session, a run-down of what to say and what not to say, our plan and proposition, and the loose agenda. Then there was the quick tram ride to the Capitol Building, which was, for most of us, the time when we actually forced ourselves awake, as the city rushed by underneath the tracks. After, settling into the conference room where we would meet with the budgeting crew, it was discovered we’d accidentally been sent the rough draft of their offer—which, while it held decent terms, had an unnerving amount of typos, including a misspelling of my first name. It became a competition to see who could find the most mistakes, which Rainshadow won, naturally. The meeting itself dragged on until I was unfocused, watching the traffic out the window instead of listening, braiding and unbraiding a few strands of my hair in between scolding myself for the fiddling. I should have been more worried, more concerned, as I usually was, but today, I had just stopped. It would resolve itself.

Instead, I thought about the results of the dingoes’ tracking test Kaye and I had done yesterday, wondered about how Thespian would go about being the new Interview Host on top of the Games Announcer, the elevation changes to the east and north sections that Ritter and Glisten were still working on. The thoughts came faster than I could process with my current energy level, besides the fact my focus span was flighty from boredom with the meeting.

Afterwards, on all of our way out, it occurred to me that I should have gone to see if President Paylor was in her office. As our schedule started to change more frequently, her check-ins had become far and few between, only when there was an actual topic to discuss. Today there was; I’d gotten the near-last training reports from the lead mentors yesterday afternoon.

I really didn’t feel like any more talking, though… it probably wasn’t a good idea to find the President when I was half-awake with a bad headache anyways… I would call later, I decided. So, of course, as soon as that thought went through my mind, Paylor came sweeping into the entrance area, looking just overjoyed to see me. That would be why she was glaring so intensely at whoever was in the room that her eye-color change alteration kicked in, shifting from almost black to as light brown as Francisco’s in a second, and back. That, with her condescending smile and the way the whole room grew tenser with her presence made me just as happy to be there as she seemed to be. Here meaning: not at all.

Knowing I wasn’t getting out of this, I made a quick decision and gave Kaye my lame excuse for disappearing, since she would be the only one to not question me even if she didn’t buy it, and about a minute later was in the President’s office, after almost losing my balance from tripping over the threshold. “Sit, please, you look uncomfortable.” Now why in Panem would I be uneasy here?

I did, carefully. “I got the reports from the victors yesterday—ah, mentors, I mean,” I said, digging into my bag for the AT I’d brought, at the time just for the work I’d wanted to review before the conference. Feeling the cool metal and glass tablet, I pulled it out, tapped the dark screen, then, the backlight on now, the file icon for the saved reports. I handed it to her.

She skimmed through the pages. “And who do you think will be the top ten?” Paylor asked, not bothering to look at me.

“Ah, sorry?”

“Who,” she started again, slow as if I was stupid, “will be the top, ten, tributes?” She put a pause between the last few words, still reading. Slow.

“Based on what we’ve seen here?”

The President sighed sharply, through her teeth. “Yes,” she ground out, clearly irritated, “Based on what we’ve seen here.”

I closed my eyes, calming my breathing before answering. I went though all of the names, remembering everything I’d heard, taking guesses. “Both from Two—Aurelia and Evander—“

“—Sure they won’t turn on each other before then?”

“I—I don’t know.” Seeing her contempt with me, I tried to change my answer, quickly: “Ah, yes. I don’t think they will.”

“Go on, then.”

“Saber, from Three. And Delora, Four.” I waited for it to be questioned, scrambling for some solid backup to the answer. None came, just impatience at my pausing. Okay. Okay. “Ah, the boy from Six, Andy. Both from Seven—Jessalyn and Alder. And….” I wasn’t so sure what the President would think of the next two. “District Nine, Ikky and Henrik.”

Paylor raised an eyebrow but only said, “That’s nine.”

“And,” I started, trying to inhale again, “the girl from Twelve. Belle.”

“Five male, five female, three Careers, seven non, three district pairs, all fifteen or over, two mentored by one of our group, one of them a kind of relative, all with a specific weapon of choice. Interesting.” She handed me back the AT, without much interest or a comment on the reports. “Now, can you tell me why we’re training these tributes?”

“W-Why?” I didn’t give her time to answer; it was better she thought it a rhetorical question. “Ah… it’s because….” I stalled, my mind uncooperative and attention scattered. “We want them to know what they’re doing, in the arena.”

“Why has this never been done before?”

Hell if I know; this was your idea. “I—because—“ breathe, Lavender “—they’ll be fighters, they won’t just run around terrified if—when—Fourteen interferes.”

“Yes and no. How is this training relevant?”

“Ah, like I said, it’s just to prepare them, for… the fact that they’re going to have to fight, and be strong. To… get them used to it.” By then I’d caught on that the conversation was not normal. There was more tension settled in the air, I was a lot more nervous, the President more uptight, no informalities or jokes, no spare seconds of small talk, stalling that I could unwind in.

“That’s true,” she agreed. “When Fourteen comes, we don’t want a group of scared little children running around in there. We want them to be the definition of tributes. Careers, all of them, like the Games are meant to be. Ruthless, deadly warriors prepared to carry out their mission. Not the little kids some of them were a few months ago.”

There was more tense silence for a moment. “But what about Airah, or Zattiana, or Quinn, or Gunner? Or even Tam and Fall?” I couldn’t help asking, my voice somehow quieter than usual. “They’re just children—“

“—And they will be dead, in the bloodbath if they can’t prove themselves. Even to you that might sound heartless, but it’s true.” Even to you, I repeated mentally. The definition of a horrible person. “And if they’re not,” the President continued, “as the twelve- to fourteen- year olds sometimes manage, then they will be welcomed back, if they make it. But the Games must continue as normal as long as possible.”

“Of course.”

“But not quite normal. It’ll be our last chance, in the eleventh hour, to weed them out to only the best.”

“So…?”

“Throw everything you’ve got at them. Every last trick, whatever it is you can do to break them, do it. Don’t let a day pass without a death, push them together, keep the Careers up twenty-four hours if you must. All as early as possible, I’d say. We’re still looking for quality over quantity here, if only the ten you mentioned make it, then so be it.” I blinked a few times, swallowed down more air. “Can you do that for me, Lavender?” The President’s voice was purposefully not forceful, that one sentence.

“Of course,” I said again, sure that I could, but would, if that meant completely willingly, might’ve been a different question. “I mean, to the best of my abilities, I will.” The words were too stiff and sounded all wrong, getting jumbled on the way out.

“Good. Now, I trust that you have work to be doing?”

“Ah, yes,” I said, finally slipping the AT back into my bag. Too much of it.

“Go on, then,” she said, for the second time. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

Not sure what to say, I got out: “Thank you,” and left without anything more. I opted to walk back to the Gamemaking Center, though I did have the tram pass, just to give myself more time to catch my breath, slow my heart rate, relax and try to clear my thoughts. It was a short trip, with all the nervous energy I had coming out in my speed, and I watched the bright June sky passing overhead.

. . . . .

Ritter Denken, Age 31, Gamemaker: Psychologist and Environmental Manager, Capitol

"Ritter, I swear, if you make us late one more freaking time, I'll—"

"You'll do what, darling?" Glisten glared and settled for smacking me upside the head with an AT, yet again. "You're going to break one of those damn things someday," I grumbled, while she scowled at me.

"The next time someone points out that we're never early to anything—"

"You will?" I finished, smirking some.

She sighed in exasperation, already at the door. "Come on."

I came up behind her, drawing her back against me, entwining our fingers in front of us. "You love it," I said, and kissed her cheek.

"Like hell." She fumbled with our hands until I let go, turning and leaning up to kiss me anyways. I drew back only about an inch and she sighed, cupping my face lightly.

"Glis."

"What?" She pressed closer, letting our lips touch so I could feel her smile. My hands drifted over her, lazily.

"We're going to be late."

. . . . .

We weren’t. It was a report meeting, going through everyone’s updates on progress, Lavender checking tasks off on the master to-do list. Or not, depending. But it seemed like we were getting a lot done—finally, there was evidence of it. Instead of just a blur of almost sleepless time there was some kind of conclusion. It was Kaye’s turn in the order we were going—from the right side of the foot of the table clockwise—after Francisco and Rainshadow. I would be next to last, with only Glisten after me, if we didn’t present together.

“… So the speed was improved by about two seconds,” Kaye said. I forgot which mutt she was talking about at the time. “Accuracy—about the same.”

I felt Glisten reach for my hand underneath the table, covering it with hers on the armrest. She tilted her head onto my shoulder, looking in the opposite direction, up at the chart shown on the wall to both of our left, just beyond the end of the table. I wished she didn’t pay so much attention. It wasn’t like either of us needed to, anyways.

The reports skipped over Lavender, instead going over to our half, Thespian first. He talked on in his rather loud voice, annoying as usual. And as we had for over six years, Glisten and I just exchanged looks instead of bothering to comment. I shook her light grip on me to put my arm around her instead, tracing patterns low on her side.

Misty mentioned changing the salinity of the north section’s snow, a new color scheme for the east’s fog. I’d forgotten the plan to change the first until she mentioned it again; it didn’t have much effect on any of our other projects in any case. Still, if that meant the air could be—or more importantly would be—warmer, the mountains might’ve needed more structure….

Glisten leant into me a bit further, less obvious to the others, and I mouthed, What? She only shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Annoying. She pulled away altogether in a few seconds, our turn to present, always the inconspicuous one when it came to our affections. Like everyone didn’t already know. I wasn’t that ignorant to what they said, whether we were there or not. Apparently we were the last to know.

Our time over, Lavender speaking again, I reached for Glisten again, already missing her touch and warmth, earning a scowl. Demanding, she typed on an AT, showing the word to me under the tabletop with a slight nudge. But she gave in to me.

Nearing seven-thirty in the evening, the meeting ended with everyone getting their next set of orders, Glisten writing down ours before I could start to bother. Lavender would send out a list within the hour anyways.

Before everyone actually started leaving, the Circle began, in the only part of the room with enough open space. Lavender had started it, reaching for the hands of Kaye and Francisco. It continued with Thespian and Rainshadow, Misty and me and Glisten, who offered only a confused glance in my direction, like I knew any more than she did why this tradition was coming up now, of all times. Usually it was some sort of connection symbol, used either as reconciliation or just when things got really depressing. For the first, there was the time right around the Victory Tour, when everyone had started to snap a little. The second, Day Four of the Games, Cala’s death.

Either one you could see the motivation for somehow. If the panel was arguing, there would be chaos. Nothing would get done. The Games would be a disaster, and we couldn’t have that. A lack of… enthusiasm, wrong as it sounded, would result in the same.

Today, I didn’t really know what it was.

On the other side of the Circle, almost directly opposite Glisten, Lavender talked. Not for too long—as far as Head Gamemakers went she was decent about shutting up every once in a while—but long enough, about how the Reaping and the Games were fast approaching and we all really needed to put our all into it. Not lecturing, but encouraging. Almost reassurance. We did what we did for a reason, stayed sane, for a reason, the same reason as everyone else here in the Circle; we weren’t totally on our own. She broke it off, cueing everyone else to do the same.

I didn’t let go of Glisten, even as everyone else filed out around us.

She tugged on my hand, more impatient than I was. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothin’.”

She shook her head at me, rolling her eyes. Seeing that her hair was in the way of them, I pushed it away from her face, before she could manage to toss it over her shoulder in her usual way. Stupid thing, really. She seemed to sense my intention with the half glare she shot me as we headed for the stairs. But she didn’t leave me alone in my avoiding the elevator, so I didn’t take the look too seriously.

Although, Panem only knew that sometimes got me into trouble.

Hitting the first floor where we’d been before, Glisten said, “Here?”

I leant over, kissing her lightly. “If you want. Or we could go upstairs early.”

“Mm. Probably a bad idea?”

“Only to you.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “Which means what?”

“You seem to like overworking yourself.”

“So do you,” she shot back.

“Hardly.” For once I’d won a round and she knew it, sighing but releasing my hand, looking too far away. “And you know it’s true,” I said aloud. Silence. For a few seconds too long. But I wasn’t about to apologize for pointing out all the times I’d woken up alone or nearly been ignored for a solid week on end. Instead of anything else, she slipped her arms around me and mumbled something into my neck that I didn’t hear.

“What?”

“Nothing.” A bit more distinct.

I tightened my grip on her, around her waist. “Fine.”

. . . . .

Francisco Clandestine, Age 28, Gamemaker: Engineer and Technician, Capitol

The silence was deafening. Maybe that was hypocritical, I liked it quiet. Rainshadow? Not so much. Today I got my way, the second floor was noiseless. My screen in the editing room scrolled almost faster than I could read. Coding for the wind tunnels, which should’ve been the environmental

department’s problem. Specifically, Glisten and Ritter’s. Except that programming the mobile trees was supposed to be mine, which would’ve required knowing the patterns. I offered a trade, Glisten did most of her own tech anyways, and ending up with this instead. I didn’t know it was just over half done and not duplicated for all the angles yet, too early for Rainshadow to perfect. More damn work than I signed up for, just because I’d tried to give them a major project back.

All the standard white text started to blur, hurting my eyes. I slowed it, more than necessary. A break.

“Landmines are done,” Rainshadow said, twirling a stylus in her usual fidgety manner.

I paused the screen, still looking at it, unfocused. “Finally.” The drawl was more noticeable against her too quick speech and Capitol accent.

“It’s usually one of the last things finished.” Her tone reminded me of the months just before I’d become a Gamemaker, after leaving Five, the time when she’d been something like my mentor.

“I know.”

Those months had been a hectic time period. After Misty found me at a conference in Five just pre that year’s Games and brought me out to the Capitol, disregarding the fact I’d barely gotten to finish school because of work, I’d started to settle into the new life. Three college classes in specific preparation over four days each week, the other three days spent at the Gamemaking Center, half an intern, half being given “assignments” from Misty and working with Rainshadow on them. As instructors, they could both be fairly brutal. Besides that, I spent the whole time half terrified that I wouldn’t make it in the Capitol, and half, well, homesick, and maybe wanting to fail.

I didn’t fit in, not then, not now. Even in the small things. The drawl and accent of Five. The light brown eye color that, if natural, was near unheard of in the Capitol. My “beliefs” from the district, uncommon elsewhere most of the time. The fear of needles after all the experiments gone wrong. How I preferred the cold weather after burning for years in the desert climate.

“You still have the task list from Lavender?” Rainshadow asked. I handed it to her, absent.

Plus I’d almost gotten engaged to Ana before I left. Everyone in Five knew someone with some variation of the name.

The Capitol had changed me, too. I didn’t fail. I had my job just after that year’s Games, for the sixteenth Quell. What being a Gamemaker did to you aside, I grew up. I attempted getting over the fact I’d abandoned my own district for this life. Some days I succeeded. Those were the ones when I remembered that I had regular access to food and electricity, clean water. Clothing, medical benefits, one of the best apartments in the city, all at my disposal.

Almost two years ago, now, there was another major change. Misty retired. Lavender took her place. When she had shown up in one of the ground floor conference rooms before her interview, one of Misty’s final tests, first I’d thought it was a joke. An inexperienced teenage girl, Head Gamemaker? Who had just turned eighteen on the past Reaping Day? As she talked, mostly in response to Thespian’s questions, a small bit of the annoyance turned to interest. Pathetically.

It was the small things, again. How she almost tripped over a chair leg within her first minute of being in the room. Her constant uneasiness, despite the irritating tad of arrogance that came through. The way every other sentence started with “I mean” like that was all she had in her repertoire. The seemingly short focus span in how little she engaged with everything.

“Are these files the right ones?”

“For?” I glanced at Rainshadow’s screen.

“The west section plates, for the sandstorms. And the east rapids for the second.”

“Thought those were done.” Considering I did them myself.

“Lavender wanted the print outs, remember?”

I scowled. “Eh.” I hadn’t been that concerned with them. Just making the artificial tectonic plates structuring the arena move in a certain way, together, wasn’t that hard. Copy and paste for each row or column. I shook my head to be able to answer. “Yeah. Those’re right.”

I heard the whir of the printer before I realized that Rainshadow had done anything. The countertop in front of me beeped twice, then again, louder before I tapped the message that had a flashing amber edging. Sender, Thespian, about where the sinkhole coding had gone. I sent back the file location as Rainshadow grabbed the small stack of papers from the printer.

“I’ll take ‘em,” I said, and she handed me the papers without question, but raised her eyebrows some. Rainshadow liked her “conspiracy theories” about my thoughts. Especially on Lavender.

“You should ask if she got the force field corrections, in that case,” she said, still giving me an extra, suspicious glance.

I nodded, headed out, almost hit the elevator button for the fifth floor, which held all the bio labs, and then the sixth, which was for development, and then almost for the underground Symposium before I eventually got to the third, the offices. Excellent. I really was fading.

I knocked on the already propped open door before I walked into the room. Lavender was pacing along the window wall, holding an AT, probably avoiding her desk, which I could see had an insane amount of different screens pulled up under the gathered clutter. “What?” she asked, finally looking in my direction as I tossed the papers onto the pile.

“The print outs you wanted.” I tilted my head at her, mockingly, something more like what Ritter would do. “Remember?” I focused on another tower building I could see out the window.

“Do I look like I’d remember?” She picked up the files I had brought to flip through, her movements slow and tired.

“You look like hell, if that’s what you mean.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, with a bit of a half smile, half smirk.

“Any time.”

She set the papers down again, running a self-conscious hand through her hair. “Anything else?”

“Got the latest corrections?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Then no.” I took a step back towards the door, looking to the side, not sure if I actually intended to leave like I should’ve.

“And how are the hoverboards going?” Lavender asked, seeming to notice my moving. “I mean, last I heard they were still pretty in progress.” She took a long sip of coffee from a mug previously on a side table.

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Haven’t gotten them past the lab yet.”

“Could you show me?” It was a prompt, if a gentle one. Anyone else and I’d think that wasn’t an actual question.

“Sure.” She followed me. Out to the dimly lit hallway. Into the elevator. Through the sixth floor, to the lab. I grabbed one of the boards from a cabinet shelf, not the latest, since that version wasn’t totally assembled. Giving her the brief explanation of progress on it, pointing out the one I was currently working on, I hit a switch to activate the square of metal in one corner on the floor.

I set the hoverboard down on it, watching it rise about a foot into the air, still. “That’s as much as I have it set to rise,” I said. “For now. While it’s still testing. In the arena, the power’s higher.”

“So, it’s mostly about aerodynamics at this point,” she said, actually a question.

“Yeah. And re-programming each new version.” I stopped, deactivated the field, put the board on the counter. “For my trial runs on it.” Mostly, I was just glad she wasn’t a person I had to explain every little detail to.

She nodded, gave me a rare small smile. “It’s good,” she said, brushing her hand against my shoulder. And I never thought of myself as being among those who lived for the Head Gamemaker’s praise, I wasn’t even a fan of Lavender being in that role, but it was nice to hear. “Really.” There was quiet, not uncomfortable, as I put the hoverboard back in the cabinet. When silence between us had stopped being so tense, I didn’t really know. Some time after the last Games.

“But still in progress,” I said, going back to the hoverboard topic.

“Of course,” said Lavender. “I mean, it’s coming along nicely, now.”

I exhaled deeply, not really a sigh, noticing for the first time that my mood had definitely improved since I left the editing room.

Watch the Raindrops Falling Down

Delora Marris, Age 18, District Four Female Tribute

The day of the Reaping, training took place in the early hours, the sun just breaking the night sky a third in to the session. Looking out a window, the near-overcast black faded through the grays to something pinkish, giving way to patches of blue. By seven, it looked dark out again, the clouds brewing thicker and in a color somewhere between purple and charcoal. A last glance showed water droplets trailing down the glass, lightning illuminating the distance.

I leaned against my locker afterwards, listening to the low rumble of thunder and wind as the instructors gave their weapons count to the Peacekeepers. It was a relatively new procedure—after every session, they counted. Every knife, every bow, every sword, spear, trident, slingshot, ax, scythe, you name it. They counted to make sure any object in the gym much sharper than a pencil was still in place, and then searched all of us on the way out of the locker room.

There were rumors, if vague ones, that only Four had the crackdowns on training. Only publicized in the Career districts, that meant there was something setting us apart from One and Two.

“We’re stationed in Three and Four, Seven, Ten and Eleven. No clue how much… they, know,” Antony had told me, as Rigel snapped for him to shush. “They probably think Seven and Ten are taken care of, though,” he added, quieter. “They wiped out a whole Seven group thirteen years back, and took out that Ten mentor last year….”

Someone shouted that the count was over, echoing around the room. A line formed to get out; I tried to be near the front, semi-successfully. I was on somewhat of a tight schedule. This training from five to eight, and I had to be all the way at Eric’s before nine. On the way I’d find some of the others—Faith, Rigel and Antony—for any last-minute changes (apparently not very common in the group) and after I’d have to head straight back home in time to get ready for the Reaping. My last day in District Four, jam-packed from before dawn until I got on the train.

The Peacekeepers rightfully convinced that I was unarmed, I made it out the center’s front door to almost be blown down the stairs by a heavy wind from the coast. What the— Debris scattered and swirled on the ground, in the air, as if floating above us. Several people who had been on either end of me in line gathered in the entryway, just watching. There was a huge crash with each wave and the rain had me soaked through in a minute.

Walking along the steady stream of dirty water flowing by the curb, I attempted to go against the wind, down towards the water and what was once, a really long time ago, Littoral Pier, off to the left. Sheltering underneath the wreck, perched on boulders, was the trio I was looking for. The surf swelled upwards and broke only a few yards below where they were standing, dissolving back into a swirl of sand and water. “Couldn’t have just agreed to meet me at the Reaping, could you?” I yelled over the sounds of the storm.

“Oh, suck it up,” said Rigel, the wind blowing away his words. “Why you’re here is more important.”

Well, his cold attitude hadn’t changed any since our first meeting. Not the first, but the night not too long after I’d started training with Troy and Eric, when I’d joined District Fourteen just as my brother had, and just as he—and our family—had paid for so dearly. Since then there had been the occasional risk taken of a meeting of our whole group in Four, not a large one, and no one else that I had known previously. Some, like these three, were sent out from the state itself, some recruited like I was. Nothing much happened, but I’d been brought up to speed on the district, or state, now, that so few even knew existed.

“But you know what to do.”

“Ally with the boy from Three?” I pretended to guess, the one thing I’d been told millions of times now. It brought on a scowl from Rigel. “Stay alive in the arena?”

“You have a full week before then,” he snapped, patience tested just enough that he was at the end of his rope. “Make yourself useful for once, find out what you can about whoever: the government, the Gamemakers, the tribute teams—“

“—It’s nothing you haven’t said before, Rige,” Faith cut in. Between the criticism, interruption and shortening of his name, she got a glare from her older brother. For siblings, none of them seemed fond of each other. Then again, I could sympathize with that.

“Whatever you do, get to the Eleven girl’s token before they put it through the review board. Paylor’ll confiscate it then and we’ll never get our hands on it.” He stopped as a younger couple strolled past our little stretch of the beach, not trusting the storm enough to cover our words from someone so close by. The thunder grew louder, crackling overhead like fireworks.

“Trey heard that’s the only reason Quinn was recruited,” Antony added. “A conductor just got the message through a few days ago.”

“Well, we could’ve guessed that,” I said. “The girl’s psycho.”

“Everyone in these damn Games is,” said Rigel. For months they’d been saying that the female tribute from Eleven was the granddaughter of a Fourteen traitor, and had the letter her grandmother had written about “the conspiracy” within the state in a silver locket always dangling around her neck. It was bound to be her district token. The President knew, wanted to know who else was involved and kill the Eleven girl before she or her family could let anything slip. But we, Fourteen, wanted the names in the case there were any more traitors left to eliminate.

“There’s a shock,” Faith said, as a particularly fantastic flash of lightning flickered over the ocean’s horizon in the clouds.

“Any other redundant announcements to waste my time with?” I asked casually, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “I have other places to be.”

“Go, then.”

“See ya on the other side if you keep yourself alive,” said Antony. The “other side”. Of the Games, of course.

“I will.”

. . . . .

“What the hell happened to you?” Eric asked when I walked in, dripping a combination of salt water and rain over his shining kitchen floor.

I matched his tone: “Got caught in the freaking hurricane going on out there. Didn’t you notice?”

Troy raised an eyebrow, glancing out the window over the sink.

I let the bag fall to the ground, dropped into a seat at the table between the other two. “Saw half a palm tree go slamming into the train from Nine that stopped here. Really impressive. Decent surf, too.” About three waves had gone further inland than I’d anticipated, one almost up to my knees when it broke, one pushing me off my feet into the shore. Now my clothes were freezing and sticking to me, coated in a fine golden layer of sand.

Noticing that Troy and Eric both had water bottles in hand, I took the remaining third from the middle of the table, attempting to open it with my grip still slippery from the sea. “Anyways,” my mentor said, “we’ve talked about Reaping and train station angles already. It’s the first time you can start playing the crowd.” Eric hadn’t failed to put emphasis on getting sponsors, something last year’s Careers lacked. “Troy, we’ve got yours.”

“Yup,” he said. Apparently he would be volunteering for a friend, not portrayed as bloodthirsty but instead brave and loyal, a bit carefree in his angle later.

