User blog:FrostyFire/The 21st Hunger Games

'''ANGUISH The 21st Hunger Games The Deviation Series Part I'''

Notes: These Hunger Games contain mild language and mature content that may not be appropriate for all audiences; this includes: These Games will strictly contain characters that I have created. However, the sequel will be open to submissions, with priority going to users who have actively followed and commented on this story.
 * semi-graphic depicts of violence
 * references to sexual assault
 * drug use and abuse
 * instance of sexual assault, kissing only (Farah Cybele's POV in "Final Chance")
 * any additional content concerns will be added to this list prior to the publication of its respective point of view

Finally, since I'm attempting to refine my writing, these Games will be occasionally revised and edited. No plot points will be changed. Instead, I'll be incorprating more details, particularly towards character and environmental appearance (my biggest weakness). After all, you can edit a terrible draft, but you can't edit a blank page.

Chapters to be revised: Chapter that have been revised:
 * Sylvie Linden's POV in "A Mother's Fault" (entire rewrite)
 * All Group Training chapters, especially
 * Emeri Malloy's POV in "A Twist of Fate" (for stylistic purposes)
 * "A Sacrifice"
 * "Different Worlds"
 * "Introductions" (except Nadina and Havan's POV)

Planned Alliances
Careers: Lorcan (D1M), Veira (D1F), Xolani (D2M), Tycho (D4M), Mayuri (D4F), Taneli (D10M)

Victors' Daughters Alliance: Honoria (D2F), Bryony (D7F), Fresia (D11F)

District Three and Eight: Skagen (D3M), Octavian (D8M)

District Five and Six: Zephyrin (D5M), Lark (D6M)

District Six and Ten: Kaia (D6F), Laelia (D10F)

Loners: Eulalia (D3F), Jenikka (D5F), Juniper (D7M), Nadina (D8F), Havan (D9M), Farah (D9F), Makari (D11M), Isidore (D12M), Emeri (D12F)

Current Alliances
Careers: Lorcan (D1M), Veira (D1F), Xolani (D2M), Tycho (D4M), Mayuri (D4F), Taneli (D10M)

Victors' Daughters Alliance: Honoria (D2F), Bryony (D7F), Fresia (D11F)

District Three and Eight: Skagen (D3M), Octavian (D8M)

District Five and Six: Zephyrin (D5M), Lark (D6M)

District Six and Ten: Kaia (D6F), Laelia (D10F)

Loners: Eulalia (D3F), Jenikka (D5F), Juniper (D7M), Nadina (D8F), Havan (D9M), Farah (D9F), Makari (D11M), Emeri (D12F)

The Mentors
Head Mentors: Destry Torkili (from District Ten) and Chrysa Mansueta (from District Four)

District One: Adamaris Fidele and Myriam Deirdre

District Two: Ooma Villette and Daedalus Brantlie

District Three: Leith Taliesin and Anahita Parthenie

District Four: Cordelle Vitka and Emeric Artorius

District Five: Bronsen Raede and Flick Hewlitt

District Six: Coilee Namaka

District Seven: Matvei Zaltana and Sylvie Linden

District Eight: Baize Edmonia

District Nine: Lar Verrucosis (from District Two)

District Ten: Gania Spalding and Armin Torkili

District Eleven: Amara Copperdust and Poppi Blodwyn

District Twelve: Fergus Tancredo (from District One)

Twist
Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents (or step-parents), siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.

A Sacrifice (D1 Reaping)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Veira Faustus - District One Female
In District One, there are two campuses for the Career Academy: North Campus and South Campus. While the former requires an application process, the latter offers open enrollment. As such, everyone strives to be admitted to North Campus due to its prestige and rigor. (After all, it’s where all the victors graduated from.) Meanwhile, South Campus is open to everyone between the ages of five and eighteen.

I was admitted into North Campus when I was nine years old, the same age as my sister. It was a difficult change, especially since they have such high expectations for their students. I adjusted my diet to cut out all sugary foods, and I trained until my muscles ached. It took me months to get used to waking up before five o’clock in the morning for pre-dawn runs, but the results showed.

That’s why I’m awake now, before the sun has even risen, staring at my bedroom ceiling.

Although the house is quiet, I know my father will already be awake. On reaping day, the fathers go to the City Square at midnight to drink and gamble. My father’s undoubtedly betting on my older sister, Rosalie, to volunteer. She was one of the select students to pass the “aptitude exam” this year.

The “aptitude exam” is given to students on the North Campus between the ages of twelve and eighteen. It’s intended to test their physical, mental, and intellectual strengths. Although there’s no official rule, only students who pass the exam are “eligible” to volunteer. If you fail, you’re “inept" for the Games and need more training. If you fail and volunteer, you’re expelled from the academy, assuming you’re not already in the arena.