“Delora, you—“

“—are going for something a bit more Career,” I finished, before he could try to make a suggestion. A bit cold, I’d decided, not the likable one, but intelligent enough to be considered a safe bet. Dedicated to the Games, a Capitol supporter through and through like they all needed to think. I wouldn’t go for the young love story that One had last year, nor the naiveté of the girl from Two, or the snarky edge of her district partner. Not the quiet thinker of the girl in my place last year, not the ruthless and cruel attitude of the Four male. Someone different.

“Okay,” said Eric, not pressing for details. He’d learned better. A gust of wind swept past the house with a long whistle to accompany the thunder and steady tapping of rain. Some of the lights blinked, fading out and then back in. I took a sip of water. I’d be more than glad to miss out on this storm while in the Capitol.

Eric continued talking for minutes on end. Things to do or not to do, from the start of the Reaping through when we would board the train. Tips on how to hold ourselves, how best to go about volunteering, what to do on-stage and at the station. “Now go home and make yourselves look presentable; the Reaping starts at eleven. I’ll see you there,” he said. I left quickly, back to the chaos of the storm raging on outside.

. . . . .

At home, I dressed for the Reaping quickly, thankful for the dry clothes. I tried to avoid everyone else getting ready: my parents, with their anxious looks, knowing that I had to volunteer to convince everyone we weren’t traitors, though they didn’t know the half of it, and Nerissa, with all of her innocence in her first year of the Reaping. Eventually the television got turned on, so I could watch the event in the other districts.

Catching the beginning of District Three’s, I searched the eighteen-year-old male section for Saber, whom I was supposed to ally with. It occurred to me that I didn’t know what he looked like.

“Cama Caline Ray!” called out the escort. “Cama, are you here, dear?” A pale girl with short brown hair emerged from the section adjacent to where I’d been looking for Saber, wearing an old dress too small on her. She reached the stage steadily, but with tears welling in her eyes and starting to spill over as she faced the crowd.

Seriously? I thought. Months of preparation and she still gets all emotional?

A boy’s name was drawn, though it wasn’t Saber Star. He volunteered, dignified but still confident, introducing himself. He could’ve easily passed for a Career between that and his stocky build. I tried to think of an easy way to recognize him for later, in the Capitol—black hair, hazel eyes, looks ready to murder.

I turned the television off, watching the screen zap back to black.

Nerissa came in then, looking ready to go, making a comment on the weather and how she hoped the Reaping would be under a tent or something similar. I looked towards the window with a view of the sea, now shoving aside the urge to be uneasy about going out again in these conditions, praying uselessly that a miracle would occur and it would clear up within the next few minutes. “Remember last year?” my sister asked.

“What about it?”

“Everything was all wrong. There was the Quell and they picked the guy first and then that one girl didn’t want to let him volunteer.”

“Yeah,” I said. I remembered, though last year felt like a lifetime ago, so much had changed since then. Mother and Father entered the room, the first brandishing some umbrellas. Time to go. Time to leave, forever. It would likely be the last time I ever saw our house, even if I came out of the arena alive….

A roar of thunder broke off my sentimental streak, snapping me back to reality. Good; I needed to focus, clear my mind of everything else. I exhaled, breathing out all the doubts, and inhaled, breathing in the Games to come.

Till Kingdom Come

Henrik Armfeldt, Age 16, District Nine Male Tribute

District Nine rushed away as the train started to pull out of the station. It was just about literally a life-flashed-before-my-eyes moment. There was the school I’d gone to my whole life, and all the houses of people I knew. The town square where I went to the Reaping every year, Bryce’s place where we’d been training. In the crowd of people, closest to the train, I could see my parents, Frederik, our friends Desiree and Georges. Then there were just trees, this huge blur of woodsy colors. Georges would’ve appreciated the view.

I let go of the windowsill, and took a step back to adjust my balance.

“Well,” I said, noticing that Ikky was still looking out, “I guess that’s that.” She nodded.

We’d caused quite the stir at the Reaping, and not even the one I’d expected: the district thinking maybe we—or I—had a real shot. Better than last year’s tributes, anyways.

“And first, we select this year’s lucky female tribute!”

I actually prayed, for everything to just go according to the plan, every last muscle in my body tensed. There was a new escort this year—Mandisa—who approached the reaping ball on the left. She reached in, fishing around for a name. As far as I knew, it didn’t matter. It was rigged. There was only one name.

“Ikky Delacroix!”

I breathed a sigh of relief, which maybe sounded horrible. It was Reaping Day, hardly the time to judge, all right?

The crowd started whispering, pathetically fascinated by the whole prisoner deal. It was probably the handcuffs and the prisoner’s necklace that did the trick. But above the whispers, Ikky’s mother was screaming: “It’s not fair! A death lottery, that’s all it is! A death lottery—it’s not fair, it’s not—“

“A tour of the train is in order for you two, isn’t it?” Mandisa asked from somewhere behind us, pulling me back to the present. She whisked us from room to room, commenting on everything we saw. “Unfortunately, on the way here we got caught in a storm in Four, quite the phenomenon, really. Part of a tree hit the car for your room, Henrik, so you two’ll be sharing. But no worries—we’ve arranged for an extra bed.”

I did some combination of blushing and choking, because seriously, was that sentence not implying there was some other option? Frederik would’ve died. I was about to die, between Mandisa’s ignorant rambling on and the look Ikky shot at me, somewhere between concern and being amused or maybe silently saying “shut up, Henrik”. Oh, yeah, real funny, all right. Just hilarious.

But I should’ve been glad that Mandisa hadn’t commented on it. In her eyes, Ikky and I had never met until the Reaping, unless she had drawn much from my volunteering.

As Mandisa approached the boy’s reaping ball, I watched my twin panic, like he could’ve forgotten the fact that I’d been training and preparing to volunteer for months. All Frederik probably saw at that moment was Ikky, the “grand love of his life”, standing up on the stage where she had just about been sentenced to death, for the second time.

A boy’s name was called out, no one I knew. Quicker than I’d planned to make sure Frederik didn’t try anything, I was yelling, “I volunteer!” The group I was in made way for me to get out. “I volunteer as tribute!”

Mandisa opened the door next to a room-number plaque reading “Tribute Quarters 1”, saying something about when dinner was and washing up before then, leaving and… closing the door. There were, indeed, already two beds—identical and just about as far apart as the room allowed. Seriously, I had to wonder if that was some kind of joke. I glanced at Ikky, who looked back at me. And then we both started laughing, even though there was nothing really funny at all.

. . . . .

After eating, Bryce, Mandisa, Ikky and I gathered in the sitting room to watch the recap of the Reapings. In District One, both were volunteers, eighteen and seventeen, dangerous-looking, the girl the daughter of a well-liked victor. Obviously Career. In Two, both seventeen-year-olds, twins, just like Frederik and me, on the small side with matching auburn hair and blue eyes. The girl lunged forward to volunteer; the boy was reaped. Careers again. The boy from Three was also a volunteer, adopted victor’s kid. I didn’t like the look of his glare, like he was ready to take on the whole audience. Both from Four volunteered, the girl eighteen and vicious-looking, the boy fifteen and less dangerous. So the Careers had a full pack again this year.

I noted both of the Fives as probably bloodbaths, sad but true, and the boy from Six final-eight worthy. The commentators—Games Announcer Thespian Albright and some special guests—were all over our Reaping. Ikky being in prison, my volunteering, the way we apparently looked amiable to each other (“Wouldn’t they be cute together, you’d say?” at which point I focused on a painting hanging by the television). The reaped girl from Eleven didn’t seem to notice when they called her name, wandering in circles when she was pushed forwards by someone near her. Eventually a boy from the fourteen-year-old section got her up to the stage. The girl from Twelve turned down an un-planned volunteer.

There wasn’t too much discussion before Bryce was saying, “Go on to bed—we’ll be in the big city tomorrow.”

. . . . .

Ikky and I took turns using the bathroom to change into pajamas, after choosing who got which bed—(and yes, thank you, I did let her pick first. Did I get points for that? Probably not a chance.) Plus, that ended up being bad for me, because I was against the wall of the room furthest from the window and our newly makeshift ventilation system, a metal box protruding from the wall just under that window. Which basically broiled down to meaning that my half of the room was really, really hot.

I laid down on top of the blankets, somehow feeling awkward about not using them, but not caring enough to risk heat stroke just from a few comforters.

Call me crazy, but now that the Reaping was over, I felt like I might’ve actually been able to sleep. We were just where we were supposed to be, and ready. No more staying up worrying about the plan to get here. But onto the staying alive concern, like I could’ve forgot that before. If a better person, staying alive wasn’t even supposed to be my concern.

“But promise?”

“Sure, Fred, I promise.”

“Say it like you actually mean it this time?” my twin pleaded.

“We’ve done this, and you’ve already done your whole being in love shtick,” I pointed out. “Your little girlfriend’s gonna live, don’t worry ‘bout it. Probably kill me in my sleep herself.” That last sentence was likely a lie, but sadly, one meant to be comforting.

“Give this to her, will you?” Frederik shot a teary-eyed glance at the Peacekeepers gesturing his time was up and shoved a wooden ring into my hand. “If you’ve got the chance?”

“Sure thing.”

“And you guys are allies, right?”

“Of course.” We’d agreed on that months ago. Of course Frederik demanded it the second Kizzy left, and got rather snappish when I’d taken my time on proposing the idea to Ikky. I said it would look weird; he protested that the District Nine tributes almost always allied anyways. A loyal district, Nine was—

The lights turned off; Ikky’s doing, I assumed, though it took me a second to even be able to make her out in the dark, and by then she’d moved from the light switch to get in bed. “Good night,” I said, trying to lift some of the silence’s weight.

“Good night,” came the quiet echo, through the blackness.

I rolled over, closer to the edge of the bed nearer the vent, and shoved my pillow aside, replacing it with one still untouched. Not really any cooler. I sighed and stretched tiredly, my mind still reeling with possibilities for tomorrow.

“Ikky?” I paused, but not expecting an answer right away. “What do you think the Capitol’s like?”

“I don’t know,” she said, voice a bit too soft and sleepy.

“I heard almost every building’s a skyscraper, and everything’s metal and glass. Lots of water, fountains on every street.” I tried to force the picture in front of me, like it would appear painted against the wall. “All the colors—“ I yawned “—are really bright. And there are mountains around the city, they’d be pretty, don’t you think?” No answer. I turned onto my other side to face her, and couldn’t stop my smile.

She was fast asleep.

Some damn great conversationalist I was.

For what felt like almost an hour after, I stared up at the ceiling, or what I could see of it. I could vaguely hear the motion of the train and the hum of the vent system, the blankets stirring and then settling every time Ikky moved, clearly a bit restless even in sleep. The once-cool fabric of the blankets now felt like they were radiating my body heat back at me, and finally I gave up, stood and walked over to the window, tugging on the bottom of it in the hopes it would open. It did, but only halfway and with a loud screech that made me cringe. There was the sound of blankets stirring again, Ikky obviously wide-awake now and watching me.

“Sorry,” I stage-whispered, glad it was dark so she couldn’t see my expression. “It’s just broiling in here. Go back to sleep.” With that, I practically tiptoed back to my bed. A few seconds after I was somewhat comfortable again, Ikky slid out from under the covers, and shut the window, giving me a small, satisfied smile.

Have it your own way, then. It was like getting out of bed just once had drained all the energy out of me, too tired to care what temperature it was or argue about the stupid window. It was loud with it open, anyways. “You win,” I mumbled, muffled into the sheets, and sleep wrapped around me, pulling me down into darkness.

. . . . .

I woke alone, in a room bathing in morning sunlight. Morning? Really? I felt more tired than I had going to bed last night, which wasn't helping my mood about dragging myself up. We had strategy to go over, and talk about sponsors and what we would be doing in the Capitol, especially for the opening ceremonies. Our stylists had a huge say, of course—something that I'd never actually agreed with, but who wanted to listen to me? But Bryce and Mandisa would get a word in about how we presented ourselves, too, and Bryce knew us well enough for it to actually work.

I forced myself, eyes half open, to start getting ready for the day, not that most of it would matter by the time we hit the city. A bit more alert, I all but stumbled into the dining car, finding the rest of the team at the table, Avoxes in uniforms nearby, ready to serve. "Good morning, Mr. Sunshine," Bryce said cheerfully, refilling a glass of juice. "Finally cared to join us?"

"Yes, good morning, Henrik," Mandisa added, as I actually sat down, next to Ikky, who shot me a questioning look at my uncharacteristic late arrival without comment.

"Morning," I got out in reply, my voice still a bit hoarse from sleep. "What's on the agenda?"

“Not too much until we arrive,” said Mandisa, always the helpful escort. “I expect you three will want to start discussing your skills?”

Bryce, Ikky and I all exchanged looks as subtly as possible. “But of course,” Bryce said finally. “I have a feeling you two are just bursting at the seams with talent, ain’t that right?” We attempted to nod convincingly, like we hadn’t heard that before. “Good,” he said, leaning back so his chair almost tipped over. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

The Door Slammed Shut

Belle Hatton, Age 16, District Twelve Female Tribute

I convinced Hope to go back to sleep, after a quiet, lazy morning breakfast of toasted tesserae-grain bread for me, mashed up fruit from the garden for Hope. I hadn’t talked much, because I didn’t know what to say. My daughter didn’t know what the date was, and even if she did, she wasn’t old enough to know what it meant. So she went on toddling towards the creaky stairs with her usual crooked smile and half-untied shoelaces as I watched, trying to not think that in all odds I wasn’t going to see a day when those steps were steady and shoes were tied.

I did leave for a minute, just a minute, hoping it would stop the feeling that the air itself was strangling me. Dharma, my roommate and Hope’s future caretaker, was in one of the Children’s Home’s side-rooms with a group of twelve-year-olds, three girls in their first year of the Reaping, pale and terrified. Twelve years of live that, in just one second, a word or two today, could just end, first all at once, delayed in some haze by the Capitol’s luxury, and then… what? Constant, running fear and pain and wondering exactly what fate awaited them, innocent kids their own age now their sworn enemies? No, none of them would be getting reaped this year. And if I got all this right, my secrets would mostly be buried with me, Hope unknown and out of the Reaping.

“Are you sure it looks okay?” asked Lindy (really Melinda), one of the twelves. She smoothed her hand-me-down blue dress, longer on her than it was meant to be, with a collar too tight. Her sister, Trinity, was—as always—nowhere to be found, your typical seven-year-old even if she looked three.

“It does,” Dharma assured, reaching past one of the others for a comb; “really.”

I finally offered a quick wave and left again, upstairs to Hope. Bitterly, I thought that she looked better asleep, blue eyes closed, hiding that the trait couldn’t have come from me or anybody from the Seam, but instead a damned Peacekeeper probably from Two, a district famous for taking down our tributes early over the years.

I glanced up and out the window, which, if I turned the right way, slightly faced towards town, which I now avoided, and where Meggie, known to most as the un-public Children’s Home director and to me as a friend of my late parents’, was probably trying to appeal to the merchants’ lenience on prices today.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, where Hope had decided to sleep, and wondered, then decided. I was going to leave for the Reaping before she woke. Selfish, maybe, but what was I supposed to do? Casually drop it by her that she would probably never see me again, try to say goodbye, even though… she’d probably have no memory of me. She wasn’t even three yet—would she remember a single one of my stories, or our walks outside, or when I’d taken her through the tunnel in the basement to show her the woods I wanted us to move to when she was old enough, before all this started? I took a deep breath in, still feeling suffocated.

If I didn’t say goodbye, what would she think of me when she woke?

I did remember something from when I thought I was about her age. This old, old mix of story and lyrics, probably changed over time, one I’d heard again and again since. My last chance to tell it, though it was probably a bit too morbid, but really? Really, it wasn’t any worse than the reality she’d wake up to one day. Cruel, but maybe fair. So I started, my voice wavering where it wasn’t supposed to, kind of scratchy.

“Are you, are you, coming to the tree? Where they strung up a man, they say murdered three? ” I paused, then went into a storyteller mode: “Once there was a man in District Twelve everyone said killed three townsfolk, who was to be hung in a tree just beyond the fence around the district. The day of his death, he was asked by a Peacekeeper if he had any last words, and he looked out at all the people, and at his one true love, and he told her to escape and be free.” I inhaled, willing my hands to stop shaking. “Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight, in the hanging tree; come, wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.”

“After the man was hung, his love went home and later, heard his voice singing: ‘Are you, are you, coming to the tree? Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight…’

“She looked at the clock to see it was just before the time from the song, and ran back out to the

woods where the hanging tree was. There was nobody there, but instead a ghost of the man who had been hung that day—” My voice broke for a second, thinking of how Hope wouldn’t even be able to attend my funeral, see the coffin they would send my lifeless body back in… what would she picture of it, later?

I swallowed, and tried to continue. “The ghost sang to her, ‘I told you to run, so we’d both be free; come, wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.’ And then the ghost started to fade away, disappearing into the noose still swaying from the branch.”

This was the part where there started to be different versions, different endings, different morals. I went with the classic: “His love sang back to the air, ‘Are you, are you, really truly free? You still have nothing here, in the hanging tree….’”

I coughed, intentionally and unintentionally ending the story prematurely, before the preachy part, then stood, waiting for some meaningful last words to appear, which none did. I closed my eyes, thinking of the Reapings running on the television downstairs—how did everyone else manage it? I thought of the family in District Two, one sibling a volunteer, the other reaped, knowing that even if their district won, only one would live, only one could be able to come back, knowing they were the reason the other was dead… that kind of goodbye was impossible, one to be said before even entering the arena.

Last words, ones that had escaped me, tossing and turning my last night at home. I ran my hand through Hope’s hair, one final time. “Don’t go to the tree, Hope,” I whispered, tears threatening me. Don’t give up. Ever.

I breathed, something more like a sob, and turned away, towards the open door. I steadied myself with one hand on the doorknob, looking back at the saltwater-blurred scene of my daughter sleeping peacefully. Some choke sound escaped me as my grip tightened, even while I felt sicker and sicker, dizzy.

Hope stirred. “Mom-my?” she tried, confused, sleepy.

I closed my eyes tightly, ignored the headache. Stay. Leave. Risk trying to say goodbye, or go now. Become a distant, sad memory, or give up every possibility to remain here. I shook my head, took one slow step forward, and shut the door behind me.

. . . . .

The sixteen-year-old section grew more and more crowded even as the drawing approached, people cramming into the roped-off areas through the story of Panem, the list of past victors and mentor announcement, and our escort’s speech. Breathing grew more difficult, my heart was pounding rapidly somewhere in my throat as a thin slip of paper was slowly drawn from the reaping ball. I was shaking, almost vibrating, tensed and ready to move.

“Belle Hatton!”

There it was, that was my name, that was my cue. Nobody was moving, no one knew who I was. I shuffled a bit towards the aisle until people got the message, one step after another, the space around me widening.

It was an awfully long way to the stage, wasn’t it? Self-conscious, I started walking faster, reminding myself to try and pick my head up, unfold my arms, attempt a smile or something amidst all the surreal stares that pierced through the quiet, dead quiet.

I became very suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes diverting away from me, someone gasping for breath from behind me, and turned, still numb and just out of it. “I—I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” the person was screaming, desperate and eyes wide with fear. “I volunteer! You can’t make her go!” Everything registered all at once, and I flinched, snapping out of my daze. Dharma. Volunteering. For me.

“I—… volunteer…” she gasped one more time, stumbling forwards, then collapsing to the ground. I looked up at the stage, because they couldn’t accept a volunteer that went unconscious, could they? And she knew! I’d told her I was going to the Games, said to stay with Hope. I was still just standing there, what was wrong with me?

Meggie forced her way out of the crowd, reaching Dharma at the same time as two medics that materialized from the sides of the square. “I’m not accepting volunteers,” I said, then repeated it again, louder. Then I was torn, not quite knowing what I was supposed to be doing.

“Come on up, then,” said the escort, and I did, my senses oddly sharp now, a bit hyper-alert. I stood in my place on the stage, just staring out over the crowd, trying to not look at the screens, the mess my more casual Reaping outfit probably was. Gunner was reaped, name just an echo carried in the breeze, coming up to stand on the opposite side of the platform.

There was the Treaty of Treason, the anthem, Gunner and I shook hands—he was trembling the whole time, eyes teary—and then: “Happy Hunger Games!” came the trill of the escort. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

. . . . .

My first batch of visitors—Meggy and Dharma, apparently recovered—were being ushered out, too soon; I was still calling things after them, forgetting about caution. “No matter what happens you can’t forget! Tell Hope I love her—!” One of the Peacekeepers slammed the door on my cries, almost hitting me in the face as I took a stunned step backwards.

It opened again, this time the trio from this morning, Lindy, Jenni and Louisa, plus Trinity, half hiding behind her sister. The groups of kids from the Home kept filing in and out, dragging little pieces of me out with them. Siblings Amity and Colin, sweet little kids originally from town, who were always doing more than their fair share of work in the gardens, going to visit the merchants, picking flowers to lay on the graves of last year’s tributes. A group of Seam boys that had taken to “homeschooling” each other and some of the others, always doing handy work, repairing the parts of the Home starting to fall apart or cave in. Tacey, a girl that always seemed to talk used books out of the hands of an elderly pawn shop owner; a shy, ten-year-old boy with a gift for playing the piano; a mix of kids around fourteen who already considered themselves elitists. The list went on.

After the hour was up, after all my visitors had left, leaving me feeling a bit empty and depleted, the Peacekeepers came to retrieve me. My steps were suddenly heavy and in slow motion, firmly guided by the Peacekeepers, but everything looked like a blur. The end of the hallway came nearer, the other end growing further and further away, more than it seemed it should’ve been, like the hallway was growing narrower and more suffocating, but longer and longer.

Behind me, the door slammed shut.

From Time to Eternity

Evander D’Avranches, Age 17, District Two Male Tribute

There was a weird collection of sounds that made up the Reaping process. Okay, so first there were footsteps, one two, one two, or shuffling. Then voices. And some crying. The noise from things being moved on-stage, the sign-in clipboards’ pages being turned, Diamond Daize tapping the microphone for a sound check; the occasional jingle of a little kid playing with the ropes that divided off sections. But they all seemed quiet, muted.

Aurelia and I reached the space between the two seventeen-year-old sections. This was it. This was where we said goodbye, the acknowledgement that the next time we spoke, and every time, we would be enemies. “Bye, Ev,” she said, already starting to be engulfed by the crowds.

“Bye, Aurelia,” I whispered after her, turning away.

Anti-climatic moment much?

I slipped into the right section, slowly being filled up. Most of the kids I knew, from school or training or around town or even last year’s Reaping. But I wasn’t really in the mood to talk. So my thoughts went back to my sister.

We were inseparable for a long time.

When we were twelve, still desperately afraid of being reaped, terrified even, we both stood right at the edge of the roped-off areas, close enough that we could reach each other’s hands across the aisle-way, clinging to each other like it would keep us here in District Two. The escort reached for the girl’s name, and Aurelia’s grip tightened. It wasn’t her. We both exhaled, then tensed again as the escort moved across the stage to draw another name. It wasn’t me. We let go of each other.

It was after that Reaping that the game, the child’s play, was up. What was happening on the screen was real, and so were our odds of going into the Games. That was all the training was at first, a precaution—but then… then I noticed how Aurelia got so wrapped up in it, Games Games Games, Career Career Career, that’s all I ever heard from her. I followed.

Soon, it wasn’t a precaution. We weren’t scared of being tributes. We wanted to be those kids plunging weapons into others on the screen, the ones all but idolized in our district. We wanted to be Careers. Our actions fit the role, and shortly after, our thoughts followed.

Sometimes it was easy to look at everything on the screen and tell yourself that it wasn’t real, that nothing was happening, that those were tributes and characters and not kids dying, that everything was just okay. But it wasn’t, not really, and it never would be.

There came a point when it wasn’t just a game anymore. There wasn’t any more “playing pretend”, no more “second chances”, no “there’s always tomorrow”, no rules. It got real, too real, and really, really fast.

My twin all but disappeared on me. I got glimpses of what we’d been like before the Games took over—when we trained each other in our best weapons (a knife for her, a bow for me), sometimes just doing homework in the same room that we both agreed was stupid, running to tell each other what was happening in the arena that day if we weren’t watching.

It became clear that things had changed. We were not "those identical little redheads" that wrecked havoc on the neighbors on holidays, that walked home from school together and made up our own rules for the classic little kid games of the district. It didn't happen overnight, but maybe that had just made it harder. I started to notice it, ignored it, said I was getting paranoid. Then it got worse, and worse, and there was really nothing to do about it by then. One day, I woke up, and any connection of ours was gone. I realized we had completely different lives, different friends, different opinions. Aurelia was already in the Games, mentally. Already turning me, her brother, her friend, into just another kill for later. Just another cannon-shot. Just another last scream.

I would never be able to do that. Maybe I was just the weak one. And maybe, I shouldn't have been surprised, because really, that meant that I always had been, out of the two of us. I was just now noticing.

“—Welcome, welcome!” said our escort, cutting in to my thoughts. She seemed to be standing on tiptoe, even in heels, to be able to see over the podium. “Isn’t it a lovely day for the Reaping? I absolutely love the June weather here… but enough of that. It’s time for the story of our great country.”

The Mayor stepped forward at this for the history-telling. I knew now that it was all wrong. But the Mayor was clearly interested in the false version, dragging it on and on and on. After, he gave his notes on victors—noting the passing of two in the past year, reading the list of all the names, and saying that Carter would be the only mentor for this year, which got some questioning looks from the crowd, but nothing too outright.

Clearly eager, Diamond rushed through her own speech, throwing in the usual “so happy to be here” and “what a great district to have to be proud of” and “the best of luck to this year’s lucky, lucky tributes”. She clicked her way towards the first glass Reaping ball.

Automatically, I started thinking, please not Aurelia, please, just this one year, please please please—oh. I remembered, startling myself so much that I flinched out of it, just in time to hear: “Fade Chase!”

I’d heard that name before, somewhere. Come on; think of it already. Last year’s final eight family interviews, for the guy from our district. His sister, probably, or… ex-sibling? What did you call it when someone died?

“I volunteer!” yelled Aurelia, waving a hand as she shoved her way out of her section. All the cameras swung around at once to find her. She walked up to the stage, no one else stepping up. Last year, a lack of volunteers made sense for the Quell—but this year? That was a bit suspicious, all things considered. The odds of only the Capitol’s “chosen ones” coming forwards in a huge Career district? Small. Very small.

I watched my twin introduce herself up on the stage, just as proud as always. She stepped off to the side to make room for our escort to reach the other side of the platform. Just a few more seconds.

A lot of the people in the area were looking at me, and probably had been for a while. Still going to volunteer? they asked silently, like I might not have known that my own sister would be jumping up for the same role. I was still looking at all of them, ready to say something, protest with I’m not the horrible person you think I am, I’m not going to murder my own sister when the guy’s name came: “Evander D’Avranches!”

“I—“ Wait, what? I stopped mid-sentence, realizing that I had gotten reaped, and was about to volunteer for myself. First thought: make something of this. “I volunteer!” I finished, somehow jokingly and scrambling for something to make it not look totally stupid. “No need to pick my name.” I forced a laugh up to everyone on the stage, ending up choking on air. Carter looked distressed at this not-so-expected start, Aurelia scowled disapprovingly; Diamond and the Mayor seemed a bit shocked.

Yet again, no other volunteers surfaced. Weird. Beyond weird, actually, heading into “really creepy” territory. Seriously?

It took a few seconds for the realization to hit everyone, but not that one. The “oh great Panem look at that there are siblings going into the Games from the same district” one. Actually, scratch that. No idea how siblings could be from different districts.

“Oh, how interesting!” sang Diamond, clapping her hands a bit too close to the microphone, making the audience cringe. She moved on quickly: “But now for the Treaty of Treason.”

Throughout the Treaty, I thought some more, feeling a bit awkward standing up near the front and middle of the stage but not being the “focus” of the audience. In fact, most weren’t even pretending to look up at the stage at all. Even in Two, the Treaty was tedious. Another thing to be dragged on by the Mayor. So I went on with my thoughts.

I felt like our acting for the Games had now started, and it was clear, based on audience responses, that the angle to play was more about the two of us going in together. Presenting ourselves as Careers would be hard until we had training scores and interviews—based on looks alone, neither of us were that impressive looking, and most of the Capitol would have problems looking beyond that. Humor wasn’t working, not like I was giving it up, but it didn’t seem like it got much of a response. The only thing that did was “us”. But for that, I’d need Aurelia onboard. I glanced over at her, and promptly thought that isn’t going to work grimly. She didn’t even look back at me, staring straight ahead seriously, unwavering.

I convinced myself, for one second, that it was because she hadn’t noticed.

Abruptly, the reading of the Treaty ended—“It is a time for penitence, and a time for gratitude,” and soon the anthem was blaring from every speaker in the district, crackling through the old sound system. I turned to stare at the familiar, red Capitol flag. It sagged, limp, the end probably only two feet off the ground.

“Our flag will raise above, Panem shall reign above, may our nation never fall!” Irony. But the energy of the anthem woke me up a bit. It would be one of the last times I heard it before entering the arena, where it’d be playing as they projected the faces of the dead into the sky to stare down on us.

“Though dark may fall, through darkness light will shine, as they believe, the darkness is the light.”

Well, that was pretty hopeful for a song played during an obituary.

As the anthem ended, I wondered about the other Careers’ Reapings. Would there be no other volunteers in One, Four, just like here? How strange was that…. I thought of what we’d learned of our allies from Carter. From what I’d heard, I could easily imagine Sage, the victor’s daughter from One, pulling out a sword and beheading anyone else who dared to step up—

“Come along, shake hands,” said Diamond. What a name, even for the Capitol. Just thought of that, must be slow today….

Aurelia and I shook hands, rather un-dramatic for the ending of the Reaping and all. She let go quickly and turned back towards the audience with a practiced-looking smirk. Not effective, since some people were already edging their way towards the exits. They didn’t care. It was just another year for them, just another Reaping, just another pair of kids.

They knew nothing. They understood nothing.

Peacekeepers came up to the stage, escorting us into the Justice Building.

Soon we would be gone, faces onscreen to root for in the Capitol, kids fighting for another day of life in the Games. They would sit around television screens and comment on our opening ceremonies outfits, our training scores, our interview angles, and ignore the fact that at one time we went to school with them, shopped in the same stores and trained in the same gym.

They would question our choices, every step we took in one direction or another. Will you go hunting with the pack tonight? Betray the alliance soon? Would I? Would I betray my own sister, my twin?

No. Never.

Victory is Yours

Corsage “Sage” Hemlocke, Age 18, District One Female Tribute

I must say I was disappointed in watching the other Reapings. I thought this year’s competition might be an actual challenge.

The girl from Three, Cama, cried through the whole Reaping; the pair from Five were both formerly disabled in some way, twelve and fourteen years old; the girl from Six had some mental problem, thirteen; the fifteen guy from Seven had no left hand; Panem only knew what was up with the little Eleven girl, and her scarcely-fourteen district partner was pathetically small, as was the thirteen-year-old boy from Twelve.

Honestly. Pathetic.

And I was seriously supposed to believe that everyone had been specially selected, and even trained? In most cases, I saw nothing different than any other year. Unless everyone was a very talented actor, the Games would be a breeze.

Almost too easy.

. . . . .

District One wasn’t much a place for superstition, but it seemed that every year we had a tribute that did well, it rained on the day of the Reaping. Last year we landed two in the top five. Rain. My mom’s Reaping—it poured. No such luck this time. Damn weather.

Not even a stupid cloud, when I looked out the window.

Blue, blue sky instead, of course.

. . . . .

Nothing interesting ever happened on Reaping Day other than the event itself. Consequence or just tradition, no one knew. It is a day that transforms our energies, one of the insanely old—oh, sorry, “elderly”—shopkeepers mused when I ran into them last year. And for that to happen, it requires our focus.

Whatever the hell all that meant.

No school, no training. What were we supposed to do between all the Reaping events? Sit around and wait, twiddling our thumbs? Yeah. No.

. . . . .

“MOM! There are people outside, probably going to the Reaping! Can we go now?”

“Be patient, dear, it’s still awfully early to be setting out—”

“—Ugh,” I interrupted, and plunked myself down on the couch.

. . . . .

I started going through every room in the house to look at it all one more time. I probably wouldn’t see it again, since when I got back from the Games I’d have a house of my own a few doors down. Maybe have something done with it, to make it different from this one and the others in the Victor’s Village.

I wondered how often Mom would insist on visiting her fellow victor.

. . . . .

If we have to leave at least ten minutes before it starts to get there on time, and want to be fifteen minutes early, that’s twenty-five minutes out… then five minutes for last bits of getting ready, that’s half an hour. Or maybe twenty minutes early, that’s thirty-five minutes. Better start watching the clock forty-five out—or fifty, nice even number? Might as well call it an hour out. Leave half an hour out, five minutes to get ready, watch clock for twenty-five minutes before that, which is still… a long time away. Damn this new schedule.

. . . . .

Almost all of the night, I hadn’t been able to sleep. How could I, waiting eagerly for morning? I kept trying to stop watching my clock, or looking out the window for a hint of sunlight. Time passed too slowly. I wasn’t one of those people to dread the Reaping, I really wasn’t… I just wanted it to leave already. The sooner I got there, the better. The sooner the Games would seem to come.

So, waiting, later, I somehow actually slept a few minutes, the hyper-ness quickly dying out.

But not for long, though I did dream.

In it, I was in one of the hallways under the arena, trying to find my tribute outfit. No one else had theirs, but didn’t seem concerned, just chatting away all like whatever, man. I was frantic, running around, knowing the countdown would have to start soon. I felt late, behind. Eventually I found one shoe. A pair of socks, but ones way too small that I kept trying to trade. A belt, but no pair of pants with a loop for them. A jacket with a broken zipper. A strange, colorful fur hat. When the plates launched, I didn’t move to get to mine, even though I kept screaming at myself for constantly forgetting about it every few seconds, not panicking but way, way too calm all of a sudden. I heard Mom’s voice saying something about a part of the arena, but didn’t see her or care about what she was saying. The stylists around turned into ghosts. Some of the other tributes were still around.

I woke up.

. . . . .

And after that, I kept checking my Reaping outfit again. Spiked heels, a skirt and fishnets, skintight blouse, all black. Deadly. Dangerous.

. . . . .

It was getting to be later in the afternoon, well past two. I started pacing, re-worked my timing plan, ate a snack, ended up in the backyard a few minutes, checked the latest news updates from the other Reapings. The reporters sounded oddly uninterested, but I eventually decided that was okay, they were decently smart.

After all, it was because they knew this year would be “just another” Career victory.

. . . . .

Congratulations, said that annoying little voice in my head dryly—y’know, the one that pipes up when you lose or fail at something (which I didn’t do often). You officially have the memory span of a goldfish.

See, it’d finally come to me, the thought about all the weird stuff going on this year with the oh-so-ominous “District Fourteen” and all. Please cue dramatic music. Anyways, the thought was the one of not everyone dying if the Games got interrupted. Hopefully, that wouldn’t happen. Just get out of the way, Fourteen. You don’t know who you’re messing with.

. . . . .

We were on our way to the Reaping. We were on our way to the Reaping. We were on our way to the Reaping.

"Well, finally," I said. It was oddly hot outside. I didn't care. Screw the weather; it was the day of the Reaping and it would be my last, but the first to count. Next year I'd be up on the stage as a victor and I could laugh at the newly picked or volunteered tributes because I was older and I was stronger and faster and better than them, because I had won. I was going to win. I would be a victor. I could picture it, and it was wonderful.

Finally, my focus was restored.

“Sage, don’t you think you should slow down a bit? Wouldn’t want to wear yourself out before the big event—“

“We have to get there first, Mom,” I said, calling a bit backwards, over my shoulder. Honestly. These people. When I wondered how someone who could honestly say “don’t you think you should slow down a bit” had won the Hunger Games, I’d turned to the old tape of Mom’s year. 384. She didn’t answer questions about it so directly. Wondered what was up with that, but y’know, it was Mom, so Panem only knew.

Maybe she’d changed since when she was my age. Still, you didn’t just un-become a Career capable of stabbing your best friend in the back as they protected you from the rest of your alliance you’d betrayed, right? I wasn’t going to change after the Games, and I didn’t want to. Who would? So long as you were capable of winning, there was no reason to stray off that path.

Just look at me. I was the best at using a sword; I was ambidextrous, no bad hand for me; I could take on anyone, even someone twice my size, in hand-to-hand combat. Not much room for improvement, so if I moved, it would almost surely be backwards, which I didn’t want to do.

Around then, I spotted Lace in front of us, already heading towards the sign-in table, and scowled. The closest damn person I had to a friend, and my worst enemy at the same time—the only person I could even begin to consider competition. At least she wouldn’t be in the arena. She couldn’t be, with me going in. Even if something was totally whacked and she could be my district partner, she couldn’t be, that was Jullius. He would be the easiest kill of all of them. He wanted to die already. Maybe I’d get to have some fun with that death.

He was one of those Careers, who only got anywhere in life because they had “connections”. His father was the district’s top trainer at the public training gym. Jullius himself was weak and scared and had nothing really going for him other than the looks of District One.

So he meant nothing more to me than any other tribute.

We started to approach the sign-in line, where I finally ditched Mom and Dad, and proceeded to wait. And wait. And wait.

Great Panem, what the hell was taking so freaking long? Was everyone in the district such an idiot that signing in was made complicated for them? I sighed, loudly as possible. The boy in front of me turned around. “Got a problem, kid?” I snarled at him.

His eyes grew even wider and he quickly shook his head, mussing the blonde hair that hung in his face, and turned away again. Pathetic little guy, twelve probably, he looked that or younger. They didn’t even deserve to be eligible for the Reaping in a Career district. Those kinds should be sent to Twelve or Eleven, where they won’t be wasting our time and can get reaped to die without taking a spot someone else might’ve wanted.

I reached the front of the line, finally.

“Name, please,” said the check-in lady, a plain person with a monotone voice to match.

“Sage Hemlocke,” I said, pressing my hands down on the table and leaning forwards. “The soon to be victor of the four-hundred sixth Hunger Games.”

She gave me this strange look and started flipping through a booklet on the table. “We don’t have a ‘Sage Hemlocke’ here—“

“Check again,” I snapped, glaring daggers at her.

“How do you spell that last name…?”

“It’s just ‘Hemlocke’, you idiot. Like the victor.”

She nodded, seemingly in understanding. Finally. She searched through the booklet again, slower, and then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I still can’t find a S—“

“Oh, just give it to me, then!” I yanked the booklet from her, tearing the page it was opened to, pushing pages aside forcefully, angry. “Right there,” I spat out, heavily pointing to my name, jabbing the page. “Are you blind? Do you have a problem or something?”

“It does say ‘Corsage’….”

I snatched up a pen from a jar nearby and signed my name quickly, stabbing the pen into the page at the end and holding it up to drop into the jar with extra flourish. “You’ll learn,” I growled, and whipped around, stalked off towards the eighteen-year-old section. I didn’t look back to check, but people were probably staring after me. They should’ve been. They could tell the story after I won and impress others. I heard there were some in Six did that for last year’s victor. But that wasn’t such a great win, really.

I unclipped the end of the rope to let myself into the right age-group area, near the edge so I could get out easily when I volunteered. No rope on that edge. Good.

I noticed some of the kids shooting me weird glances. “What?” I barked at them. A lot started looking at or muttering to the people closer to where they were. I decided to ignore it. They were just another distraction. Just another thing trying to tear me away from these Games.

I wished them luck with that.

Between Enemy Lines

Tamberlain “Tam” Ektra, Age 14, District Five Male Tribute

There was one part of the Hunger Games that I thought went terribly un-famed, probably because it was one of the only things the Capitol had the decency not to televise, and that was saying something. The time in the Justice Building.

Really, think about all the people you meet over the course of your life. For me, there were my parents, my brother, and my only real friend, Kedger. But then there was everyone else. The person I always saw working in one of the town shops that I hoped was the person to bag our groceries just because. The kids that I shared a table with in every class. My teachers. My neighbors, like the little kid that lived next door, too young and naïve to understand the world. The old woman that signed me in at the Reaping. … Just, everyone.

And most of them didn’t even visit me, because think about that for a second. There was no real way to say goodbye, was there? It was just like, Oh, hey! How was that whole life thing goin’ for ya? Thanks for playin’! Bye, now!

Yeah. Who would actually want to go and say that to anyone?

It wasn’t just bad for the visitors, either. Believe me, watching my family come into the tiny little room to say goodbye made me feel like someone had tried to rip my heart out of my chest. And then, knowing that we had limited time, that I would never get to say anything else to them, that they would continue to get to watch me, but from somewhere far away, unreachable, even as I died among the rest of the tributes, their tears and grief unseen… well, that was just additional misery.

I didn’t want to sound too cocky or anything, but what would their lives be like without me? Maybe not having to deal with my paraplegia would be a relief for them. Economically. Emotionally. Socially. But to watch me die without ever even being able to talk to anyone about it?

It was all I could do when my visitors’ time was up to not start begging and pleading to no end to let them stay. If only for a few more minutes to have to hold on to in the weeks from hell to come. There was more time that they could’ve let me have, ticking by on the clock dangling right in front of my face, time that I could’ve spent with my family to cling to in death. It would likely be the only thing I had, but I didn’t have it.

There wasn’t much I could think of that was worse, but somewhere in my thoughts, I tried to make myself think of Airah. Twelve years old, just a little girl. No one left to say goodbye to before they shipped her out to die.

I looked at the twelve-year-olds that I passed every single day in school, where some of them were still playing hopscotch and tag and hide-and-go-seek. Kids that ran away from the ball in gym class, scared of getting hit by something made of rubber, let alone a sharp metal blade.

They seemed like such a different entity than the ones that were in the Hunger Games, because, well, the Games just didn’t seem as real, did they? But they were just as hard cold reality as the hide-and-go-seek matches were.

It amazed me that anyone managed to do anything in the start of the Games other than curl up on their tribute plate and cry helplessly out of pure terror. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I felt sick to my stomach and choked up and had the heart-being-pulled-out-of-my-chest feeling just thinking about it.

It was a sick, sick world out there. Here, too. But there weren’t any other options other than to take it and live in it.

. . . . .

Now, to be fair, what happened on the train wasn’t televised, either. In my case, that was probably a good thing.

I still felt shaky and teary, recovering from the goodbyes. I couldn’t have even begun to imagine what it was like to go through that suddenly, without warning. I, at least, had months’ worth of notice. Time to brace myself for my mom’s quiet, barely restrained tears and Dad’s last speech and my brother’s final comments.

The second the train had started to get further away from the district, I had begun to feel homesick on top of everything. I knew that it shouldn’t have been a pressing concern at the moment, but really, it felt like it, tugging at the back of my mind.

I actually didn’t hate our district—in fact, I liked it. I said once that I appreciated the tradition for there to be a volunteer when a twelve-year-old was reaped, especially if it was a girl, especially if they were in a bad place. Airah met all three qualifications, easy, since she was particularly small and weak, not to mention terminally ill and an orphan. And yet, no volunteers. She would’ve had to deny them, anyways, but still… what had changed? Was the world just somehow getting to be a crueler place?

Apparently, it had done quite a lot to Airah Trevor.

We were left alone in the train car that we’d first entered, our mentor, Ella, having disappeared immediately, our escort leaving right after making some… well, rude comments.

At that point, Airah’s long monologue began. Let me explain and summarize.

A sort of long time ago, Airah, Ella, and I agreed that for the sake of sponsorship—especially since Five tributes didn’t usually get a lot of that—we were going to hide our weaknesses. Simple. Nearly every tribute did it, to some extent. But for Airah, that included her sickness. For me, that was the paraplegia. (I couldn’t hide it completely, but I could say that it was cured.)

No one knew that Airah was still sick despite the medicine sent by the Capitol (other than Ella and me); the people at the Home were convinced that her illness was gone. As for me, no one other than the Capitol doctors, who I just about knew had to sign a confidentiality statement about my being “cured”, knew that I wasn’t predicted to be able to have full motor abilities until long after the Games, except for me and Airah and Ella. It wasn’t that obvious, inconspicuous enough that I could hide it. The only other people to worry about knowing about the paraplegia—the people that might actually say something despite my lying—were also going to be secretive about randomly knowing about my past, and Airah’s, and any tribute’s.

Airah started by telling me that I had to go along with her lie. I said, “Of course,” because, why would I want to sabotage her? She had a bad enough standing already. I knew that she wasn’t a threat, and besides, she was my own district partner. I felt like we were supposed to help each other out, even though… well, that wasn’t exactly how it worked.

But she took the “helping each other out” to a different level.

After my affirmative answer, she said, “And,” which was never a good thing. “And, you’re going to kill me in the arena. Fast. Right after the gong.”

“No way,” I said, in enough shock to not come up with anything better. “I’m not killin’ ya, Airah. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, you are,” she pressed. “Because if you don’t…” She paused for a second to look around and confirm that there was nobody there, then leaned closer to me, voice quieter, “I’ll tell everyone that you’re not supposed to be able to walk right for almost another year.”

“What the hell?” I couldn’t exactly say that I thought we were friends or anything, but really. Threatening me? A twelve-year-old? And into killing her? “No. Do y’know how dumb that is? Just do it yourself, if that’s what you wanna do. Throw yourself off o’ your tribute plate, your choice, but don’t drag me into this. Wha’ d’ya wanna die for, anyways?”

“To prove a point—“ she started, but I cut her off.

“To who? The Capitol? Fat chance o’ that. And there ain’t nobody else who needs a point made.”

“I’m going to die anyways,” she practically hissed at me. “So I might as well. Plus there won’t be any pain in it.”

“Still, then, just jump off the plate.”

“Are you even listening? I’m saying that if I set myself up as a stronger tribute, and then get killed early, it’d tell somebody out there that they don’t know us like they think they do. If I killed myself, it wouldn’t show that I was weaker than they thought.”

“Look, no offense t’ya, but I don’ think ya could pull off being a stronger one.”

“Might as well try,” she repeated.

“But that’s stupid,” I said, because by that point, I’d really given up on having a real, solid argument. “It just is.”

She shrugged, staring at the ground, and then looked up at me, with her huge green eyes. “I guess I’ll say it in my interview, then.”

She whipped around, making her hair that was loose from a butterfly clip and her sunshine-colored dress spin, and started off towards her room.

“Wait,” I called after her, before I lost my nerve. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

I actually wasn’t so sure that I would, but right now, I just needed to stall for time. Someone else would likely get to her before I did.

She half turned around, gave something like a wry grin, and said, “Good,” then proceeded leaving the room.

Alone, I sighed to myself, once again feeling nauseated, from all of my thoughts and things I’d mentioned before, and the motion of the train, and the impact of having that little exchange with my district partner. Sweet kid, eh?

When I had stood there for several minutes, wasting time because I had no idea what I could do, one of the servants came in and asked if they could get me anything. “Got a time machine that can go back a year or so?” I asked. They gave me a strange look, one that wasn’t quite offended, but maybe surprised.

I was definitely one of the people who were surprised at me. I didn’t know how to categorize how I’d acted towards Airah, and kind of regretted being caught so off guard I dropped any pretense I’d worked up, but I couldn’t actually put much blame on myself. I was just about sure that my first question of “What the hell?” was fairly justified.

The servant eventually left, all awkward like, and I headed out to find my tribute quarters or whatever they called it. I did, and went in, and closed the door behind me to discourage any visitors, because right then, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. It felt like a risk, because I honestly wasn’t sure what would come out of my mouth in my next conversation, if it was too soon. Again, something that was maybe justified, but they wouldn’t know the justification, in all odds, and that was another good thing. Although, I did feel like I wanted to try and talk this out to somebody. Ella would likely have a right to know.

Well, we all had rights that were never granted, didn’t we?

As We Watch

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

You know what a great feeling is? Being in the exact same place you were exactly one year ago, but not heading towards your seemingly imminent death. Believe me, it felt awesome. Kind of a “hurray, it’s not me who’s going to die this time!” type of feeling. Everything had changed from last year. I was still alive.

But after a while on the train, that feeling died.

What killed it was the recap of the Reapings. RIP happy feeling, right? Well, it was still there, just a bit. Maybe that was horrible, but… well… it was only human. We—meaning me, plus Ms. Twine (how in Panem did she not get promoted after last year?), and the tributes, Andy and Zattiana—gathered around the screen to play the broadcast. In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. There were the Careers. I couldn’t exactly feel bad for them, because they wanted to be here. Or so they would pretend, at the very least. Around the time we got to see the District Three Reaping, the pangs of guilt started.

The girl reaped—Cama—started crying by the time she faced the crowd on-stage. At first they were mostly quiet tears, falling without much acknowledgement other than the way her face went red. By the time the boy was reaped, there were whimpers and choked sounds, and by the time the Mayor—someone different from last year, since the old one’s niece died in my Games—read the Treaty of Treason, she was sobbing, unrestrained, and everyone else on-stage just kind of looked at each other nervously. It was strange, because I didn’t have much memory of my visit with her on the Tour. If she’d been emotional then, I would’ve remembered.

I caught a breath of air for the District Four Reaping, back to the Careers.

And then came District Five. There were two sad-looking tributes in the younger half, both on the small side, both pretty weak-looking despite the training. I knew from collecting tributes on the Victory Tour that they both had some major health issues, and that the girl was an orphan while the boy had a family, although half of them had given him hell over the wheelchair for as long as he’d had it. Looking carefully, the boy was teary-eyed.

Our district’s Reaping was okay. There was the tiny, thirteen-year-old, bipolar Zattiana with the morphling addict for a brother. Then there was Andy, who the commentators instantly put down as strong-looking, final eight material. I was a bit proud of that. But to be honest, I didn’t like either of them. Andy was just too cocky, emotional, rebellious, and Zattiana was just too psychotic for my liking. Hy-po-crite, singsonged a voice in the back of my mind.

Shut u-up.

The boy from Seven, Alder, wasn’t emotional, just scowling out at the audience, which was understandable, because they were all gaping at the fact that he lacked a left hand. I knew that that was the Capitol’s bribe hand-fixing surgery gone wrong. But he looked like he might’ve stood a decent chance anyways. His district partner was insignificant. Was it just me, or where there tons of tributes this year with some kind of issue? There were definitely more than last year, I thought.

Eight still brought nothing impressive on the girl’s side, and although her partner, Kenton, was a victor’s brother and looked to be in good shape, he didn’t strike me as violent enough to be real competition for my tributes. He hadn’t the first time I’d seen him. Then again, I was the last person that could judge off of first impressions. Nine brought on some interest from the commentators. I remembered both of the tributes, because I’d had to argue my way through prison security on the Tour for

the girl, and deal with the twin brother of the boy bursting in on my visit.

District Ten. The girl, Felina, was still creepy and still oddly a bit like me. And the boy, Ryan, was still the best friend of a person that I fought with in the final battle of my Games. It didn’t occur to me until then that he might’ve been out to kill my tributes. Maybe the same thing could be said of the District One tributes this year, or maybe the one sane tribute that Eleven produced—and even he was small and young like the crazy girl—or the Twelve tributes. I remembered the girl from there, Belle, as being the first that I’d had to visit, the one with the daughter I’d threatened. The thirteen-year-old boy had not built up his size or bravery since our first meeting, barely hiding his tears and sniffles.

Well, after all that, yeah, the happy feeling was pretty dead.

. . . . .

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

I really didn’t mentor much, wanting to stay out of the Capitol just in case, so I was out of practice at the sick sport of coaching kids on how to survive their impending doom. I had mentored twice. Once, the year right after my own time in the arena—Year 394. For the second time, the Quarter Quell, or the “real” Quarter Quell as I liked to call it—Year 400.

That first year, I knew the kids were screwed in any case. Because I’d won the year before, which meant that my district’s tributes would die early on. It just happened, every time. The next person to learn that would be Kizzy. But those kids were okay. The first was a girl named Jory who was thirteen. She was quiet at first, but by the time we were all eating dinner on the train, she opened up. She lived with her grandfather and her younger brother, since her parents had died in yet another factory “mishap”. (I always said that was how the Capitol kept the districts’ population down. “Mishaps”.) Her grandfather was kind, and meant well, she started with, and then came the, “But…”

“But what?” I’d asked.

“Well, I think he has one of those things that older people get. Where his mind doesn’t work all right all the time.”

“Oh, great,” I’d said.

So she told me about how her and her brother worked for their next-door neighbor, how her brother would help in the garden while she babysat their toddler so they could go grocery shopping, and how they would clean up the house and have food ready when the neighbors came home. It was a minimal pay job, but it added to the tiny amount of money the district allotted their retired grandfather and kept a bit of food on the table other than her tesserae grain products.

So Jory was the sob story kid, in a way. Not nearly as bad as some, but that was a typical story from the districts, I’d learned in my brief time outside of Fourteen. She wasn’t as hardened as some of the others.

Simon was the boy’s name. He was a bit cold, aloof, and didn’t talk much. He sat at the table with his arms folded tightly and picked at some of the food, speaking in short, fragment sentences when I demanded an answer to a question. He was seventeen. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, not particularly attractive, not that strong, and he didn’t have a great personality, obviously. So I didn’t put much focus into him.

When the Games came, the bloodbath was fought in sleet, and everyone had to be killed close-

up because their tribute uniforms—there were uniforms that year—included a winter coat that was thick enough to be hard to penetrate.

In the process, Jory found herself an ally—the girl from District Eight—and they ran off with a backpack each. Simon had a decent number of supplies and also ran, alone.

It was even colder at night, and almost pitch black, and a blizzard took over the whole middle part of the arena, so there were no deaths the first night. Even though the Careers were, at one point, just a few trees over from where Jory and her ally were hiding. I kept trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t care if she died, if Simon died.

The Games were uneventful for District Three that year, until, the fourth night, the girl from Eight took even me completely by surprise by waking up to find Jory asleep when she was supposed to be on watch, a dagger still in her hand. The Eight girl took it from her, and then just kind of smiled peacefully up at the sky, before whipping around and stabbing Jory through the neck.

Nearing the end of the next night, the Careers found Simon, who went down with the five Careers remaining cornering him from all sides.

I didn’t actually watch the Games after that, not even the next time I mentored. I still remember those kids, too, but I didn’t want to get to know them. I’d deluded myself the first time into being able to say that I didn’t care, wanting to fit in with the veteran victors who acted like this was all a huge party for them. The second time, I focused on just trying to cope, myself.

This year, I was mentoring again. Cama had no shot in Panem. Saber, if he managed to keep his mouth shut about being from Fourteen, not remind the Capitol of the fact we were kind of related, and ally with the Four girl like he was supposed to, well… he might’ve had a chance.

Lovely

Felina Armanous, Age 17, District Ten Female Tribute

There were two new stylists for District Ten. They were cousins, or so said my prep team. They didn’t say something else: that they also displayed very little talent. Ryan and I were dressed as cowmen; the outfits didn’t consist of much.

I could find just as much reasoning behind the schedule of my prep. It seemed to me that my prep team had either not been given clear instructions, did not know what they were doing, or did not want to keep to a schedule. There was nothing methodical to it, foolish, really. At one point, I was dressed in my opening ceremonies outfit before they dried my hair, which got the outfit soaking wet. I had to change back out of it so it could be dried while they finished doing my hair. At another, I discovered that apparently one tradition had changed, because a Capitol attendant came in to insert my tracker during the prep, which the team seemed to have no previous knowledge of.

They were proving why I believed in planning.

I attempted to keep track of everything that they did. I usually had a functional memory span, but even I couldn’t remember everything they changed about me. It was nothing major, as they had commented on quite a few things from the start.

“Oh, what gorgeous eyes you have—such a nice green, almost like a cat’s…” “Nice, long hair—there’s a lot we can do with that…” “Good and slim, it’s like you were preparing for this…”

As I listened to their talking and took all the mental notes I could ever need on the room around me, I tried to block out the intruding daydreams. This was not the place to have a lack of focus like the prep team’s.

Currently, I stood almost exactly in the middle of the room, surrounded by the prep team as they put on their “final touches,” as they called them. I was actually dry this time, and in my outfit again. It wasn’t a very functional one.

Somebody came into the room and began talking to one of the prep team members. “Their mentor wants to see both tributes as soon as they’re ready,” I heard. “Before they go off to the stylists.” The prep team exchanged looks with each other, and then said something to the amount of “all right”. They went back to fussing over me.

“So, Litiea must be mentoring this year—is that right, Felina?”

I nodded. There was something strange about that statement and question, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

“Oh, what joy,” said one of the others. “I might have to find a reason to go home early tonight, then.”

I couldn’t put the connection together between their joy at Litiea’s mentoring and finding a reason to leave early.

“Like they’d let you leave tonight.”

“—On the bright side, Felina’s very good at staying still. Remember what Litiea did to that one poor girl a few years back? When she couldn’t stop moving long enough for us to put her makeup on?”

“Oh, the poor child. Really. Scared ‘em to death before they even got in the arena.”

I wondered what they were talking about, and why that would cause joy now, but it seemed as if asking would be disruptive, and I didn’t want that kind of notice on myself. Between the facts that I was constantly being shown on television, had stood before the audience at the Reaping, and was now about to be in the opening ceremonies, I had received enough notice, too much, for a lifetime. It was an old habit to think like that, but still, a useful one. Notice meant that I could be put down as a target. Notice also could have meant sponsors. Was it worth the risk? I didn’t take risks.

“Is this it?” The prep team circled me one more time.

“Yeah, suppose so.”

“Off to your mentor you go, then. Should be right down that hall, if I heard right. Good luck.” I nodded again, and began walking down the hallway that they had gestured towards. It came to an end with only a right turn available. Shortly after that were Litiea and Ryan. The second was dressed in a masculine version of my outfit. The first swore upon seeing me.

“Well, this is excellent,” she said. “Dressing one of you like an idiot wasn’t enough for them, was it? Had to do both?” The conversations going on around me today were confusing in general. I started to think now that “joy” didn’t really mean “joy”, and neither did “excellent”. Understanding that, combined with the more obvious meaning of the second part of what she said, I glared. “At this rate, I should just start drinking whatever that Eleven mentor offers to share.”

“—You talk like it’s our fault,” Ryan said.

“And you talk like you’ve done something to help yourself.”

I started to get the urge to leave. This situation wasn’t truly bad yet—I was still in control. However, that might have been about to change. So I had to do something to bring the situation back to normal. I took a second to practice what I was about to say inside my head, cutting some words out to keep it short and effective. “None of us have done anything.”

“Obviously.”

“Why don’t you? You’re our mentor,” said Ryan.

“Look, kid, I already went through all this. Now it’s your turn; not mine.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t do anything.”

The situation had gotten worse. I was aware of that fact and had processed it. It was a problem, so the next logical step was to find a solution. I tried to think of a solution. I could not think of any.

“I’ll do something soon as you start putting some effort in, too. I can’t play the Games for you, y’know.”

“Yeah, I got that, strangely enough.”

What needed to stop? The arguing. What had to change for that to happen? Litiea and Ryan’s moods, something I knew nothing about. I had to change their state of mind. I couldn’t change another person in that way, although I felt like they had changed my mood in the last few minutes. Still, I could only control myself.

But, this situation seemed almost as if I was less in control, as if I was just watching and reacting and not thinking first. So I left.

I needed to do more thinking, and that was not going to happen with both of them there.

“What’s with her?”

I remembered the prep team saying that after we talked to Litiea, we would be with our stylists for some time. I decided to find our stylists. It occurred to me then that the stylists could give Litiea and Ryan a solution to their problem. I would have to make sure they spoke together.

In one room, I saw the two people who had walked through the prep area before and the prep team had said were our stylists. I moved towards the doorway cautiously.

“Look at that, there’s one of them now.”

I froze automatically when they both turned to look at me.

“’Ello, lovely. Know where your partner is?” asked the other. Their Capitol accent was sharper than any other I’d heard.

I almost started to shake my head, then nodded.

“That might be the part where you say where he is.”

I thought about that as a question in my mind, and used it to form a practiced, contracted response. “He’s in the hallway.”

I heard footsteps behind me, and moved, and turned around. Litiea and Ryan were there. Litiea clapped three times, slowly. “Well done,” she said. “Well freaking done. If they had a shot at sponsors before, it’s lost now.” A few seconds passed after she said that.

“Not that bad, is it? Only so much we could do with District Ten, after all.”

“The opening ceremonies are in an hour and that’s where you’re at? Really? There’s nothing else you could do?”

This situation began to seem dangerous. I considered leaving again, but the last time I had done that had landed me here, in another equally tense scenario. If I couldn’t choose the flight option, my choice would have to be “fight”. Which, applied to this particular case, would mean… what? I would have to take a side. Neither of them was productive. I agreed with Litiea’s case but not how she went about presenting it. There were no requests in it, and so nothing to actually be done in response.

If the request was merely for a change in our outfits, there was only so much that could be done with vague instructions. Time would also be a constraint. Our stylists’ cooperation would be involved, and they didn’t seem eager to agree with Litiea.

“Forget it,” said Ryan. “Whatever our outfits are, it’s half about how we present ourselves, anyways. That can still be fixed. Focus on that.”

Ryan had made a good point. It completely dismissed the current argument, but he was right—it was a fruitless one, and would continue to be. Shifting our goal was in order. He presented a good new goal.

“Right. Well. Try to keep a scrap of dignity, will you?” Litiea said. “At least act like you’ve got a chance.” She looked at the stylists. “And unless either of you’ve got something else to say, Felina and Ryan should be heading downstairs, shouldn’t they?”

Before there was an answer, she escorted us out of the room, muttering things to herself all the way. “Lovely mentor, huh?” I heard one of the stylists say, back in the room that we had exited.

It was another case where they said one thing, but meant another. The first time one of them said “lovely”, it was a form of address. The second time they said it, it was used as an adjective. The second time they said it, it had also lost the pleasant meaning. The actual definition of the word had not changed. The connotations of the word itself had not changed. Their tone was what had changed.

The definition had not changed. The meaning had changed.

Other people were not straightforward. They did not use words according to the definition. They expected others to realize certain social cues. There were differences between words that could be heard in speech, and there were differences that could not be heard in speech. There was a difference between “Games” and “games”, but not when you said them aloud. There was a difference between two different times one person said the word “lovely”, clear when said aloud but not anywhere else.

Now we were getting into an elevator. We took it down to the level we needed to be at for the opening ceremonies. Litiea shoved Ryan and I just past the elevator doors. “Go make some friends,” she said. The elevator doors shut. Ryan walked away.

I searched for our chariot. There were horses connected to it. I walked over and started to stroke the mane of one of the horses. It reminded me of being back in District Ten. I had lived in the more urban part of town, but I’d watched a good amount of animals out in the rural area. The female tribute from our district last year had loved horses. They had been in the arena, last year. That tribute was Ryan’s best friend.

I started feeling almost a bit sick to my stomach. I breathed in, letting myself picture all of the negative thoughts—of that tribute’s death, of last year, of how there were horses at home—and breathed out, forcing all of the pictures away.

This horse wasn’t like one that I would have found in District Ten. The horses in District Ten weren’t as well trained as this horse in the Capitol.

Maybe us tributes were the same way.

Just Listen

Jullius Castallen, Age 17, District One Male Tribute

“I don’t plan on dying,” I heard the boy from District Two say as I approached the Career group. “Because what comes after it? You just sit around for the whole rest of eternity? Eternity’s a damn long time. It would be boring. I don’t have that much of a focus span.”

Some of the others laughed, uneasy.

I was feeling nervous going in. I saw what I looked like at the Reaping, and realized that I had probably been perceived as horrible. My outfit was supposed to be a “killing king”, which was gruesome and awful even if I deserved it. Besides, I was thinking, in a week we will all be trying to kill each other. I had always been a terrible judge of how “old” I was at the time, but the others just looked so… young. The twins from Two were especially short and skinny, and Troy looked his fifteen years old in his own way. Too young to be murderers.

“Oh, don’t get cocky,” shot back the other Two.

At least Sage was there, and we knew each other, if nothing else. I could not even imagine going into a conversation like this knowing no one.

“Yello,” said Sage, then smirked, “Nice outfit.”

She was matching me, a queen.

“You too,” I said, trying to not let similar sarcasm slip into my voice like my father would’ve wanted. There will be plenty of time for snide remarks in the arena.

The conversation broke apart. Sage and Aurelia—the girl from Two—talked about the Reaping. Evander, the other twin, was talking to Troy about something sports-sounding, occasionally trying to get into the girls’ conversation, too. Troy seemed less concerned. Delora, the tomboy from Four, just stood there, icily distant. She was glancing around at other chariots.

I realized that I was doing the same thing, just watching the conversation. When Troy attempted again to bring me into his and Evander’s talking, I gave in. They seemed okay.

What bothered me then was that there was no official talk of an alliance. No one seemed to be in charge. No one would bring up the approaching Games. No one was saying, “Hey, let’s not kill each other for a while, okay?” There was no order. Things were falling apart and they had not even began yet. We were all there. What was there to wait for?

Maybe in training, we can talk.

I considered being the person to bring up the arena, but I really, really had no desire to go there. I was not going to be the person to start a fight before necessary. Plus, if they started to depend on me, it would go badly. How long could I possibly live for? I just… I was not in possession of the same will that some others had. Sure, I had my dad at home—but, he would move on quickly, only being concerned with shame. My sister would also move on quickly. Tearry and Lucus? My only friends. But they would have each other, and find new people.

The prizes for winning, I found no desire to have. What would I do with a house in the Victor’s Village and food and money? District One had plenty of extra, anyways.

“Jullius?”

“Huh?” I said automatically, fast. “What?”

“What do you think?”

“About what?” I felt like I was starting to snap a little. I was being unfair, but around then, my thoughts just… they were… not right. I felt less in control of them. I felt a bit of pain somewhere in my left arm, and rubbed at the sleeve of my costume, wondering what was causing the pricking.

Troy mock-batted his eyelashes. “Girls, dude,” he said, in a fake “surfer” kind of voice.

“Oh. I dunno,” I said, not wanting to be in the conversation about then. Just leave me alone. I felt a headache starting. What was wrong with me today? I felt so irritable and angry for no apparent reason.

I stopped listening to the conversation again, feeling mopey, with the desire to just go hide out in the Remake Center until the ceremonies were over. Of course, that was not an option. Why not? They could not just kill us off one by one, they had to humiliate us first, too? I felt my hands clench into fists. Why was I becoming so bothered all of a sudden? I was just too tensed up. The Games coming up and all. That was it.

Delora half coughed and half cleared her throat, effectively stopping the guys’ conversation. “Should we be discussing our alliance?” she asked.

“What about it?” asked Aurelia.

“If we’re having one. Who’s in, who’s out.”

Count me out, I thought, then stopped dead in place. What the hell? I had been planning on being a Career my whole life. What were these thoughts doing showing up inconveniently? I was just in a bad mood—it felt really hot in the stable, but while I was sweating, everyone else looked fine. Sage even pulled the robe of her outfit tighter around her like she was cold.

I felt tired, dizzy, sick, like I was about to pass out.

“Well, we clearly have one. We’re all in. Everyone else is out. Done deal,” said Sage. Leave it to her to sum it up like that.

“Actually, I was thinking of inviting the boy from Three,” Delora countered.

“Three? What are you, nuts?”

“No; he just looks like he’d be a valuable ally.”

There was silence while they stared each other down. I felt the desire to be somewhere, anywhere else.

“What are we, outlying district kids? We’re Careers. Do you have no pride?” Sage demanded.

Delora looked really angry then. I was feeling even tenser, suffocating a bit, feeling a bit blind, deaf, numb.

“Hey, it’s cool by me,” Evander offered.

“Me too,” said Troy.

Aurelia was scowling. “I’m with Sage. We’ve got to keep some dignity.”

Everyone looked at me, then. “I don’t care,” I said, feeling like I was snapping at them again. It came out a bit too loud in any case.

After that, there was enough shouting to attract some attention from the other tributes, who mostly were smart and backed off. But I was stuck with this terrible feeling that I was just about to explode, spontaneously combust or something. I felt weak, and the random pain in my arm was getting worse, in the exact same spot.

“Oh, really? Why don’t you try—”

“—Have some respect—“

“—Just shut up, both of you—“

The pain was searing now, and felt as if it was all over my body. I couldn’t be here. I was seriously about to explode, and I had no idea what in Panem was going on. My lower left arm felt like it was being slowly dismembered by being twisted and pulled off. I stumbled backwards, then forwards, back. I was almost aware of some of the other tributes watching me.

. . .

“WHY DON’T YOU ALL JUST CALM DOWN AND FREAKING TRY TO TALK ABOUT THIS LOGICALLY?! YOU THINK YOU’RE GETTING SOMEWHERE WITH ANY OF THIS?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU IDIOTS THINKING?!” someone screamed. Someone grabbed hold of the person by the shoulders, tight, pulling them backwards. “YOU’RE KIDS, NOT MONSTERS—!” Something jabbed the person’s side with something sharp, hard.

The person broke free of their grip and pounced, slamming the girl from Four into the chariot behind her. “COULDN’T STOP YOURSELF FROM STARTING AN ARGUMENT BEFORE WE EVEN NEED TO, HUH?! WHY—?!” The person was being dragged away again, kicking and biting and scratching at the people restraining them.

They started to fall forwards at one point and grabbed at the leg of the boy from Two, and still being dragged off, started to take the other boy with them even as Evander struggled, eventually getting pulled free by Troy as the person was continued to be dragged off.

“JUST STOP AND THINK FOR A MINUTE OF YOUR LIFES! THEY’RE GOING TO BE OVER SOON, AND THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT TO DO, THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT TO FREAKING DO WITH THEM—“

The person heard a door slam, and saw black starting to creep across their already blurry vision, and felt a needle break the skin at their wrist, still shouting madly, as they started to fall unconscious, slow at first, and then—boom—all at once.

. . .

“Uh—ulgh—ungh….” I woke in a lot of pain, strapped down to a hard, cold metal table, in a fairly dark room. I kept blinking, trying to clear my vision and maybe eliminate some of the pain, shake myself awake properly.

I had this feeling of impending death, with the feeling that something really, really bad had happened, but I did not really know what.

I became aware of people, voices, in the room with me. Being able to see more, lights coming on a bit, I recognized Sassy, my mentor, plus our escort, my stylist and prep team. And others that I didn’t recognize, definitely Capitol, dressed in medic uniforms, wielding clipboards.

“What… happened…?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said one of the medics. “You were standing among a group of other tributes when you appeared to have something similar to a violent psychotic attack. You were taken out and sedated. That’s when you went unconscious. We’ve been monitoring you since.”

“What about the ceremonies?” I asked next, stupid.

“They’re over, Jullius. They’ve been over, for hours. You just weren’t in them. There was nothing to do.”

I swore, a lot, mentally. Scandal would spread about that, let alone if any of this had gotten out. I would lose sponsors from not appearing. There was no way that I was still in the Career alliance. The other tributes had all noticed me. Basically, I was completely, utterly screwed.

I felt better now. But what had happened? Why would I just… snap like that? I was not psychotic. I had no “deep, inner issues”. That was the truth. I was just trying to figure it out.

Sassy was talking, now, asking if she could get anything for me, if I was felt okay. Yes, and yes. I asked, being bratty, about getting transferred onto a more comfortable surface for a while, and about if I had been given any painkillers while I was out, which I really doubted right around then.

They did let me transfer spots, onto a much more comfortable couch, and one of the medics went to fetch approved medications.

I still felt terrible. What did I do?

I ran through all of the events in my head again. I had started feeling really sick and all, but I could not be sure if that was related or not, if that was significant. There had been that angry, distressed emotion. My initial lasting out before I lost it completely. I went through environment things that would have been major triggers. Nothing that could have set me into that. Ticked me off a bit, yeah, but not… not that.

My mind came across only one other thing: the searing pain that accompanied everything, almost seemed to set it off. My left arm, lower left arm, very slightly closer to my wrist than my elbow. In the middle, width wise. A very pinpointed spot that, from itself, started hurting like mad completely illogically. It hit me all at once, then, where that spot was.

Right where they inserted my tracker.

Here is the Darkness

Jessalyn Daniels, Age 17, District Seven Female Tribute

Before the ceremonies, I had a few minutes to myself in one of the Remake Center rooms that had a window, so, out of curiosity, I looked out it. The first thing I noticed was how the sky was just so completely black, no stars in sight, no clouds, and I couldn’t see the moon from this view. It was like the lights of the city didn’t affect it, instead shining in sharp contrast. There wasn’t a hint of color or illumination. Just a solid black sheet.

And here, just the nighttime felt different. In District Seven, there was an in-between period of day and night. Here? It had been the busy and loud afternoon, and now it was completely silent and still. It almost felt peaceful. I let myself bask in that for a few minutes instead of letting myself stand there shaking over the mocking parade to come.

I was also eager to get down to the stable, the first time I would be meeting any tributes other than Alder. Not that I had anything against him, of course, but…. Well, he had made it clear he didn’t want an alliance. And that was fine. But I didn’t want to be one of the tributes that went insane from isolation. So I had to find somebody reasonably trustworthy, and soon.

It had finally hit me that I was only one of the tributes. I was on equal ground with all of them, having no reason to stand out from them. If I lived, I would not be a victor remembered forever. If I died, in days my memory would be deceased with me. That thought was scary. I didn’t want my family to move on, but I didn’t want them to suffer, either. I couldn’t even say that I thought only of them; I had to think about myself, too.

I really didn’t want to die. Really, really didn’t want to die. I had wanted a lot more out of life. I wanted to get married and have kids and see all of the districts and graduate from school and watch my siblings do the same and did I mention see all of the districts? How could I ever get do to that now? Maybe it shouldn’t have been a pressing concern, but… I worried more about my old dream than if I lived to do anything else.

No one in the Capitol, in most places, would even care about my suffering, if I did suffer. I would be the only one to really care, that much—and I could have chosen not to care. But that was a hard decision to make and a harder one to stand by for any length of time. I was scared to become that detached.

I had things I cared about in District Seven, other than people, even. My job working for the Mayor’s secretary, my other job in the lumberyards, school and the things I volunteered for at it, the training for the Games, and just generally having a life.

But in the Capitol, darkness was complete, and so was silence.

. . . . .

The stable provided an interesting view. The Careers had already gathered together, arguing if I heard right, but about what, they were keeping quiet, although now they were probably talking about the boy from One who had been dragged out of the place.

He looked perfectly sane at the Reaping. But we all did, I guessed.

The boys from Ten and Eleven were chatting while Eleven kept one eye on his district partner. The one who hadn’t looked sane at the Reaping. Quinn, I think her name was. I had to feel somewhat bad for her. The other potential alliance forming in my eyes was the pair from Nine, who the commentators had already set up as a pair, so not a lot of surprise there. Other tributes seemed to just be wandering.

Someone walked by me close enough that I could feel air moving, so I turned to see who it was. The girl from Eight. Ev-something. Evangaline—that was it. She looked my age but had several inches on me, and wore a huge yellow dress.

“Hey,” I said, when she was just about a foot past me.

She turned around to look at me. “Hey,” she said, and it sounded like she tried to be confident but was a bit uneasy.

I tried to help her out some. “You’re Evangaline, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, picking her head up a bit. “And you’re…?”

I thought for a second. I was about to say, Jessalyn Daniels, happy to meet you. But full names seemed unnecessary here—no one would remember anything other than what we were called by, right? I wouldn’t want to start our conversation off as overly formal. And “Jessalyn” somehow sounded formal, too. “Jess,” I said, a nickname only my family used, really. “Or Jessalyn.” I realized that I didn’t answer to it coming from other people wonderfully. But I didn’t want to go confusing her. “Whichever one you want. Good to meet you.” I held out my hand; she shook it.

“Nice to meet you, too.” She looked around for a bit, shifted in her dress. It looked uncomfortable; I had a pang of pity for her. “So… how are you?”

“I’m….” Once again I stopped. My natural answer was “good”, always. But what was I supposed to say here? I might die next week, but I’m just wonderful, thanks for asking. How are you? That sounded a tad snarky. Maybe more than a tad. “I’m good, thanks. You?”

“Not bad,” she shrugged, which looked like an effort in her outfit.

“Well, your dress isn’t half bad.”

“Thanks,” she said, and grinned. “Your… tree branch thing isn’t terrible, either.”

I had to laugh. “No idea what it is, but thanks. Aren’t you kind of hot in that costume, though?”

“A bit. I froze when I was inside, kind of happy for this.”

“Yeah, it was cold in there.” It hadn’t struck me as cold, being honest, and I didn’t want to be a liar, but I wanted to be agreeable. I knew that Eight and Seven had different climates. She would be less used to cold than I was. Amazing how humans could differ in ways like that. … And others. “Nice out here, though.”

“Some fresh air, finally. I’ve barely gotten a breath of it since the Reaping.”

The Reaping. I was reminded that all of us had been chosen on purpose, for some reason or another. What was mine? What had I done to deserve this? Or impress someone? What had Evangaline done? The tiny kids from Five and Eleven?

“Yeah,” I said finally, vaguely, kind of sighing. That was weird for me. I wasn’t really a “sigh-er”—who was, seriously?

I need to ask her for an alliance. Now. Before she gets another offer. Maybe she already has. Oh great Panem.

“So, have you got any friends here yet?” I asked. That came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to imply that she had no friends.

She shrugged. “Do you?”

“Not really,” I said. “I mean, my district partner—Alder—he’s all right.”

“Yeah, Kenton’s not bad, either. But… well, he’s our mentor’s little brother.”

“Oh.” I knew that, but hadn’t thought of it from the perspective of his district partner. “That must be rough.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe we could be… friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

I had no idea what any of that meant.

. . . . .

The ceremonies went smoothly enough, and soon I had even gotten through dinner and the recap with Alder and Cypress and our escort. So I headed up to the Tribute’s Lounge on the top floor that we’d been informed of earlier. I wasn’t the first to think of it, apparently. The Careers, minus the boy from One and the girl from Four, were there. So were the girl from Three, and Evangaline and Kenton.

I walked over towards Evangaline. We hadn’t really had any serious conversing after the awkward “friends” talk. I wasn’t sure if we were on the same page about that meaning “allies” or not.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I was thinking…” Evangaline started, then kind of stepped back and waited until I moved, too. “We should add some people to our alliance.”

So we were on the same page. That was good to know. But who to add?

“Okay,” I said, again trying to be agreeable. “Who were you thinking?”

“The girl from Twelve. Belle. The one that’s an orphan, and had that person try to volunteer for her at the Reaping.”

Even though she knew she would be reaped ahead of time, I added mentally.

“Sure. She seems okay.” I noted again that she wasn’t there. “Should we ask about it tomorrow, in training?”

“I guess so.”

I went over the female tributes that I remembered in my head. Because I wasn’t allying with any of the guys—that would just be a bit… weird. Well, the Career girls were out, for sure. The one from Three just didn’t look strong at all. The ones from Five and Six were too young. The girl from Nine already had an ally, and frankly, scared me. The girls from Ten and Eleven crept me out somewhat. So that left the people currently in or likely soon to be in our alliance.

Good.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said.

But already I started to have one major doubt. I had already thought a lot about how I might react if Alder were to die while I was still alive. And now, I had to think about Evangaline, too. And maybe about Belle, later. I felt like I would be sad whenever anyone died, let alone someone that I had gotten to know. How did victors deal with that?

I had a split-second thought of asking Cypress, but it seemed insensitive.

Which was exactly the point, of course.

. . . . .

My mind reeled with all of the day’s events as I tried to sleep. I was in the Capitol. The opening ceremonies were over. I had an ally, and I’d possibly have a second one tomorrow. Tomorrow. My first day of training in the Capitol. I was curious about how it would go, since all of us tributes had been trained ahead of time. Cypress had said that even though we all knew that, showing off a secret skill would still be a bad idea. She suggested heading straight towards the “strange” stations that would prepare us for this specific arena. If there was a “how to use an ice pick” station, we were supposed to go there, she said, as an example.

I joked that since we were from District Seven, Alder and I already knew how to use an ice pick. Everyone in the district did. I’d almost taken my hand off the first time I used one, but still. I tried to keep her general advice in mind.

But what had Evangaline been told? Belle? Would they conflict? Had they been told to show their skills? Well, I could let them, and just avoid participating in the stations that I was good at.

… What was I good at?

I could use an ax. And an ice pick. I was a decent runner. I had done decently well in some of the training units, and I could remember the edible plants and filtering of water and shelter construction and whatnot.

What exactly did that guarantee me in the arena? If there were edible plants, I wouldn’t starve to death because I could find them? I could build a shelter if I had certain things?

Evangaline and Belle had to be good at some things, too. I could ask them for help with some things.

If only they could also help me escape.

Help Me Fight This War Tonight

Saber Star, Age 18, District Three Male Tribute

Priority one: getting my hands on the district token of the girl from Eleven.

Priority two: finding the girl from Four so we could ally.

Priority three: finding a freaking functional bathroom the second I got back. Why did the Capitol have to make everything so complicated?

A working elevator proved easier to find—a pair of them on the District Three floor—and as my first two priorities were for the sake of Fourteen, they had to come first. Little perfect-weapon me, robotic as always. I hit the button for the eleventh floor and then waited. I had finally managed to escape the talk of Cama and our support team, minus Trey, who tried to help me, of course. Panem’s most loyal victor. Ha.

The elevator moved quickly, enough that I didn't have to get impatient, and soon the doors were opening and I was on the eleventh floor. But the second the doors opened, someone grabbed me by the shirt collar and throwing me against a wall, a hand clamped over my mouth.

Security, probably. It was dark enough that I couldn't tell, but I swore several times mentally.

Wait. There hadn't been any security on my floor. Why would there be here?

I was already in overdrive, ready to fight for my home "district". I brought my leg out for a roundhouse-style kick, but the person jumped over me, and I ended up kind of tangled around myself. They were blocking my shoulders, but weren't that strong, just barely enough, and brought their knee up at a bad angle so that it collided with the inside of my thigh instead of the area intended. It still hurt, but not enough to stop me from fighting off their grip by moving forwards, springing over to the side. They swung one punch, I countered by grabbing their arm and throwing it back, which would definitely cause some near-dislocating pain.

"You idiot," they hissed, low enough that no one would discover us, and shoved me back towards the wall.

Finally I got a glimpse at their face. "Delora?"

"No duh required, Sherlock." They let go of me, and took a step back. Well, instead of "they", I suppose I could say that it was the girl from District Four. Delora Marris. Damn. Well, her fighting skills weren't actually too bad, for a girl. I wouldn't have a problem allying with her. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could start to make out her short blonde hair, cold gray eyes, sharp features. She definitely could've been Fourteen. And she was, I knew, if not a born ally of ours.

"We're here for the same reason, aren't we?"

I felt something, presumably her hand, collide with the side of my head. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Any idea where it is?"

"Probably still around the girl's neck. She had it during the parade."

We started down the hall, tiptoeing, whispering. "Are we allies?" I asked. She hit me again.

"Hey!"

"Shh, you're going to get us caught. I already had to make sure the team was out of the way at a meeting about little miss psycho tonight, and lock the boy's door outside the room. We've got to leave fast enough I can unlock it again before he notices."

"Good thinking," I said, honestly impressed, now. I hoped that we were allies. That would require joining the Careers, I assumed.

"And yeah, we're allies, Sherlock. It didn't go over well with the pack, but you're in, I guess. I'll 'ask' you in training tomorrow, and you're gonna say yes."

"Fine by me." We found an open door that lead into the Eleven girl's quarters. She held up one finger to her lips for “be quiet”, and led the way inside the room. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about her being so far ahead of me in all this.

The Eleven girl tribute was curled up in a little ball on her bed, singing. She didn’t even notice us. Delora raced over, and I was seriously right about to scream, What are you doing?! But she quickly covered up the girl’s mouth like she had mine at first.

Eleven’s eyes went all wide, scared, but she didn’t make a sound. Delora said something to her. Eleven was trembling, but I wasn’t sure she was so aware of what was going on at all. Delora moved her hand away, and the girl didn’t even move. This was too easy. “Little miss psycho” wasn’t going to last one second in the arena.

Delora took off the girl’s token necklace, and that’s when Eleven decided she wanted to get into the fight. She sprung up, and made a swipe at the locket. “Go!” Delora whisper-shouted at me. But I wasn’t right about to leave so quickly. Delora swung around and kicked the girl’s feet out from under her so she fell onto the bed with some sound that was half a squeal and half a yelp.

Although you probably could’ve guessed this, we ran like hell for the elevator, Delora quickly unlocking the boy’s door, and tripped over each other to get inside of the sliding doors. She hit the District Four button. I scrambled to get up off the cold, metal floor.

Delora leaned against the wall, letting the locket dangle from between her thumb and index finger. She tossed it at me. “It’s supposed to go to Trey, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. I would be more than happy to give it to him. We had won this little victory over the Capitol. Us. Just us, kids, tributes. We were probably going to pay for it at some point, but only the Eleven girl would be able to rat us out, and, well… she wasn’t a huge concern at that point. We would be all right.

There were a few seconds of silence, in which I realized something: Delora, strangely enough, had actually made quite a good first impression on me. Well then. She had decent fighting skills, she was loyal to Fourteen, she was smart, she was efficient, and if I was honest, it wasn’t like she was bad-looking, either.

We reached her floor. The elevator doors opened with a ding! “See ya tomorrow,” she said, and then left. The elevator doors shut. I hit the button for the District Three floor. The elevator started zooming downwards.

I shook my head to get rid of my thoughts. Delora Marris wasn’t going to get in my way, not in the way of my goal of being loyal only to Fourteen. Not to anyone else, even if they were involved. The elevator doors opened again, and I stepped out onto the right level.

Instantly headed for Trey’s room, I let myself gloat a bit more, mentally, until I reached his quarters, and went in the room, closing the door. “Got it,” I said, and threw the locket onto his bed.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all, boy.”

"Why thank you," I deadpanned, and gave him a sarcastic bow.

"Anything we should be particularly concerned with?"

"The girl put up a bit of a fight, but she won't remember it by now," I said.

He nodded. "And what'd ya think of Delora?"

"What?"

"I assume you headed out to look for her while you were gone, too."

"Oh. No, she ran into me, actually." I had to say the words somewhat bitterly. She had put up a much better fight than I would've expected out of her, and I didn't expect to be beat so easily again. "Literally. Picked a fight with me the second I hit the eleventh floor. She'd beat me there."

"Aw, I think she likes you."

"What the hell?" I whipped my head over a few inches so I could try to read his expression. He was smirking, looking amused, still holding on to the Eleven girl's necklace.

"You two were made for each other. I've never seen a better pair. Not even District One from last year could match you two."

"We talked for roughly two minutes," I said. "And she punched me. In the face. Multiple times."

"What, you can't take on a girl?" Trey taunted. "Like I said, sounds like you two already have quite the relationship." I started to have to wonder, just from that, if Trey was magically reading my thoughts from the elevator. Great Panem, that in itself sounded wrong.

“Yeah, well, you can go ahead and think whatever you want. I’m leaving.” I did leave, not turning to see if he protested my exit at all. I still had to find a bathroom.

… And it turned out, a few minutes later, that there was one common restroom down a hall, so I used it and then went back to my room. I turned the television on, out of curiosity. There were still just highlights of that dumb parade I was forced to be in, with Cama.

Cama. Damn it. I needed to avoid getting sucked in to one of her hour-long chats again. I tried to come up with some strategies to avoid that inside of my head. Not a lot came to mind. My district partner was the determined type when she thought she was cheering you up somehow. Yeah, right. More like annoying the living daylights out of you.

If that was even possible.

I turned the television off, and then sat there and wondered about what exactly I was supposed to do here in my tribute quarters. There was literally just about nothing. I wandered over to the desk provided and took a seat.

Boredom really set into me, then, so I started going through things on the first screen that the desk showed me. High-tech. Oddly high-tech for a tribute’s room. I had to wonder if these desks were standard. Every icon had a label as a file type or some kind of application. One said “game”, so I tapped that.

The screen turned black, and then the word “Stratagem” appeared across it. “Welcome, Saber Star,” the desk said to me, and I admittedly jumped back for a second.

“Yo,” I said, just to test it. No response to that.

“Would you like to play?”

I took a second to read the text that had now appeared under the title. It said something about tributes being required to play this game for a certain amount of time before their evaluation with the Gamemakers. That… that was new. That was definitely new, or else I would have heard about it from Trey.

It made me nervous to continue, but the text did say “at least”. So I could play more. Get a head start on my competition, maybe.

“Yes,” I said finally, after realizing that the desk couldn’t see me nod.

The title screen faded out to what looked like a menu, with the buttons being “Simulation One”, “Simulation Two”, and so on and so forth.

“This game is custom made for each tribute, and will adapt to learn about your personal strengths as you play. You may play levels in any order, but the levels will change as this game learns more about you.”

Well, that wasn’t creepy. Not at all. Nope. A computer learning about all of my strengths and weaknesses? That was perfectly normal. Yeah, screw my life.

“This is meant to measure your true skill level. Please select a simulation to begin with.”

I hit the button for the first simulation. Once again the screen faded out, and then I was shown how to use controls on the desk to move myself, to interact with objects and people. It was all touch-screen, easy to remember, and shown to me with simple color-coded squares and circles. Then the actual first level began.

I was looking straight at myself, standing among a circle of the other tributes. In the middle of us was the Cornucopia, around us, the arena. The one we would actually be in? Maybe. I didn’t want to trust this.

“The game will commence in sixty seconds,” said the desk.

My hands shook as I waited.

Somewhere, It Fits

Airah Trevor, Age 12, District Five Female Tribute

I paced angrily in my tribute room, because I had started to wonder about whether or not Tam would come through with his promise to kill me, and I’d ended up getting myself all worked into a fit about it. It was only one piece in the whole mess that had become my miserable, pathetic little life, and that was pissing me off, majorly. I couldn’t pull off my plan without the help of a stupid fourteen-year-old paraplegic. Great.

And yet here I was, trying to present myself as a strong, independent tribute that took trash from no one, and relied on nobody. Of course, then I would reveal that I wasn’t actually like that, and take the Capitol by surprise. But I did have to be able to pretend first. I felt like it was all falling apart on me, even though nothing had happened to convince me of that.

I just kept feeling angrier and angrier and just about freaking everything. Even the things that didn’t deserve my anger anymore. My sickness, the terribleness of the Community Home, having to go into the Games.

Finally I let out a frustrated scream and threw a pillow clear across the room. It hit a lamp, but didn't even knock it over or anything. Just went to show how strong I was feeling right around then.

Tears were burning in my eyes, which in turn was giving me a headache and runny nose, and making breathing a bit harder. I threw another pillow. No more therapeutic than the first throw. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! I was really upset now, for no real apparent reason. I was pacing faster and faster, clenching my hands into fists, every muscle tensed. I felt one source of real pain other than the headache, which was my left arm. This one spot that just started hurting out of nowhere, so I assumed that I had just hurt something there from putting so much force into my throws.

The tears started falling, soaking my face, making my hair cling to my skin. I was swearing out loud, and had stopped pacing, falling to the ground instead, and then dragging myself up to sit on my bed. I hated everything right about then, and everyone. Tam and Cypress, Hannah and the Community Home directors, the other tributes, the Capitol, District Five, the whole world in general. My breathing was coming shakier and shakier, and I was making these stupid little choked noises.

I stamped one foot on the ground in frustration. Airah, get your emotions in control, seriously. What's with you?

I felt sick, now. I was dizzy, nauseous, felt like I couldn't see anything through the tears, and just generally way, way too wound up to be healthy. I felt ready to kill someone. Anyone. Whoever came in here first.

Besides all that, the pain in my left arm was growing to be really, really bad, like someone had stabbed me at this one little point or something. I clutched the blankets to keep myself from falling over, but blackness was taking over my vision.

. . .

The little girl jumped up and ran for the door of her room, throwing it open and screaming into the hallway: “SOMEONE, ANYONE, REALLY, JUST COME AT ME! YOU THINK I CAN’T TAKE YOU,

HUH?! IS THAT IT?! WHY DON’T YOU JUST TRY TO KILL ME ALREADY, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IS NOW?!”

Two other people rushed in, and one was trying to get her to sit down again. “NO—NO! JUST LET GO OF ME, I DON’T WANT TO HURT ANYONE! JUST LET GO! PLEASE—I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU—!”

The older person, the mentor, Ms. Falon, was attempting to hold her still.

“DON’T MAKE ME! I’LL HURT YOU IF YOU TRY TO KILL ME—REALLY, I WILL! I—” The little girl was starting to struggle against her captors, her district partner watching with scared, wide eyes. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE, DO YOU HEAR ME? I WANT TO FIGHT FIRST SO I CAN LIVE FOR ONCE! PLEASE—!”

She had broken free of her mentor’s grip and now ran for the pillow she had thrown earlier, clutching it, holding it out in front of her. “YOU CAN’T HURT ME, DO YOU SEE THAT NOW?! I’LL TAKE ON ANYONE! I CAN DO IT, YOU WANNA TEST IT?! I’LL GET RID OF ANYONE WHO TRIES TO MAKE ME DIE!”

The little girl threw her pillow shield off to the side and slipped away from a grab her captors made at her. Then she fell to the ground, on her hands and knees, the tears coming hard and fast.

. . .

I knelt there, shaking, and sobbing, falling forwards completely to be supported by the ground. What was that? Had I just had some kind of depersonalized nervous breakdown or something? I felt like I had. No, I felt like some spirit trying to possess me had just ran through all the veins in my body and finally left, leaving this awful, hollow feeling. I just laid on the floor and cried until Tam tried to help me up. I let him, and eventually got onto the bed.

"Airah...."

I shook my head, not ready to answer any questions on what in Panem just went on with me. My sobbing was slowing down a lot. I was feeling... better, almost. Relieved. The searing pain from my arm was gone.

"Same thing happened to the One boy," said Ms. Falon. "Some kind of breakdown. But... they think it happened through his tracker. Anything weird there, Airah?"

Oh, well, other than the mental meltdown? Yeah, I was fine, thanks for asking. "My—my arm," I whimpered out finally. "It hurt by where they put it in. And then... then that happened." I felt really pathetic now. Tam was seeing my act all fall apart, probably one of the worst things about all this. He would never feel threatened by me now. Then again, maybe he would. Maybe I had just scared both of them. I had scared myself, that was for sure.

“Weird,” said Tam, and he sat down next to me, touched my shoulder, trying to be comforting. I let him. He probably thought I was weak and psychotic, now. I wondered if he’d ever told Ms. Falon about our little deal. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t: I wasn’t in much of a position to care right about then. I wanted to play this as low-key, because I really, really couldn’t afford for this to be leaking out to potential sponsors I could screw over.

“Could you guys leave?” I asked, and then decided to try a different angle with, “I kinda want to be alone right now.”

“Of course,” said Tam, and he stood to leave. Ms. Falon looked less convinced. Tam was always her favorite. It was why he got away with calling her Ella and I didn’t. Not that I even cared about that, but it was apparently important to her.

After a few minutes, both of them had gone. I was pretty sure that we all had an unspoken agreement to never speak of this again. That would be what was for the best.

. . . . .

After that, I tried to distract myself with spending a ton of time watching and re-watching and re-watching the opening ceremonies, making notes of everything. The One boy wasn't there, of course, which was an obvious thing. He was someone to potentially look out for, then. The Careers scared me, excepting the boy from Four. The boy from Three looked like real competition, while his district partner was as imposing as a kitten, as was the girl from Six. Her district partner was like the boy from Three. The girls from Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten all looked average, with somewhat above-decent district partners. The pair from Eleven was pathetic, as was the boy from Twelve. The girl looked average. That was my sum-up of events. I just wanted to know who would be drawing sponsors.

Because I needed those sponsors. I needed people to pay attention to me, so I would be remembered, always, the only bloodbath tribute to be like that, maybe. Then again, there was the boy from Six last year. He scared me.

Soon I could only concentrate on the other tributes so much. I let myself wallow in my self-pity and misery for a few minutes at a time before going back to focusing. I made notes of who had decent outfits. The girl from One, and the girl from Four, kind of like last year. District Three was okay, Nine was okay, Eleven was all right, but Twelve was dismal. There were no huge standouts, so I didn't have to worry about much Capitol attention going to the ceremonies.

My opening ceremonies outfit? A dress. A simple blue dress that went to my knees, completely irrelevant to anything. Great Panem, I wanted to talk to my stylist about that. Who knew what I would be wearing to the interviews? I was probably screwed in the clothing department. Not that I could get attention for looks anyways. Short and skinny and pale and sad-looking, with normal brown hair. I was going to have to work hard to pull off avoiding my looks as a topic of interest.

And by interest, I meant something that the sponsors could look down on and make fun of amongst themselves. There was nothing I could directly do about any of that.

I turned off the ceremonies eventually, once again started pondering if Tam would fulfill his promise, but being tentative now, because I didn't want to somehow set myself off again. That would be bad. Very bad. I wasn't feeling like I was panicking this time, so I relaxed, and let my thoughts wander away from Tam, away from anything, really. I thought about the soup at dinner that I'd liked a lot, and the brownie-like things. Those were good. I tried to think of "happier" things, something that one of the doctors might've told me to do. To deal with being sick and stuck in bed.

I was hardly stuck in bed now, huh?

But now I had a lot of new problems to deal with, to squeeze into this puzzle. One major issue was that little deranged episode right there. That would have to be addressed somewhere. If it really had happened through my tracker, then I was pissed off at the Gamemakers even more than I was in the first place, mostly because that meant they knew that I wasn’t a good bet.

Oh, who was I kidding? Anyone could probably see that.

But I had to at least try. I was going to die anyways. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but it was a fact, and I could at least pick how my life ended.

I wanted Tam to end it, because it would be quick, easy, and painless. Nothing to worry about. All of my concerns would be gone. I would just be dead, whatever that meant. No worries. No emotions. No anything. Just deadness. Just stillness and peace and quiet.

That sounded nice.

So maybe I did want to die, after all.

Maybe everyone did at some point, if they were honest with themselves. That was just the way that Panem worked. That was just the way that our mind worked.

That was just the way that we had been raised.

Nothing to Fear

Gunner Krigg, Age 13, District Twelve Male Tribute

No. I would not get on that chariot. Not when it looked so rickety and the horses leading it were so big and the outfit I wore was so dangerous—coal glued to my clothes that could go straight through me if I fell. No no no no no. I wrung my hands again, and again. I would not do it. I just refused. No. Not doing it.

One of the horses snorted and tossed its head, so I took several steps back away from it. There was no way this was a good idea. Who came up with this? Were they trying to terrorize us before we even got in the arena? Having to stand onstage at the Reaping and endure prep was bad enough. But this? This was just impossible.

I thought that training might’ve helped me be less afraid. But it didn’t work.

The girl from District Ten stood and stroked the mane of one of the horses connected to her district’s chariot. She looked calm, not afraid. I shouldn’t have been scared, maybe, but this just looked like something to be afraid of. What if the horses went wild and attacked us? What if the chariot tipped over, or I fell out, or Belle pushed me off? What if we crashed into some other tributes’ chariots? What if the horses stopped moving and we were stranded in the City Circle forever, left to starve or dehydrate to death?

There were too many possibilities.

“Are you going to get in the chariot?” Belle asked me.

“No,” I said, dragging out the “oh” sound.

“You have to,” she pointed out, and climbed up. She almost slipped on the step. I could actually slip and break my neck and impale myself and suffocate to death— “It’ll be fine.”

I wondered what the alternative would be. The boy from One went mad and got taken out. To where? Maybe I didn’t want to know.

My hands were still wringing around themselves, so I stopped to grip the side of the chariot and put one foot on the step, adjusted it so it was perfectly on the little platform. My heart started beating faster, and my hand that held the chariot was sweating, so I tightened my hold on it. I put my other foot up onto the step and adjusted, holding onto the other half of this chariot side. Okay. I was okay.

No, I’m not, no no no no no—

I took one step so that my left foot hit the floor of the chariot, and quickly, in a small moment of bravery, stepped up with my right foot, too. I was in the chariot. Please, horses, don’t move, please please please—

I kept clutching the side of the chariot, and prayed, and squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t be able to see how far off of the ground I was.

No no no, not doing this, no no no no….

. . . . .

“Gunner, stop playing with your food and eat your dinner. You kids need real nutrition for once in your lives. Eat. It’s just soup, not poisoned or anything.” Kalina had been sneering at us the whole dinner. Belle ate quietly, but I really felt wary of the food in front of us. The soup had this weird broth, thick and in this wacky gray color, unlike the thin, clear liquid that coated the soup we ate at home, the version that Mother made.

I didn’t recognize half of what was in the bowl, or more. Strange-looking vegetables, noodles in all kinds of shapes, other… things. Some kind of meat. I wasn’t hungry, not like I usually was, and I didn’t have an appetite after I’d eaten so many of the rolls put out with the first appetizer. Why did people in the Capitol need so much food? I was stuffed.

And this dish looked weird.

Not eating it. No no no no no. Kalina wasn’t Mother; she couldn’t make me. I couldn’t fight about it, either, though.

“Gunner, just eat,” Belle tried.

“I did eat,” I mumbled, staring at the tablecloth, scared of what the response to that would be. I didn’t want to frustrate them, really, but….

I just sat and wrung my hands, and hoped for the dinner to be over soon. Someone put the lid back on a pot, and it made a sharp, loud sound that made me jump and shake for a few seconds. It occurred to me that even after the dinner ended we would have to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies, and I groaned mentally.

No no no no, why do we have to do all this? We’re just stalling….

It felt like, eventually, our act of peace would fall apart. Here we were, eating dinner, being in a parade, being interviewed… and all of these “happy” things, but in a week, we could be dead.

We could be dead, my mind repeated, and I shook my head. No; no no no no.

Dinner actually ended oddly, soon. Our stylists left, leaving only Belle and me, and our escort and Kalina. Our escort eventually headed to their room, and then Kalina said, “Fine. You two can watch the recap by yourselves, then,” and glared at the bowl of soup still sitting in front of me. I felt more like a little kid. She left.

Belle shot me a glare, too, and said, “Let’s just go watch the recap.”

I didn’t want to, but I forced myself up out of my chair. I didn’t want to hear what the commentators said about me or see how much the crowd favored everyone else. Belle grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the sitting room. “Like I said, I’m not here to babysit you, but if you’re going to act like—“ She stopped. We were in the right place, and she gave me a shove towards the couch. I moved all the way to the other side to sit down.

Belle turned on the television.

Mostly, what I saw in the parade was myself, the way I had lamely tried a wave or two, stiff as a board, really. No no no no no, can’t I go back, and redo it, please? At the same time, I really didn’t want

to. All of those people staring at me? That was something I wouldn’t relive willingly. If I could’ve just magically changed it from here, that was what I wanted.

No no no no no, the only thing I want is to stay alive, please, please?

. . . . .

I stared out the main window in the bedroom of my tribute quarters. We’re really high up here in the penthouse, aren’t we? I felt a bit sick looking out, like something was going to come out of the darkness and knock down the building. It would be a long fall to the ground. I felt like this building was leaning, because when I looked out, I couldn’t see the other stories, looking straight down. But it couldn’t be tilted, could it? No no no no no no.

I closed off all the curtains completely, and closed all the doors and windows, locked them. There. I couldn’t see out of this room. I needed to be distracted. I turned on all of the lights to avoid the darkness, and turned on the television with the volume up just a bit too high. I used a gadget built into the wall to release some sweet scent into the room that was supposed to help me relax.

Then I curled up in bed, under all of the covers, half buried in my pillow. I was safe there, and I really didn’t want to leave.

I wrung my hands over and over again, my old nervous habit that was oddly comforting, and then stopped, clutched all the sheets against myself.

No no no, I’m not high up in a building, I’m down on the first story, like at home, all safe and sound… no no no no, I’m not, I’m not home, I miss Mother, I want to go back to Twelve… please, please, no no no….

I closed my eyes tightly, tried to imagine standing on the ground, in the backyard of my home, with nothing below me able to collapse. There was nothing to fall apart. It was just me. And I was fine, wasn’t I? I would be fine. This building couldn’t fall, and I couldn’t fall, I was safe right here. I would have to leave eventually—no no no no no—but for now, I was fine.

We were all fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

No no no.

“It’s fine,” I whispered, scarcely able to hear myself over the television’s blaring. I would never be able to sleep like this. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

I felt a bit like I was going crazy, kind of rocking back and forth. But it was comforting. I could control this, and I needed something to be within my control. I couldn’t do anything about the Games, about training, about the interviews, but I could do something about this. I could control my own movements.

If I focused on the noise from the television program, all of the lights turned on in the room, on the smell and taste of the relaxation scent, of the feel of the blankets, I was controlling all of my senses. Completely in power. No one could take that away, for now.

Except there was still that “sixth sense” currently showing up in my nerves and the butterflies in my stomach. The one that was aware that this would change soon. As soon as the morning, in fact. Someone would be taking this sense-power away. I would be forced to watch kids practicing their fighting skills, listen to weapons clashing together and arguing, feel the handle of a sword or something else in my hand.

How would I manage to function there? I’d barely made it through training with Belle and Kalina. I hadn’t been sure I would make it through that one awful night of finding books in a field of tall grass, in the dark and the rain.

What was I supposed to do now, to block the thoughts? Was I not in control of the one sense completely in my mind? Was I finally going crazy?

No no no. I was fine. Again, I was fine. I wasn’t crazy. I was just thirteen, I couldn’t be mentally insane. But what about all of us who are out of our minds?

That wasn’t me. I wasn’t a weird tribute. I was perfectly normal, and I wasn’t going to start killing, to stop being a kid. That’s all I was. I didn’t pretend I was any older, that I was capable of all of those things that I wasn’t. No one was supposed to be capable of that. Let alone us. I was scarcely even a teenager. I wasn’t supposed to be a murderer. Not yet, not ever.

And I wouldn’t be.

I was perfectly sane, enough to know that that was wrong. I still knew that. I clung to that thought, that I could still find the difference between what was right and what was not.

What definitely was not.

Kalina couldn’t do that, maybe. Could Belle? Could our escort? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that I couldn’t make my family watch me hurt anyone. That just wasn’t me. I could barely take care of myself, let alone do damage to another person.

I can barely take care of myself.

That truth hit me hard.

I buried myself further in the blankets.

Too Shattered by Half

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

You know the Tributes’ Lounge? Yeah, there was a Victor’s Lounge, too. And let me tell you, some of the stuff that went down in there was just frickin’ hilarious. By around midnight, everyone would be there, to drink (for those of us “old enough”, or who just didn’t care about laws), swap stories about nightmares and whatever, gripe about “the kids”, make up lame jokes and songs, wish we could get more drugs into the Training Center, occasionally punch some Capitol attendants in the face, and by the end of the night, at least two people would end up screwing each other or getting laid by some other person.

It was a nice life.

“Are you done with that, miss?” one of the lackeys asked, gesturing to my empty plate.

“Hell no. Go screw your mother, kid.” I stood up and headed over to Nigel, ditching the small talk Sassy of One had tricked me into and the confused, offended-looking waiter boy. If I had emotion left in me, I would’ve felt bad for the first, seeing as her daughter was about to die and all.

“You got any firewater to share, Nige?” I asked, already swiping the bottle out of his hand and taking several swigs. I coughed half of it up. “You can drink that trash? You know what you need to get your hands on is—”

“Some kids over the age of fourteen!” he finished, stealing the bottle back and finishing it off, tossing it at a trashcan.

“Well, hey, if that’s your thing, you should’ve said something sooner,” I said.

“One of mine is psycho and the other’s too damned nice.”

“Oh, yeah. The crazy girl is yours this year, eh? Nine’s had it a few too many in a row.”

“Well, Bryce has still got a serial killer this year.”

“But Eleven’s got the whack-job contest in the bag.” I patted his shoulder harshly. “Didn’t you have a meeting on what’s-her-face a few hours ago?”

“Pointless as all hell,” he said.

“At least my kids are sane enough to get jokes. The boy, at least. I told ‘em I’d be stealing alcohol from you tonight.”

“And they didn’t warn me. Screw them.” He went to get another drink, while Kalina came towards me with one in hand plus some weapon-like thing she probably wasn’t supposed to have in the other. I quickly tried to think of who the Twelve’s were this year. That one girl who had someone faint trying to volunteer for her, and… uh… oh, the weird boy who was scared of everything that moved. Didn’t remember much else of them.

“What’s with the blade?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I was inspired, so I got a chainsaw.”

“Okay, then.”

“My boy’s jumpy. I figured it’ll be fun to screw with his head by turning this on every once and a while.”

“That didn’t sound wrong at all.”

“Of course not.” She took a gulp from her drink. At the rate this year was going, none of us would get through the Games sober. “Ya hear about the kids already going psychotic? Heard a rumor it’s coming through their trackers. Gamemakers are messing with things already.”

“Great. Freaking great. I heard.”

“Probably just looking for more attention, so they can just be like, ‘Stay tuned: death is on the way!’”

“No, really?”

“Wha’s goin’ on ove’ here?” Nigel slurred, stumbling back towards us.

“What the hell, did you get all intoxicated within the last two minutes?”

“A lifetime catching up to him,” Kalina mused.

“Eh. Sometimes, he’s okay.”

“Ya take tha’ back—ya’re no better!” Nigel made a bad attempt at hitting either Kalina or me, it was hard to tell. But in any case, some attendant came over to deal with him. I wished them luck. “Ya’re jus’ like the ‘est of us!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, and stole a few sips from Kalina’s drink, too. Nige was sitting over on a couch now, probably soon to return.

“You’re going to get a disease one day.”

“Like what, PTSD? Been there, done that.”

“Still there, doing that.”

“Big shocker.” I looked around the room. “I need food.” I took a few steps and shoved some fruit onto a plate and picked it up. “Y’know what a good Quarter Quell would be? All boys. The girls are always the psychotic ones. But all boys—I could do boys.”

“Someone passed biology,” Kalina smirked. It took me a second to get that one, and then I promptly used my free hand to shove her.

“Take your dirty mind out of the gutter and away from me.”

“So you’re in the sewer, too.”

“We all are.”

“Except Sassy. Maybe Cypress. Definitely Bryce.”

“They need help.”

“We all do.”

“Amen to that.” I tapped my plate against her drink. “Cheers.”

. . . . .

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

I was attempting to work out the perfect way to murder President Paylor inside my head, and I thought that I finally had it. That was, if I could manage to think through it all at once what with the total racket being made by all of the others in the lounge. I would’ve left, but didn’t want to deal with all the drama it would cause. If I wanted to get my brother out of the Games alive, I might have needed cooperation from them for alliances and whatever.

But to keep from snapping I kept working on the fake murder plan inside my head.

Make sure I’m wearing gloves, take a rock, tie it to a string, get her alone and shove it down her throat and when she’s dead, pull it out, toss it to the bottom of a river—no. Not slow enough, not for what the Capitol did, and what they wanted me to do, and what they’re going to do to Kenton.

They killed Katia. Because I wouldn’t be their “fille de joie” or whatever you wanted to call it. They wouldn’t touch my parents, because they saw that they were so loyal to the Capitol. Of course, then, we didn’t get along well. They supported the people that put me through the Games, the ones who were about to do the same to my little brother. Why would he have been hand-chosen for it? Even after training, he was useless as a tribute.

Did they not see that? Did they not care? Of course they didn’t care. But were they neutral, apathetic, or did they like doing this to people? They had to. They called it entertainment. They called it good viewing. “IT’S A HORRIBLE TORTURE METHOD FOR KIDS—!”

“IT’S A TELEVISION SHOW!” The last time I’d bothered to argue with my parents about it.

The Ten-Eleven-Twelve mentoring buddies burst out singing, interrupting my thoughts: “—Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll kill you, tomorrow, your death is only a day a-way!”

“What the hell is their problem?” someone asked, plopping themselves down next to me on the couch. Kizzy Ericssen. I scowled.

“You’re not old enough to drink either, huh?” She scowled back. “The world is for the young,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, well, Miss Head Gamemaker What’s-Her-Name isn’t old enough to drink, either, so I guess it’s a club.”

“She can join the party.” I held up the plastic cup of ice water I had on the side table next to me and started drinking it slowly in the hopes that Kizzy would get the message that the conversation was dead and go away. I was not in the mood for talking. But seeing that my approach wasn’t working, I tried to bring up the worst conversation topic possible instead. “So how’d those Games go? I see you’re not dead.”

“Nope, not yet.”

“Congratulations.”

“Screw you. Don’t even go there.” She punched me in the arm.

“You hit like a girl,” I tried.

“You could, too, if you hit a bit harder.”

“Ouch,” I said sarcastically, mocking. “No wonder you had no sponsors.” She scowled at me. “Not like I did either.”

“Capitol’s getting cheaper by the day.” I did something almost like laughing. Kizzy left. At least she’d been relatively amusing. I hadn’t mentored last year—this was only my second time—so I hadn’t paid much attention to her Games. I made a mental note to watch them as soon as I wasn’t busy keeping my brother alive and all. With his skill level, and the fact that his district partner had already looked for allies elsewhere, that was going to be quite the task.

Then again, no one had been betting on me, and I’d made it. Maybe our family could surprise the crowd twice. But I doubted it. We didn’t have that kind of luck. And little Kenton’d only be put through the same hell I was if he won. They could kill his friends—Mary, Jorden. It would be devastating, and that was what the Capitol wanted.

I didn’t know what Kenton would be doing to deserve that—I did something to piss them off—but the Capitol didn’t need reasons. If they had let them live, he would owe them forever. We all did, even though maybe if I had died in the Games I would’ve been happier.

If I wasn’t trying to keep the Capitol happy to keep my brother alive, I would’ve made sure I was dead already. But the Capitol didn’t like coming up with reasons for victors to die.

We were called victors for a reason, after all.

Hours of the Clock

Aurelia D’Avranches, Age 17, District Two Female Tribute

I tried to figure out exactly what our alliance’s dynamic was like, but I couldn’t come up with anything that made sense. As far as I could see, Delora was concerned only with allying with the boy from Three, and didn’t mind treating the rest of us like we were just in the way. I’d say that she might’ve been in charge, although not well-liked because of her ally choice. My twin brother seemed determined to not ignore me, as gladly as I would’ve had as find separate social circles, but he seemed to be making friends with the boy from Four, Troy, and kind of Jullius, who was kind of shunned anyways, because of his little psychotic meltdown before the opening ceremonies. Personally, Sage, the One victor’s daughter, turned out to be my favorite person in the group. And of course, everything was kind of thrown off by the fact that we knew we were all picked ahead of time and trained with our district partners, and we all knew about the “District Fourteen” deal.

Does that even really matter to us?

That all made for a weird conversation the first morning of training. It started off with talk of how tribute uniforms for the Games were back, thanks to District Six’s stunt with their hidden knives last year, so we didn’t have to go pick our outfits.

“And I won’t be able to show off my wonderful sense of style,” said Evander, gesturing to his training outfit. It occurred to me it was probably a good thing we didn’t have to fight for our volunteer slots between that and the fact that he volunteered for himself.

“Yeah, yeah, but we’ve got bigger issues,” Delora cut in. “Are you guys letting the boy from Three in or not?”

There was tense silence. “No,” I said.

“Me either,” said Sage.

No one else said anything. I looked at Evander. Really? I asked him mentally. Did growing up in Two do nothing to you?

“That’s four to two,” Delora said.

“That’s one for, two disagreeing, and three people saying nothing,” I argued. “Not ‘four to two’.”

“It’s fine by me,” said Troy.

“Me too.” I promptly hit my twin, the speaker, in the shoulder. He shot me a look.

Everyone looked at Jullius, who stared at the ground. “I don’t care,” he shrugged.

“He’s in, then. I’ll ask after the welcome spiel.”

“Are you serious?” I blurted. “He’ll just kill us all in our sleep!”

“No, he won’t. Because I’ll be watching him.”

“You can’t stay awake forever.”

“Fine. You can personally keep one eye on him, too, if you want.”

“Fine,” I spat at her. Sage also didn’t look happy, but gave a nod.

“I’ll watch him, too,” she said.

“We all will,” said Evander, a bit too cheerfully.

Someone tapped a microphone, the sound coming through speakers somewhere I couldn’t see. “—Ah, hello? Is this on?” There was more tapping on the microphone, and then it stopped, replaced by nervous laughter. “Yes. Ah, all right.” I finally located the source of the sound, which turned out to be on the Gamemaker’s balcony. A blonde-haired girl that didn’t look much older than I was. The Head Gamemaker. Oh, this outta be good.

“I’ll try not to talk for too long, I mean, you have to get started with training. Ah, well, I just needed to announce a few changes to this year’s training routine.”

Because enough things haven’t changed?

“Firstly, all of you have seen a desk in your tribute quarters. Installed on it is a game called Stratagem, which you will be required to play. After training, you can pull up the application for further instructions.”

Really, are we supposed to have nothing better to do while we’re here? Are we not playing enough of your Games? … Then again, this could be fun.

“Secondly, the training scores for this year will be calculated a little bit differently. Each day you will be assigned a score for the work you’ve done, and you will receive another score for your demonstration, which will be based upon what you’ve done in the Stratagem game.”

What? We’re not choosing what we’re doing? And we won’t be able to hide any skills? Not that I’m hiding anything, but….

“These scores will be averaged, with extra weight given to your demonstration, to determine your overall score, which will be the main one presented to your sponsors. I mean, potential sponsors. Questions can be brought up by the training instructors. Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

After a few seconds of fumbling, I heard the microphone’s static stop, and another person came out to explain the training stations to us. I couldn’t tell if many were different than in previous years, but I noted two things: one, a station with what looked like skateboards with no wheels that were floating in the air. Ooh, tempting. Have to go there. And two, a station missing. Camouflage, the butterfly one. Was that the one the girl from Nine had talked about in the Games last year? Probably the reason why it was gone.

Finally, we were released, off to training. I felt like jumping for joy, but then I remembered Delora’s plans, and scowled. She led the way over towards Saber, one of the tributes still hanging around the middle of the room.

“Do you want to ally with us?” she asked him, kind of casually.

“Do I have a choice?” he smirked. I already didn’t like this kid. He seemed weird, and had more guts than I wanted him to have.

“Does it matter, Sherlock?”

“No. I’m in.”

. . . . .

We ended up at the obstacle course station before any actual weaponry stations, after Delora’s insistence that our first stations be those of “medical uses for plants” and whatever. That was a major Career fail, that right there. But I decided that since I didn’t exactly need any more training, I could just put up with it and avoid being stabbed early on in the Games. Although, just for fun, I grabbed a knife from that station when the instructor wasn’t looking and put it in my pocket to fiddle with whenever I got bored.

The obstacle course was outdoors, and the trainer spoke in an accent that sounded more District Ten than Capitol. How exactly that worked, I didn’t know.

Do I even want to know?

“Welcome, guys, what brings ya to this station?”

“A genuine interest in maintaining our physical health,” Evander said sarcastically. Delora shot him a look, but not like the one she’d given me. More amused. Less angry. So did the trainer, which was funny.

“Well, let me take you through the obstacles ya’ll be facing, and then ya can try a dry run through it before I help ya work on the patches ya had a rough time on, ‘kay?” He started walking down the course, pointing out each section, offering tips on how we were supposed to get through it. There was one that looked like a wide, open ladder at a low angle to the ground to climb up and down, which I started dreading in advance, some rope stuff, some balance-beam wood plank things, some monkey-bar kind of contraption, a zip-line, and some hurdles, and more, and then we walked back around to the start.

Who sits around and comes up with this stuff?

“On my whistle blow, ya’ll run through as fast as ya can, and I’ll make some notes on what ya need to work on, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” some of us mumbled, and got into a kind of shoulder-to-shoulder line to run through. I was between Evander and Sage.

“One, two, three—go!” The whistle blew.

I ran forwards, and noticing how Evander had gotten so far ahead of me, stuck out my left foot to make him start to trip. Couldn’t let him go impressing our allies before I did. I hit the first challenge—the classic tires—which I wasn’t doing so well at, so I reached out to grab Evander, who was now right behind me, to steady myself, of course slowing him down.

I sprinted ahead to the weird ladder thing, starting to get a bit out of breath now, and grabbed some of the rungs higher up to hold onto while I started moving my feet up—right, left, right, left. I moved my hands up to match, until I was at the top, and unsure of what to do, flipped myself around to be climbing down backwards—left, right, left, right—closing my eyes to avoid looking down at the ground. Finally I hopped down, getting a bit tangled, and sprinted for a few feet, then leaped onto the balance beam, almost slipping off it. I just about ran across it, aiming a shove at Evander, weakened by my need to stay steady.

At the end of the balance beam, there were the monkey-bar things. I grabbed the first one and pulled up my other arm, started moving forwards until the sturdy wood hand-holds became rope, burning my hands, and I had to put more effort in to hold my body weight up. Oh, great Panem. Then I had to transfer my hands to the zip-line handhold, almost pulling the shoulder of the arm I’d been planning to transfer next out of its socket when I started sliding immediately. I fought to keep my grip, meanwhile swinging a kick at Evander, who was again near me.

He’s not getting the message, is he?

We were nearing the end of the zip-line, heading towards the hurdles, so I kicked at him a bit harder. His head whipped around to look at me. I turned over to the side and swung with my whole body weight at him, and in the process one of us or both lost our grip and we went tumbling to the ground mostly on top of each other.

I pushed myself up to lean over him and aimed a punch at his nose, which he dodged by squirming pathetically, like he was scared he was actually going to hurt me or something. I had to smirk at him.

“Getting competitive, huh?” I sneered, and then heard the instructor from behind me, shouting:

“Hey!”

Evander fought harder, eyes wide and still matching mine. I brought my hand up, straightened out, and aimed down towards his shoulder, when he pushed himself on to his side with enough force to dislodge me, and I hit the ground.

“Damn you,” I growled, and tackled him where he tried to scramble to his feet, pinned his legs down with mine, and then felt the instructor tugging at my shirt. I could see the other Careers watching us. Good. They wouldn’t doubt my loyalty to them. I extended my leg backwards, hard, and apparently hit the instructor right where it hurt, because he let go. He shouted for help that I hoped wouldn’t come soon.

I pulled out the knife just for scare, while Evander wrenched an arm free to try to shove me away; I grabbed it, and shoved it back towards him so that his elbow was bent at a painful angle. He yelped. I drew my other arm back to hit him, knife turned out, as he turned us again, and I kicked him in the knee, hearing him cry out. Why was he not putting up more of a fight?

You don’t learn, brother, do you?

His eyes went suddenly wider with terror. “AURELIA, MOVE!”

“What, you—?”

He grabbed me and practically threw me to the other side of him, knife flying out of my hand, as a tranquilizer bullet hit where my head would’ve been if he hadn’t grabbed me. Peacekeepers were there. Excellent. Someone grabbed me again, by the shoulders, pulled me away. I struggled, but someone had Evander, too, I could see in my blurry vision, so I gave up the fight. I was released—it wasn’t a Peacekeeper I was fighting, but Delora, and it was Saber that let go of Evander. They exchanged a look with each other.

The Peacekeepers were asking about injuries, and talking about having to file a report. I just scowled at my brother.

He’d learn soon enough.

Why Will Never Be Known

Autumn “Fall” Yates, Age 14, District Eleven Male Tribute

At lunch on the first day of training, I realized that for the first time in… well, forever, really, I didn’t have anyone to sit with. I’d planned on keeping an eye on Quinn, sitting with her, but she was at a table with three other girls, looking like she was in good hands.

Come on, Fall. Go make some friends while you still can. I held on to my tray tightly and walked to where the boy from Ten, Ryan, also sat alone. “Mind if I sit here?” I asked, already taking a seat across from him as soon as he nodded, Sure. I glanced down at the Capitol food on my tray. “Weird grub here, huh? Tastes great, though. Bet I grew some of it myself back home. And you’re from Ten, right? Cattle? Any meat here looking like Bessie or one of those other moo-things?”

He gave me a strange look, and then perked up some. “Not really.”

“That’d be really sad, y’know? I mean, plants are one thing but the moo-things are another—”

“They’re called cows.”

I laughed. “Cows, moo-things, Bessie, all the same to me. You like it in Ten, though? I’d miss the orchards.”

“It’s nice, I guess,” he said, now comically avoiding the meat section of his plate. “Turned my friend Namitha in to a vegetarian, though.”

“I bet it would,” I said, and then froze. Namitha. I knew that name. “She was the one with the top hat, right? Last year?”

A lot of different emotions ran over his face. Was she the one with the cousin that died? “Yeah; my top hat,” he decided on at last.

I had to laugh again. He was loosening up. I offered him my hand. “I’m Fall. My real name’s Autumn—Autumn Yates—but that’s a girl name, don’t you think? So I go by Fall.”

He shook my hand. “Clever. I’m Ryan. Just Ryan.”

“I thought that was it,” I said. “Well, Just Ryan, you seem nice. Why don’t we call ourselves an alliance?”

“Done,” he smiled.

. . . . .

The first station we went to after lunch was, at Ryan’s request, bird-hunting. It consisted of an instructor tossing these fake birds with wildly flapping wings into the air (going towards a wall covered in target-y material), while we tried to take them down with our choice of long-distance weapon. Neither of us were long-distance fighters, though, so I chose a bow just because it seemed like the most obvious

choice, while Ryan used a knife, which he said was more likely to be found in the arena. That seemed like a good idea, too.

On our first try, I missed the bird horribly, hitting the wall, while Ryan accidentally almost hit me with his knife. Neither of us was using our best weapon. “Don’t worry, it’s Felina I’m after, not you,” he said, and had to reach down to clap me on the shoulder. Felina? That was his district partner, right? That was odd….

The boy from Twelve joined us at the station, also choosing to use a bow, even though he seemed a bit afraid of it. I had to feel bad for him, so I tried to make conversation while we aimed at the birds. “Weird thing, every time I look up at the Gamemaker balcony I feel like half are missing,” I said, since my inspiration for conversation had come from looking around the room.

“Yeah,” Gunner said neutrally, quietly, looking at the ground. He seemed pretty shy.

“I heard that there’s this awful virus or something going around in the Capitol. It’s in Eleven, too, because Kizzy was in the Capitol before she came to us on her Victory Tour.”

“Why was she in the Capitol?” asked Ryan, right before the instructor shot off the next set of three birds. I actually hit mine, and felt proud for a second.

“Dunno,” I said. “Victors can do whatever they want, I guess. Except when they have to mentor.”

“My—my mentor kinda… scares me….” Gunner nearly whispered.

“Yeah, well, she did go through the Games from hell.” We both turned to look at Ryan.

“What d’ya mean?” I asked, because I think Gunner’s mentor’s Games happened when I was too little to remember them.

“They were the three-hundred ninety-fifth, and everyone wanted to make a big deal out of it because it was the new Head Gamemaker’s first year, and she would be there for the Quarter Quell, so everyone was looking at how the Games came out.” Ryan nodded at one of the Gamemakers on the balcony, an older woman with all gray hair. I didn’t want to be thinking rude things or anything, but if someone told me she was almost ninety instead of the sixty I thought she was, I probably would have believed them.

“So?”

“The arena was mostly dark because of these whacked clouds—” he paused for the next round of birds, where Gunner hit his and I congratulated him “—and there were all these huge trees that these black serval cats hid up against and then pounced out and clawed you to death.”

Gunner’s eyes went wide.

“And…?”

Ryan shrugged. “Twelve won. Nobody likes Twelve—no offense—but it wasn’t all that bad, but still… you can probably put the rest together.” There, he nodded at the Head Gamemaker’s spot on the balcony, which was occupied not by the older woman, but a girl easily forty years younger than her.

The instructor pretended to be ignoring us. It occurred to me that Ryan seemed to know an awful lot about the Capitol. His best friend was the little cousin of a victor, though, so maybe he heard some things that way.

We aimed for the next round of birds.

. . . . .

On the second day of training, we didn’t talk to Gunner again. Ryan had gotten a seven for his first day of training—because the bird-hunting station was actually his worst—and I got a five. A five wasn’t too bad. I could average it out to something better today, maybe a six. So we decided to head to the more relaxed hammock-making station.

The instructor spent a while answering the question of the girl from Six: “Shouldn’t this just be part of the shelter station?” He argued that hammocks and shelters were very different things, looking offended. I had to feel bad for him.

The Six girl stormed off, which I had to find a bit strange, but the instructor looked happy, so I decided to try and share in his joy. Ryan and I set about making our hammocks, while I told him about how my mentor, Nigel, had spent awhile last night arguing with some Capitol officials about Quinn’s district token. I wasn’t even sure what the fuss was.

But Ryan seemed unconcerned.

. . . . .

That night, the girl from District Eight had some kind of breakdown and tried to kill herself using a lamp wire in her room. I heard about it through some of Quinn’s mumble-chanting repeating something our mentor, Nigel, had said. He gave me the coherent version later. It was still scary.

I went back to my quarters, and ordered a piece of apple-cinnamon pie, and ate it slowly, and thought.

The girl from Eight didn’t seem crazy—no more than the rest of us were. I’d seen her talking to the girl from Seven before the parade, and she’d been eating lunch with Quinn. She seemed strong enough, like she still had hope, so why would she want to die?

I ordered a second piece of pie and took the elevator down to the District Eight floor. No one disturbed me on my way, so I ended up right in the Eight girl’s room. Her district partner was there, too, but on his way out and looking disturbed. As he left, I looked at the girl—Evangaline—who sat on her bed and stared down at her hands folded in her lap, brokenly. Despite the fact that she’d clearly been crying recently, she was pretty. Tall, although everyone was tall compared to me, with long, curly brown hair and brown eyes. I could see why she had no problems making friends.

“Uh, heya,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward and stupid. “I’m Fall. I brought you some pie.”

“Uh, thanks… I guess,” she said, looking at me a bit strangely. I had to admit, it was a strange conversation. Like, sorry you’re suicidal and we’re going to be killing each other in a week and all, but here, have some pie!

I handed her the plate of food and a fork.

“I’m Evangaline,” she said, like she wished she wasn’t but was trying to be nice. I sat down. She started on the pie. “It’s good,” she commented.

“Yeah.” I tried to be agreeable. “I had a piece earlier.” We were both quiet for a few seconds. “So how ‘b—“

“’So how ‘bout them Hunger Games’?” She half smiled and half smirked. “A classic.”

“Yeah.” I wondered if I should’ve left or not, and then finally did, with a quick, sad-sounding goodbye.

. . . . .

Ryan and I went to the navigation station the next day, which taught about how to use or make a compass, handle uneven ground, be stealthy in all kinds of weather, and handle water or heights. It seemed useful, but it offered no hints at the arena, covering everything. Maybe that was the arena. Everything. It could be, anyways.

Meanwhile, I told Ryan about the girl from District Eight. He seemed to think I was crazy for going to talk to her. Maybe I was; from Ryan’s point of view, at least.

We headed into a simulation that involved walking quietly through mud—harder than it sounded with the squish, squish, squish of our boots—and seeing through fog in the dark. I couldn’t help but think that the simulation room was cool. Must’ve been some new Capitol technology or something, or it just got put in the Training Center.

The instructor of the station was strange. His name was Lucilius, and his oddly feathery hair was completely dyed a dark red that didn’t quite look natural. He looked strong, like he should’ve been teaching weight-lifting instead, and he wore a torque around his wrist that had a zigzag design inside the circle. Whenever he wasn’t giving instructions, he was talking about how he missed his friend Ari, who had run the “butterfly camouflage” station.

Ryan and I decided to not stick around for long, even though I felt bad because Lucilius seemed lonely, and we moved on to the blowpipe lesson area.

“That guy was a creep, huh?” Ryan said as we walked. “Looked familiar, though. Wonder if he does anything else where we would’ve seen him.”

“Dunno,” I said, as we picked up the blowpipes at that station.

It turned out that I was okay at using one as far as the breathing part went, but I had terrible aim and didn’t hold it right. So I decided it wasn’t really the weapon for me.

No weapon seemed to be the one for me—I just wasn’t meant to be holding one, I guessed. None of us were, no matter how natural the Careers seemed to act when they were throwing a knife or waving a sword around. Training couldn’t change human nature, even if the Games could get to some people.

“Do you wanna go to the edible plants station?” I asked Ryan, after just a few minutes.

He gave me a strange look in response.

Lock and Key

Ikky Delacroix, Age 15, District Nine Female Tribute

The room where we waited for our demonstrations was rather small and dark and quiet. And believe me, if you've ever been locked in an isolation closet for any length of time, "small and dark and quiet" is not such a good thing. All it does is make you think of being trapped in a similar, empty space, without any real means of survival—no food, water, bathroom, place to sleep, or way to socialize or entertain yourself. Just darkness. And silence. And nothingness. And sometimes, the sound of your own crying or screaming or wall-punching.

Worse yet, how many hours had I spent listening to the inmate across from me talk to themselves about superstitions? And now, here, a picture had fallen off the wall, and one clock hadn't rung at the hour. Bad signs, to be sure, if you believed in that.

Nobody else seemed to really notice, so I didn't say anything. Instead, I just listened to some Capitol attendant ramble on in the distance... sort of. I wasn't exactly all that interested in what they had to say. But they were also the one announcing the names, so I had to listen sometimes. Everyone filed out of the room one by one, a long pause in between, for our demonstrations. I had no idea what to expect on the other side of the door. The Stratagem game—it was all putting us in made-up scenarios, were the Gamemakers just going to watch us play a computer game?

“Jessalyn Daniels,” said the attendant.

Jessalyn was from District Seven; Henrik and I would be up soon. Great Panem, we need more time, but for what…?

“Kenton Rienman,” came several minutes later.

I wiped my palms on my pants and hoped Henrik didn’t notice my nerves as Kenton left. A victor’s brother—he would be well trained.

“Evangaline Jones.”

Another girl headed into the main gym. Henrik would be next. “Almost time,” he said. His voice didn’t shake.

“Henrik Armfeldt.”

He jumped to his feet. “Good luck,” he said to me, and I couldn’t get anything out of my mouth fast enough before he was gone, through the door that clicked shut in his absence.

Maybe I was just paranoid about it, but I felt like it was an especially long time before I heard, “Ikky Delacroix.”

They pronounced my last name wrong. My anger didn’t last long because I fought to stay upright, and make it through the door before it closed on me, damn Capitol technology. The main training area

looked normal, just as it had this morning. I looked around almost stupidly from the middle of the gym, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing, when I heard, “Ms. Delacroix,” pronounced correctly, and jumped. Man’s voice, deep and loud and static-y from an intercom system. “Your demonstration will begin in thirty seconds.” Thirty seconds? What was I supposed to do then, grab a weapon?

I could see a screen mounted on one wall that counted down for me. It was already nearly to twenty.

I looked over at the Gamemakers, who gave no further clues, and back at the door to where I’d been waiting, and at the elevator, and at the Avoxes and Peacekeepers.

Fifteen, fourteen—what the—?

A screen to my right, across the room from the Gamemakers and clearly in their view, flickered to life, but showed nothing. My left arm felt heavy and achy and tired all of a sudden, and I felt a bit disoriented, off-balance.

Were all of the demonstrations like this?

Three, two, one, zero.

. . .

The gym disappeared when I blinked, and suddenly I stood in the woods. It was almost peaceful, mostly quiet but I could hear birds chirping and water running; sunlight streamed onto me through the leaves. It smelled like damp pine needles.

Then there was a massive creeeeeaaaak from behind me. I whipped around and saw a tree branch coming towards me, and lunged to the side. Another one hit lower, and knocked my feet out from under me, sent me flying forwards. Oh great Panem great Panem what is this—

I scrambled up and dodged the same branch moving towards me again, ducked, jumped over a tiny stream and ran, ran for my life and for sanity and towards whatever would get me out of here, this sick challenge. This isn’t real. I’m in the Training Center, in the Capitol, in Panem. There are no trees. They can’t hurt me.

My legs weren’t hearing any of it, carrying me faster, faster, faster, when something whizzed past my face and I heard a crackling behind me. Tree bark flew everywhere. I turned back, and another sphere-object hit my shoulder, making me buckle over and clutch a rock to stay up. A few stray pieces of bark scraped my face, burning and stinging. Balls of tree bark getting shot at me? That’s new. I stumbled forwards when I almost got hit by another branch, leapt off a small cliff in the ground and dodged another branch, another sphere, and tripped over a tree root almost right into another stream. Some of the water splashed on the cuts on my face from the bark, relieving and soothing, and I pushed off the bank forwards, on and on—

—The woods disappeared. Now there was bloodshed all around me, coating glinting silver weapons in the harsh light, reflected in the golden Cornucopia. There was a knife not too far in front of me; I ran for it, and collided with the boy from District Five. The weapon was in my hand, the force of the impact sent him toppling on to the ground, and I plunged the knife into his chest, watched the life leave his eyes. I didn’t start shaking until after. I looked for Henrik on instinct, saw him battling the girl from One, and on my way over to them, I grabbed a filled water bottle in my free hand.

The knife slipped out of my hand; the girl from One fell backwards to the ground. Henrik turned, saw me, and waved an arm towards the snowy mountains off to one side. I grabbed a small backpack and a blanket and ran towards them—

—In a flash of light, that scenario was gone, faster than the other one had been. The scene in front of me now seemed frozen in time just long enough for me to process it. Henrik was pinned against a tree by the boy from District Three, a knife against his throat—nononono—and the girl from Four had a spear in her hand, pointed at me. I had a knife in my hand yet again. Just one. I could kill the boy from Three, and give Henrik a chance to escape, while I would die at the hands of the girl from Four. Or, I could kill the girl, live while Henrik died.

Neither of our opponents moved much, just taunting, threatening, make your choice, we don’t have all day….

I closed my eyes, my heart racing. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want Henrik to die. I had to move, think, fast. I’d probably have only a few seconds before they just killed both of us. I could almost count down and then—

My knife found the heart of the boy from District Three.

. . .

When my eyes opened, the gym was back, and I had a lot of sets of eyes staring at me all at once. “You’re dismissed, Ms. Delacroix,” the same person said again, and instantly, I was running, towards the elevator, hitting the button for the District Nine floor frantically.

I wasn’t sure what had happened. What was real, what wasn’t. The boy from Three—was he dead? The girl from Four, from One, the boy from Five? … Henrik? The second the elevator doors opened, I just about toppled out of them, and almost at once my field of vision turned to blurry nothingness.

A few more seconds of processing. It turned out from what remained of the rest of my vision that the blur was Henrik’s shirt, and he was suffocatingly squeezing me. I thought of saying, “Hi,” but it didn’t come out. Relief flooded me. Then nerves. Then the urge to pull back and see his expression, then the urge to say something stupidly corny like, Don’t let go of me, all of which I fought and just hugged him back instead.

I became aware of being able to breathe before I noticed the fact he’d let go of me, and then I noticed Bryce’s laughter somewhere beyond Henrik.

“I told you they wouldn’t kill her yet,” Bryce said.

Apparently our demonstrations had gone somewhat the same, then. “You’re not dead, either,” I got out, more choked than I meant it to. I still needed air.

Bryce spoke up again: “And all is well. Anyone up for cookies?”

“Really?” Henrik and I asked at the same time.

“Seriously?” he added.

Bryce laughed again, happily.

. . . . .

We stayed up later than planned for two reasons. One, Bryce’s real insistence that in honor of his own joke there be cookies as an extra dessert course, and two, the mission of pulling the mattress from the bed in Henrik’s room onto the floor, and dragging the one from mine into his room, a bit over from his. I guess listening to each other breath while we slept was supposed to be a comfort thing, for the inevitable, nightmarish day when we couldn’t.

I probably talked more in the hour after we’d turned the lights off than I had in my entire life. It still felt awkward, and I kind of wished that the lights were turned on, and I talked mostly because I wanted to make sure Henrik was still talking, but still… it was nice. Other than the fact that in a few days we could’ve both been horribly murdered.

Oddly enough, we didn’t have much to actually say about that.

The conversation had mostly faded out, and I got stuck listening to the impending silence. “Are you still awake?” I whispered at one point.

“Yeah. What?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing, except the fact that I felt like I couldn’t breathe because I thought too much. This time together—it was supposed to be for comfort, but it was just going to make everything worse, in the end… I got a nightmare vision of taking a weapon out of Henrik’s lifeless body in the arena, of being all alone, of there being silence at night not even delayed by his voice. It could come down to the two of us, and only one of us would come back. I would die, or Henrik would die, just like in the tribute demonstrations. Only one of us could live, and it was more likely that neither of us would—

“It’s not fair! A death lottery, that’s all it is! A death lottery—it’s not fair, it’s not—“

My mother was right, except that it wasn’t a lottery. We were meant to get chosen. Someone out there decided that out of every twelve- to eighteen-year-old in District Nine, we would be the ones to die. Why? What had we done? WHAT DID WE DO TO YOU?! I screamed mentally, and then I was hearing, “Ikky? Are you okay?”

I shook my head, forgetting about the darkness for a second, realizing that not-mentally, I was crying, for the first time in a long, long time. We were going to die. We were going to die, and that would be just, just… the end. And Panem only knew what came after that. We. Were going. To die.

Someone—Henrik—touched my shoulder, and I jumped. “It’s okay.”

“We’re going to die,” I said out loud. “Both of us, all of us—we’re going—” my voice broke “—to die. And there’s nothing we can—”

I stopped, sobbing too hard, and Henrik moved closer to me, hugged me again, just as tightly. “We’re not going to die. You’re not going to die.”

“B-but we—we are—we’re going to—to—”

“No. You’re not. … My brother would kill me. I’d kill me.”

It didn’t help; nothing could. So, for a long time, I cried, and Henrik held me just the same, and at some point, I finally fell asleep.

The Frozen Wave

Troy Reyes, Age 15, District Four Male Tribute

I quickly became convinced that I was the only Career not involved in some conflict going on. Sage, Aurelia, Delora and Saber had their whole deal about someone from Three being in the alliance. Jullius had isolated himself over his breakdown and so was generally suspected as the one that would try to kill us all in our sleep. Evander seemed under attack by his sister. That left me.

I didn't really care about Saber being in the alliance; I had some level of trust in (and maybe pity for) Jullius; I wasn't getting in the way of the twins.

Maybe that would all work in my favor in the arena.  

Or not.

The second day of training found us at knife-throwing, and Aurelia seemed to be the best at it, so stood several feet further away from the targets than the rest of us. Which gave her plenty of chances to scare the living daylights out of her brother by just nearly hitting him by aiming at the target he stood closest to.

I wasn’t ridiculously far away from him, but I wasn’t about to move.

One knife went especially close, and Saber, apparently sick of the twins’ arguments, snapped, “Watch it, Two.”

Aurelia smirked at him, but apparently she was plenty willing to play that game, because she almost-hit Delora next. Saber clearly saw it coming and grabbed the knife out of the air, whipped around, made sure it went close enough to Aurelia for her to (almost) flinch, and let it find a target at the nearby archery station, where the poor tributes seemed scared out of their minds. One—Eleven, I think—screamed and nearly fainted, but one of her allies caught her. Saber seemed unconcerned, and Aurelia said, “Watch it, Three,” all high-pitched-sing-song like, clearly just to mock him. I made sure to stay out of the way, but Evander looked at them, distressed, and I had to feel bad.

I walked over to him, as the weapon throwing mostly came to a halt. “Hey, don’t freak out or anything, but Saber’s glarin’ daggers at your sister.”

He glanced over his shoulder at them, shooting the same kind of look at Saber. He attempted to make light of it all: “’Hey, don’t freak out or anything, but’: I’d be more concerned about the way he’s looking at Delora. … I planned on getting some sleep during the Games. Guess not, eh?”

I stared, my reaction delayed by shock that he’d dare to say that, and then I started cracking up like I hadn’t since I was back home, safe in Four. “We’ll just get separate tents. One for us, one for the girls, and one for them.”

“If there’s that many in the arena.”

“Hope it’s not a small one.” I felt something like a coy smile coming onto my face.

Evander smirked, and it looked remarkably, creepily like his sister’s.

“—Hoverboard station. Now,” Saber snapped at us, and as most of the alliance was already halfway there, it became apparent that we’d missed that conversation.

“So wha’d’ya think about that creepy computer game thing?” I asked him as we walked behind the others.

“Creepy is the word,” he said.

“What’d it—what’d it make you do?”

He glanced around, talked quieter: “Put me in a bunch of hypothetical situations mostly around my sister.”

“Yeah,” was all I said, since he hadn’t asked the question back.

“What about you?”

“Hypothetical stuff, too. Alliance issues and fights and stuff.” I shrugged. “Some of it wasn’t that bad.”

He nodded.

“I’d rather be swimming, though.”

“You’re really into that stuff, in Four?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. I was raised on the water.”

“I’d rather be dry,” he deadpanned after a few seconds. “But to each his own.”

The instructor at the hoverboard station gave us a “shut up” look, so we did. He explained how the hoverboards worked (it was like a surfboard, except small, and it floated in the air instead of on water), and then pointed out the area of the gym that they worked in (because there was something underground that made them work, long word that I didn’t know).

We all grabbed one and started trying to get on them. Harder than a surfboard. They weren’t balancing on anything and so were a lot easier to move, which made getting both feet on them hard. But Delora and I were still the first ones on them, which meant that District Four had done something for us. I experimented, and working them became fairly obvious: lean right, turn right, lean left, go left. Leaning backwards made you stop, and the more you leant forwards, the faster you went. I tried to see how tight I could get the turns to be, how fast they went.

When Delora almost ran into Saber when she tried to get off her hoverboard, it turned out that Aurelia had unknowingly created the running joke of the Careers this year by throwing Saber’s words back at him. Now, he said, “Watch it, Four.”

. . . . .

At lunch, Saber suggested we split up for the afternoon. Whether it was to keep certain people from killing each other or just out of his annoyance, I didn’t know. But then the groups became Sage and Aurelia, Evander and me, and him and Delora. “Yeah, right,” said Aurelia. “Why do I think you two going off on your own isn’t a good idea?”

“And what about Jullius?” asked Evander, as if he wasn’t sitting next to him.

“He can come with us,” I said, jumping in, and before I could get to what I thought of splitting up, I got interrupted—

“—Whatever,” Saber answered that conversation, and to Aurelia, “As much as a bad idea it is for you and Sage to have time to make plans.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re just as likely to betray the alliance as I am!”

“As if. I’m not a traitor.”

“Hey,” Evander cut in, interrupting whatever Sage was about to say. “How about you go with Saber and Sage can go with Delora?”

“And you’re not planning anything?” his sister scowled at him.

“Far less likely,” said Saber. “Fine.”

. . . . .

After lunch, Evander proposed going to the sword station, since we could all stand to brush up on that. I had to agree, but Jullius went pale and said he might go back to the hoverboard station for more practice. He left, awkwardly but really fast, and Evander just kind of shrugged at me. We headed to the sword-fighting station.

We were the only ones there, so if we were acting as allies, we had no opponents, or at least one of us wouldn’t. The instructor solved this easily, rather than just having us go against each other. “You two! Fancy a match?” he called to the tributes at the next station over. They seemed rather unabsorbed in their edible plant sorting, so just exchanged a glance and then walked over. The instructor seemed to know them and seemed amused at this idea, so they’d probably dropped by before.

They were the pair from Nine, I realized, and my confidence immediately went up. The crazy district. The girl was five-foot-nothing-ninety-pounds-soaking-wet (apparently the District Nine prison system’s catering sucked), and I had years of experience on them both.

“All right, pick your weapons.”

I finally noticed the rack of sword choices, and in the moment that the Nine duo stepped towards them, Evander pulled me back, said, “I’ll take the boy, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I noted what weapons our opponents had chosen before picking mine, and noticed that the girl had chosen a brand of smallsword that you didn’t fight with unless you were (a), very, very good, or (b), a complete idiot who didn’t know the former. And the Nine girl didn’t strike me as a complete idiot. I chose the same, although I knew from training that even Delora, who was a long-distance fighter, could take me in a swordfight.

“On your marks.”

There were several pieces of tape on the ground, and we all stood on one that was a corner of the smallest possible square, Evander on my right, the Nine girl in front of me, her partner in front of Evander.

“Rules: no kicking, biting, scratching, clawing, hair-pulling, full-on hand-to-hand combat, or anything else that may cause serious injury. Sword-fighting only. They’re dull blades, and you only need to tap one of the red sensors on your opponents uniform for them to be out, you don’t need to stab them, all right?” Red sensors? As he said it, he hit a button and red circles starting to glow on our uniforms over wherever an injury would be fatal.

We all nodded, and he said, “Get set.” I pulled my sword in close to me, diagonal across my heart.

“And… start.”

All four of us shifted around a bit, and every move I made, the Nine girl mirrored perfectly. Tilt my sword to be diagonal the other way, so did she, so that I’d have to change my angle to be able to knock her sword out of her hand. None of us had made any attack, and if Nine’s reactions weren’t so quick, I would’ve moved already. (Well, there was the way that her partner cocked his head at me, daring me to so much as take a step towards her, too.)

I took in a breath, whipped my sword around to the other side and swung it out towards hers, but she’d already sprung at me, dodging my weapon and trying to hit one of the sensors on my side. I jumped back (and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Nine boy and Evander well into the battle), brought my sword up to knock hers away, twisted to the right, brought my sword back to the left and back again, the metal colliding and making a shrieking noise.

One of my swings went high and she ducked right under it, so I had to angle lower (and the twisted part of my mind was noting that she was around the same height as Aurelia so I’d have to do the same thing if that ever happened—)

I stopped thinking so much, let instinct take over, realizing how much fear came into it even though we were fighting with dull blades in a gym with rules, not sharp ones in the arena. I went on the defense, blocking attacks with quick moves, the sword not going too far either direction.

And then it got complicated: the Nine boy, never turning away from Evander, jabbed his sword at me while he jumped out of the way of an attack on him. Oh, so you wanna fight now, too?

I got my sword away from the girl’s and turned to go after the other Nine, when I realized my mistake, and by then, it was too late. The Nine girl hit one of the sensors on the back of my uniform, and while that distracted Evander, the boy hit one of his blinking red lights, and the instructor called round one over, a Nine victory.

What if we were in the arena?

“Well, damn.”

The Nine pair high-fived.

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Better learn to be better allies, eh?”

. . . . .

Back at the Stratagem game that night, realizing it would be the last time before my demonstration, it gave me an estimated training score of eight. I’d gotten a seven the first day of training and an eight for today, so it assumed I’d do about the same for the rest of the time. Eight. That was somewhat… low. The Gamemakers were hard to impress this year. I suspected it was because everyone was trained.

That seemed kind of unfair to me, but there wasn’t anything to do about it then.

I’d just have to work at it tomorrow.

Your Last Bit of Bravery

Evangaline Jones, Age 17, District Eight Female Tribute

Aunt Jen said to me once that you aren’t afraid of what will inevitably happen. Okay, well, she said it to little Reese and I was in the room, but still.

I would now just like to say that that is complete and utter garbage.

Knowing that you’re going to die doesn’t mean you don’t fear death.

And that was what I was thinking as I looked at all of my competition on the first day of training.

You know, other than these outfits are stupid and oh great Panem is the instructor seriously wearing that? Why District Eight instinct was kicking in and I was all of a sudden noticing things about clothes was beyond me. I decided to not say any of that out loud.

Once the directions had stopped coming—the reminder to not go pick out our tribute outfits, the Head Gamemaker’s sadly-awkward speech about the scoring changes, and the review of the stations—Jess looked at me and I looked back, and then we followed the girl from Twelve to the edible plants station. The only other person there was the girl from Eleven that everyone called crazy, who I assumed would stay out of our way. “Uh, hi!” said Jess. Twelve—Belle—didn’t so much as turn around, which struck me as odd. “Hello?”

Belle finally turned and gave us the look my teacher gave the kids who talked during the lesson. She glanced at both of us in turn, as if scanning to see if we were armed or something, and then said, cautiously, “Hiya.”

I just kind of nodded awkwardly to establish that I was part of the conversation, too.

Jess continued: "Well, we—we were wondering if you might want to, you know—join our alliance." 

She examined both of us again and then said, very coolly, "I already have an ally."

"Really?" I asked, because she was talking to us alone. Jess looked at me again, we agreed, and then she said:

"Well, they'd be welcome to join, too," before Belle could respond to my comment. "… Who is it?"

Belle gestured to the District Eleven girl. Oh, no, I thought. I am not doing this. A crazy thirteen-year-old girl from District Eleven was not worth my grief. I hated to say it, even mentally, but it was true. She would be more trouble than she was worth--great Panem, I'd thought Belle was sensible! Maybe her ally choice should’ve been obvious, but right then, I wasn’t concerned about that.

I realized that since I’d had none of this reaction externally, I could start fresh there. “Welcome to the alliance,” I said, and shook Belle’s hand while she gave me a strange look. I looked over at the Eleven girl, who was vaguely looking at us, and said, “Hi… uh….”

“Quinn,” supplied Belle, and I echoed it.

Quinn gave a shy half-wave from behind Belle’s shoulder. Maybe she was more coherent than I thought. I waved back.

. . . . .

By lunch, I was feeling much better about my allies. Belle seemed to have good intentions at heart, and she was smart, and she beat out all of us at the fishhooks, traps, and slingshot stations. She would be useful. Quinn seemed friendly, if conversations with her often strayed, she was quick on her feet and could use a scythe or a sickle better than me. She wasn’t as bad as I thought, not like the one girl last year. Jess was nice, but I knew that, and positive—which we all needed desperately—and worked at every station. She could use an ax and was just a bit faster than Quinn.

After our so-what-can-you-do talk and basic strategy in the morning, we got to talking about actual person subjects. Which was not my forte. Jess did most of the talking. Belle was quiet on the subject too, and Quinn was Quinn.

I didn’t want to see any of them die. Most of my mind was screaming, don’t get attached, but Quinn was looking around dazedly with her wide blue eyes and singing a vaguely-happy-sounding, dreamy melody, and Belle was talking about telling the younger kids in the community home she was in stories, and Jess talked about her siblings and volunteering at her school’s carnival, and— No, I really didn’t want to see them die.

I tried to not focus on the conversation, think of home, something concrete, that I actually knew, that was familiar. (It was Friday. Reese was baking cookies and trying to spy on Olivia next door.) But still, I suddenly wasn’t hungry.

. . . . .

“Well—I—I—I don’t know,” I stammered out, still trying to catch up on air from almost suffocating, and crying, and nervous. It was the second night of training, and a while ago, I’d discovered some injury with my left arm and tried to get one of the attendants to help me figure it out. When that failed, I’d gotten angry, really angry, at everything, really not like me, and the next thing I knew, Keith and Kenton were untangling me from the wire that trailed from a lamp to the wall, most of it wrapped around my throat.

Keith had left to make calls while Kenton lingered awkwardly. His question had been along the lines of why and I… well, I didn’t know. That was the problem. I wasn’t that desperate, not desperate enough to want to die, why—

Someone appeared in the doorway. A tiny, dark-skinned boy, holding a plate with a piece of pie on it. District Eleven tribute, I thought, which meant that Quinn had probably heard about… this, on some level, too.

But who else? How had the news spread that fast, anyway? Or was I just paranoid, and the Eleven boy was here for no reason? That seemed odd.

Did my other allies know? Quinn knowing wasn’t that much of a threat, but if Jess, Belle, knew… that would change some things. How they saw me, how the rest of our time went. I decided that I didn’t want them to know. I saw that the One boy was alienated from the Career pack, because of his deal before the opening ceremonies, and I didn’t want that to be me.

No, I wouldn’t tell them. If they knew, I’d brush it off. Rumor, maybe.

Just a rumor.

. . . . .

In the morning, no one mentioned anything to me. Good. But I was still thinking about it. I wasn’t as disturbed by it all in daylight, but it was still pressing on my mind. I tried to think of the other tributes who had similar problems. The “rumors” I’d heard about others. The boy from One, whose name I couldn’t remember. And… the girl from Five. Honestly, I didn’t remember her name, either. Didn’t it start with “A”?

Something was up. This wasn’t me. There were a lot of crazy things getting said about the other two breakdowns, and I didn’t know what to believe about them. Who knew what they were saying about mine right then?

I tried to play through what had happened again, not really wanting to remember how I felt, but… I had to think about it. My left arm hurting. I had purposely not looked at it so far today, and I’d been wearing long sleeves, so. It didn’t hurt, now. But then, I had to know if something was wrong with it, and I was going to get too warm during training, anyway. I rolled up my sleeves—both, but I looked at the left one. And immediately, I yelped and dropped my arm out of my other hand, my heart pounding. Belle and Jess just gave me weird, if concerned, looks.

What was that? I hadn’t—no, this definitely wasn’t there last night, someone would’ve noticed. It wasn’t me. It couldn’t be real, because then, it would be hurting still, right? The cuts looked deep. They spelled:

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

You.

Have.

Been.

Warned.

The words echoed through my mind over and over, and I hurriedly pulled my sleeves back down. “Cold in here, huh?” I said, and the nervous, almost hysterical laugh that found its way into my voice was clearly suspicious.

Not wanting to actually look at it again, for fear of anyone else seeing, I tried to breathe, and picture it. Now that I thought of it, the lines didn’t look like cuts. They looked like very thin, precise burn scars. But how? I hadn’t done it. No one could’ve without me noticing.

And, “warned”? Of what?

I pictured the marks again, the picture seemingly engraved in my mind permanently. There was only one mistake, a dot hidden amongst the letters. I wracked my brain for any other reason the dot would be there. Of course, it could’ve been from almost anything, I wouldn’t have remembered it, but… thinking of the other rumors, I thought I had something. My tracker—where they inserted it, just like what was said of the Five girl and boy from One.

That didn’t do much for me. This was still not good. What if the same thing happened in the arena, no one to do anything about it? Just how powerless would my allies be against me if I had a breakdown like that?

There was a bit of conversation going on around me that I didn’t really notice, and then we were off to our first station of the day. Okay. That would be good, a welcome distraction. I’d already forgotten what it was but was hoping it was something on the more engaging side.

It was.

In a separate, dark, room, right off the main gym, waited an instructor who, honestly, struck me as kind of shady, but was definitely eager enough to make up for it. Across from the door we’d entered through, there was a wide set of metal doors, and on either side of us, benches. We sat on them while the instructor set us up with some digital things we needed to have on us.

Instantly I was wary of the devices. They reminded me too much of the trackers. There was nothing to do about those, but these… I didn’t like the idea of wearing them, but I wasn’t going to sit the station out over it.

Apparently I was really starting to get nervous, because Jess and Belle were looking at me. “You okay?” asked Jess.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

She shrugged.

Apparently the other two had voted on Quinn not going into the simulation area itself, due to the nature of it, so Quinn got to skip the devices. I tried to not think of it too much, to not think you have been warned, to not think too much of how ominous the simulation area was. We chose our weapons, which the instructor sent an attendant to get. I held a few knives in my hand, lighter and sleeker than my ones at home, and took a few deep breaths in.

We headed into the simulation area, the door closing behind us. In the relative darkness, orange beams appeared around us, and turned into figures running through the room at the ends, some armed. Belle drew back the string of her slingshot, extra projectiles in the right hand, and Jess’s grip tightened on her ax.

The blades I had could so easily slip out of my hand, could move so fast I could barely keep track of what I was doing. Hmm. The damage someone could do with one… like carving words into your arm.

You have been warned.

In a burst of movement, the figures really began to move, towards us, spreading out, multiplying. Adrenaline kicked in, instinct, energy coursing through my veins. I’d lost the urge to run that I might’ve had in the early days of training. The flight response was gone.

Now, it was time to fight.

The Long Run

Andrew “Andy” Radke, Age 17, District Six Male Tribute

The so-called "Stratagem" game was really starting to get on my nerves. Firstly, it was time-consuming. Who knew how long I had to live, and they wanted to waste what could've been some of my last free time with this? Secondly, it was boring, and it was difficult, since I had no clue whatsoever how to use the Capitol technology. It didn't even try to make it any easier. All staring at the screen did was give me a headache and make my eyes hurt, in case I wasn't worn out enough for them after a long day at training and putting up with whatever happened on the District Six floor. And by the way, quite a lot happened on the District Six floor that would give anyone still half in their right mind a headache. Our escort, "Ms. Twine"—yeah, she needed to have her mental health checked, just like all of us. A narcissist if I ever met one. Kizzy was Kizzy, and my district partner, Miss Unpronounceable Name, was still bipolar, “treated” or no.

I was starting to feel like the most-sane person there, and that was really, really saying something.

My patience was running out fast being locked up in the Training Center. How long had it been since I got some fresh air? The opening ceremonies? That shouldn't have even counted. You try "getting some fresh air" in a suit that's meant to choke you.

I had to pretend to cooperate with everyone else, trapped in the eerie building, not able to wander off into the woods. Ashly wasn’t there to keep me from killing someone, so I was seriously considering getting a head start on the Games, whether or not the person was going to be in the arena with me.

So all of those thoughts were distracting when I was supposed to be playing the Capitol’s new little game. That, and the noise from the hallway. Glass shattering in the room across from mine, “ZATTIANA, I SWEAR, IF YOU’VE BROKEN ANYTHING ELSE—!”, angry stomping, doors slamming, frustrated screaming, crying, and the much-anticipated, “I HATE YOU!”

Yeah, the other three people here were determined to make me look forward to the Games. As if I could.

"Y-You have to win, And'... you have to w-win...."

"Shh... I will... I promise…." (I promise, Ashly. I promise.)

I tried to block out the noise—ha—and focus on the game. A tiny, creepily-accurate version of me was faced with a fast-moving river, and option popped up with various options. I could move on, get a drink of water, try to fish, swim, (but apparently it knew what I could and couldn’t do, and in an earlier round I had drowned trying to cross a stream—a stream. Really.)

"I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU!" came the screaming from the hallway. “ZATTIANA, YOU OPEN UP THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

I decided that swimming or getting a drink was too dangerous for the river options—ha again—and thought of the other two. If I stayed to fish, the game would say that staying allowed a Career to come out from the shadows and pounce on me, and I would die. If I said I moved on, I would run straight into a trap, which meant certain death. See, that's just how the game went. No matter what, you couldn't win. I was sure that someone had gotten through a round without dying—probably one of the District Three kids that could hack their way into it—but I, for one, was screwed. I decided to fish.

A scream from the hallway, the sound of a heavy, solid object hitting a wall. I couldn't help myself. Instead of watching virtual-me fish until it made me do it, I jumped to my feet, slammed my chair into the desk, and yanked the door open, yelling into the hallway, "CAN BOTH OF YOU FREAKING SHUT UP?!"

"Tell her that!" snarled Kizzy, and stalked off down the hall, looking ready to murder. Oh, trust me, I knew the feeling.

"Screw you, too!" Zattiana shouted after her, and slammed the door to her room in my face.

Maybe I'd get some peace. I slammed my door as well and went back to the game, where, sure enough, wouldn't you know it, it said that a mutt—ooh, so I was the slightest bit off, how dramatic—was now eyeing me from the woods, and gave me more options.

More shouting came from down the hall, Kizzy and Ms. Twine, this time. (Yeah, you try living in a small space with a bipolar thirteen-year-old girl off her meds for a district partner, an equally angry and sullen seventeen-year-old girl for a mentor, and a strangely-dressed narcissistic woman for an escort—and not go mad. In case I hadn’t mentioned that. See, I was getting redundant from it all. Short-term memory to match everyone’s short tempers.)

I was thinking that if—when—if—when—I was a victor, if I had any say in anything, I would try to get the Capitol to do away with this stupid “Stratagem” game. It was hardly a game—if any of the Capitol’s “games” were “games”—and the name was stupid, anyway. It was all a horrible way to determine our scores. I would bet that it would do nothing but lower mine.

In conclusion: ugh.

. . . . .

I had to wonder if the change to the training demonstrations was at all influenced by my dearest mentor’s apparent stunt last year. And if that was the case, how long they were going to keep the demonstrations like this—Panem only knew what next year’s Games would be like. If the whole deal that was going on this year didn’t interfere with them too much.

We were forced to wait, and the worst part was having to sit still that long, in the cramped room. At least most of the time I had some way to burn off energy. Not here.

But somehow, I was feeling more and more confident about my score, watching the other tributes getting called up right before me. The boy from Five—a relatively small fourteen-year-old who I’d heard was paraplegic a while ago. His district partner—a tiny, terminally-ill twelve-year-old who’d had some kind of breakdown recently? Blood-bath, singsonged my mind.

Yeah. I got this. Whatever it is.

And after me would be Zattiana, and then one-hand boy. I would be looking good amongst those around me.

“Andrew Radke.”

I got up, and went through the door. It clicked shut behind me. “Mr. Radke, your demonstration will begin in thirty seconds,” said one of the Gamemakers. “Please move to the center of the room.”

Scowling, I did as I was told, wondering why I had to move and what was with the thirty-second rule. In front of me, when I turned around from facing the Gamemakers, was a countdown clock, which had a giant, orange twenty-three on it a the current second. Okay. So was something going to happen when it stopped, or did that just mean I was free to start? I looked around, and the weapons and such were still there. But my demonstration was supposed to be based on Stratagem? Stupid game.

I made a quick plan of what to do when the countdown ticked down, since I hadn’t made an exact plan before what with the strange announcement. There were daggers still on a rack—I could grab some of them.

Eight seconds to go. I got prepared to move, not sure why I wanted to get started so fast, but suddenly, it seemed to be of the utmost importance.

A splitting pain ran up my lower left arm, and I clutched it instinctively.

Four seconds.

Oww oww oww—what the—

. . .

—hell?

First thing that hit my senses after I seemed to have been transported out of the gym—painfully hot, dry air, washing over me fast. Under my feet, all around, sand. Damn it. Sand. I wasn’t good at doing anything in sand, where the hell was I? Blue, blue sky overhead, sand dunes around me, some seeming to have holes in them. Unlikely. This wasn’t natural. It was quiet, so quiet, like it would be out in the woods.

Then I heard it—a growl. I whipped around, but I could see nothing. Just sand. Instantly I started looking for weapons that I had. There were a few knives in a belt around my waist, and I pulled them out. There were red, gleaming objects in the sand dunes around me that I finally noticed—rocks I could throw? I was getting desperate, and my heart rate was increasing. Were things supposed to be this way? Why was nothing happening yet?

I approached a dune to examine the rocks. In one flat-line moment, I realized: no, not rocks. Eyes.

Something pounced out of the sand dune and it was all I could do to scream and lunge to the side. A dog. A freaking dog, perfectly colored to be disguised in the sand. And red eyes. I heard another snarl. More. There were more.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This is part of my demonstration—right?

I shot a dagger towards the one that had pounced out, and immediately had to throw myself out of the way of another one pouncing. Those claws… oh great Panem, this wasn’t good. I whipped my arm out, a dagger slitting the mutt’s throat open, and quickly retrieved the one I’d killed the other dog with. More appeared—three. I killed two, grabbed the dagger out of one and stabbed another, grabbed the other knife. More behind me, I knew from the sound.

I whipped around and threw another one half over my shoulder, instinct and adrenaline kicking in—

—The heat faded slightly. Now it was overwhelmingly humid and I felt exhausted. There seemed to be mud under me now, instead of sand. No easy terrain here. It would leave footprints, and be loud, too. What now?

Some mud slid down around my feet, going to the area behind me. I looked around—a lot of mud was slipping that direction, actually—damn it! Damn it! I ran forwards, and immediately was almost drawn back. Oh, no. I wasn’t going to die this way. I forced myself to keep running forwards as if it was just another treadmill like in training—slippery and uncooperative and faster and heavier, but it wasn’t deadly, no, no, I was going to be just fine like this.

I was so tired. How long were they going to make me run, towards solid ground with a few bare trees on the horizon? The sound of the mud running towards doom was making me sick. I almost fell backwards—no no no NO—but pulled myself forwards again, and moved on—

—Quickly, I almost fell flat on my face. The ground was solid here—grass—and everything… normal, for a second. Then, as if a curtain disappeared, I could see the Cornucopia, supplies, the tribute plates, and twenty-three kids around me.

I had no weapons this time. I ran for a sword and picked it up, looking around. I was focused on weapons—this wasn’t going to last long, just like the others. A knife cut it close to my shoulder, and I turned to see it came from the girl from District Two. Just in time, I ducked, energy suddenly abundant. I ran towards her, and knocked another knife out of the way, inches from my face.

I threw the sword, my only chance, and she fell to the ground. Something hit my arm, a dull throb at first, then searing pain. I looked—an arrow. There was an arrow sticking out of my arm, oh great Panem—I threw myself to the ground, dodging another, and pulled it out of my arm before I could think about it too much, not a good choice, and threw it at my attacker. He slowed enough that I could pick up a knife and kill him, too, then turned to look for someone else.

. . .

There was no one there. I was still shaking, but I was back in the gym. Paranoid now, I checked myself for weapons, to find none. No attackers. “You are dismissed, Mr. Radke.”

Oh. Oh. It was just—my demonstration—it was over. Was it? No. Was that what the arena—what the arena was really like? All the time? It wasn’t real.

I got in the elevator, and stared at the metal as the doors closed in front of me.

And When It Doesn’t End

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

Interview preparation day. I loved it, personally, as far as days of preparing for the Games went. It was generally when I really got to know the kids for that year. Some of them just stayed so monosyllabic that you couldn’t get to see them shine until then.

This year, of course, things were different. District One had Jullius and darling Sage, of course, who I both already knew. Jullius, from the training, and Sage from home. Because we’d already had some preparation time, I let them both sleep in, but got up early, myself, to do some more thinking about their angles. Jullius now had to make up for not being in the opening ceremonies, poor dear, but I was sure he could pull it off. Sage was the same as ever, no last-minute changes there.

Speaking of my daughter, she emerged from her room right around then, clearly very recently awake, still in pajamas, and picked up one of the Capitol pastries from the table to pick at. “Good morning,” I said. “Do you want some orange juice? Just brought it in fresh today, it’s really lov—”

“—No.” She frowned. Of course; Sage didn’t like orange juice. But a mother could try, right?

“Well, that’s all right. Maybe later.”

Then, another voice, low, from the edge of the hall: “I’ll have some.”

“Oh, good, Jullius, you’re up, too. I’ll send for some.” I sent an Avox off for another glass and suggested that we all sit for breakfast. Feriah showed up, already dressed, like Jullius, but quickly disappeared again to get silverware.

There was a sudden commotion going on outside, probably a traffic accident, I supposed. Sage, Jullius, and I started eating, and blocked out the noise with the clatter of silverware. But even in the few minutes before Feriah came back, the shouting and honking from outside was becoming, frankly, a bit disturbing. We all stood and went to look out the window.

Outside, traffic was backed up—what looked like for blocks! Oh my Panem, it all looked ridiculous. People were getting out of their cars, making wild hand gestures.

“What the hell’s all this about?” Sage asked.

“Dunno,” said Jullius.

The phone rang. We all jumped. “I’ll get it,” I said, and went to pick up the line. “Hello?”

“Sassy. I need you to come to an emergency meeting. Immediately. There’s a driver waiting for you outside the building.”

I recognized the voice. President Paylor? What’s happened? “Of course! What’s the matter?”

“There’s been an… attack, here in the city. On the Gamemaking Center.”

“Oh, no—I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The line went dead. I put the phone down, feeling panicky, and looked at Sage and Jullius. “I have to go. I’ll be back. Feriah will work with you for the morning.”

“Wait a minute! What’s going on?”

“Sorry, dear, I can’t say—I’ll be back.” I half-ran over to the elevators, and hit the button for the ground floor, leaving everyone else behind, confused. I took a few deep breaths, and by the time I had, the elevator door opened and I moved across the lobby, for once trying to avoid conversation but giving people half-hearted smiles and waves.

There was, indeed, a driver waiting, and I got into the back of the car. After a few minutes of driving through back-roads, I had to say, “Excuse me—where exactly are we going?”

“The Gamemaking Center, ma’am, and then to the Capitol Building.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I got out, and then tried to relax. Relax, though! An attack on the Gamemaking Center now? Opening Night was tomorrow! The Games, the day after. The Games…. Oh, what exactly had happened? What was changing now? If the Gamemakers didn’t have access to the arena controls—what would happen?

The driving slowed when we were forced to get back on the central street that the Gamemaking Center was on. But we weren’t far off. The driver pulled up to the curb and I got out of the car. Several other people that I recognized were gathered in front of the building, surrounded by security, which we got through—President Paylor, the Gamemakers, Litiea and Kizzy, who I assumed had come in separate cars from the Training Center—odd.

“Don’t worry—the building’s been cleared,” were the first words I heard. I looked around—the scene was chaos, emergency teams still there, the panic of those who’d been in the Gamemaking Center, the press, trying to get closer to it all, and still, there were a few calm people around, helping others.

Well, that was one good thing.

. . . . .

Aidan Paylor, Age 42, President of Panem, Capitol

The five victors arrived quickly. I was glad, seeing as we could then move in the security entourage to the Capitol Building. It would be a welcome relief from having to put up with the Gamemakers for the last half hour or so, at least one of whom was hysterical while Lavender tried to calm her. And speaking of such, the Head Gamemaker also had herself in a state and was nothing short of livid, equally as hard to put up with as everyone else.

So yes, I was very glad, besides the fact that it all meant I could get away from the building that had recently almost exploded. The main problem, the fire on the first floor, was out, at least, with only a few… insignificants, injured.

There wasn’t much talk until we got to the Capitol Building, my office. I told the victors the really fairly uninteresting story and finally got to the important part: “Security’s been increased everywhere of any importance in the Capitol. The important thing is to stay calm. The Games, of course, will proceed as normal.”

“How?” Lavender demanded as soon as I finished. “I mean, we can’t… if the Gamemaking

Center’s closed off—”

“It won’t be,” I said.

“But we can’t run the Games from there! There’s no way security can be sure of anything already.”

“You doubt the people who quite possibly saved your life today?” I asked, and noticed a message pop up on my desk, the re-confirmation of my being alive from Kline. I sent back: “Still breathing. Still dealing with insolent teenagers. I’ll be home for dinner. xx”

“Yes! The inside of the first floor is half destroyed, Kaye was almost killed—”

“—And it’s all perfectly secure now. I have no doubts in the security I have for you and your… friends. If you do, then it’s your problem to deal with.”

Lavender finally fading into a shocked silence, I turned back to the victors, who, of course, I needed to send back to their tributes as soon as possible. “We’ll update you all as we know more. For now, keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and we’ll have the Peacekeepers right on it. The interviews and Opening Night—” another ping from my desk “—will, of course, be watched over very closely. Now, your rides back to the Training Center are waiting outside. And, of course, I don’t need to tell you—this isn’t something to go gossip about.”

“Of course,” said Sassy, who was the only person to say anything. Trey, Litiea, Keith, and Kizzy had been quiet.

The victors left. I looked at the new message. “I’ll see you then. Love you.” I decided it was nothing to answer right now, and let it be. “Now,” I said to Lavender, “if you’ll tell me the actual reason you’re pissed off at me, I can pretend to care, and we can both move on.”

She blinked at me.

“I’m waiting.”

A few more seconds. Then, “You knew all along, didn’t you?” She shook her head. “That none of the treatments worked. And then you lied about it.”

Ah. So she was still concerned about “the children”. “Yes. We needed to make sure that the tributes would be willing to uphold their side of the deal for as long as possible.”

“Why couldn’t we actually fix their problems? Give Airah the medicine that works, give Tam the right surgery, give Zattiana the right medication, get Alder’s surgery right? What would it have done?”

“No matter what we did, they still would have been inferior competitors, and not ready to face Fourteen. Now, we don’t have to worry about anyone we made a medical deal with getting that far. If they can still prove us wrong, then fine.” I started to sort through a few papers on my desk, and then looked up again, wishing the whole chaos of the day could be over already. “They aren’t getting that far, are they?”

“Why not?”

I slammed the papers back down. “Because, Lavender. We’ve talked about this. This is our last chance to weed out the ones we don’t want facing our enemy, to break them first. The tributes’… psychotic attacks, have been done nicely. Soon, they’ll face the arena as well, and it will be too much for them.” I paused. “Won’t it?”

“Is that a challenge?” she asked, through gritted teeth, still glaring at me.

“No,” I said, and swept the last papers aside, looked up again. “That was an order.”