Rosalie passed the “aptitude exam” the last two years, being one of the few people to do so. I’ve taken it every year since I was twelve, and I’ve failed every time. But I know that I’m more talented than Rosalie—I’ve beaten her in duals for years despite being younger and smaller. I’m almost certain the exam is a sham.

But a small part of me isn’t convinced.

I’m only seventeen, so I could always volunteer next year. There’s still a lot for me to learn—some survival skills to memorize, some combat techniques to perfect. I might not be the best hunter or swimmer, but I could name hundreds of toxic plants and berries that have appeared in the arena. Don’t underestimate me—I could still take down a grown man without breaking that much of a sweat—but I’m a firm believer that strategy is more important than brute strength.

With a plan in mind, I slip out of my bed, my bare feet greeted by the chilly wooden floor. I throw on a dark sports bra, a pink tank-top, a dry-fit hoodie with black sleeves and a gray front, and black yoga capris. Once I slide on my pink tennis shoes and I pull my blonde hair back into a firm ponytail, I’m ready to leave.

The hallway’s squeaky floorboards make it nearly impossible to be stealthy, but the soft snores of my mother and sister reassure me I’m not being too loud. I tiptoe down a flight of stairs, and I devour a protein bar in the kitchen before leaving the house. My dog doesn’t wake up when I unlock the front door with a thud, so my departure goes unnoticed.

My footsteps are light and nimble as I begin a light job towards North Campus. Once I leave my neighborhood, I move from road to road, zigzagging through side streets as I’ve done many times before. When I reach the main road, I hear the fathers hollering and drinking and gambling. But before I reach the City Square, I take a sharp right. A few more blocks and I turn left down a street that takes me straight to the academy.

When I finally arrive, my sweatshirt clings to my body, my lightly tanned skin is gleaming with sweat, and my hair is a shade darker from its dampness.

North Campus is  a mile northeast of the City Square, close to the Victors’ Village. After the Second Rebellion, it was destroyed by rebel forces, but it was rebuilt a couple decades ago. This time, it was assembled with steel and bulletproof glass, so guns and explosives won’t do it any harm. It also happens to be the second largest building in the district. (For legal reasons, the Justice Building has to be the largest. Otherwise, I guarantee the campus would’ve been much larger.)

Despite its sturdiness, the security is rather subpar: any person with a keycard has access to the building at any times of the day. Since every student receives a keycard, I’m able to easily enter. As soon as I swipe my card, the glass doors open.

Although it’s warmer inside the building, I shiver as I’m greeted by a waft of stale air, and goosebumps rise along my arms. Although I’m the only one in the building, I instinctively scan my surroundings once I turn on the lights. (I’ve been trained to always be on the lookout for danger because the moment you lower your defenses in the arena, you’re dead.)

Its interior layout is simple: there are three corridors that branch out of the large, central foyer. The North corridor is for testing, the West one is for weapon practice, and the East one is for survival skills. Everyone assumes the Career districts only care about weapons and murder. (We are the bloodthirstiest.) But survival is also held to a high degree here.

Beside the West corridor is a golden-framed portrait of a beautiful young woman with silky brown hair and unblemished fair skin. Her hazel eyes seem to sparkle under the glass, her nose is perfectly petite, and her lips (according to the boys) are smooth and kissable. She’s classically attractive like most of the girls here. Below the frame, written in fancy cursive, is the woman’s name and title:

Adamaris Fidele Victor of the 15th Hunger Games.

Since she is our most recent victor, she would be one of my mentors. Although I have a vague memory of seeing her around campus, I remember her volunteering and going into the arena.

She won her Games through sexiness and manipulation, convincing her allies she was vulnerable and weak. In fact, they only reason they kept her was because of her budding romance with the dude from Two. (Otherwise, why would they keep someone who cried during the interviews and earned a seven in training?) When only the Careers and one other tribute were left, she slipped tranquilizers in her allies’ food; they were effectively defenseless while she slit their throats. The finale was anticlimactic, as the runner-up was devoured by mutations.

Nobody saw if she could actually fight.

Next to Adamaris’ portrait is one belonging to Myriam Deidre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games. Although she’s attractive, she looks much different from Adamaris: her skin is sickly pale, her light blonde hair drops to her shoulders in curls, and her face is rounded.

I was only six years old when she won, too young to remember much about the Games. The only memory I have is its gruesome finale, when both of Myriam’s eyes were gouged out of her head. Yet, she was somehow able to overpower and kill the other tribute before bleeding out. Since her vision was irreparable, she always wears a pair of dark, fashionable sunglasses.

The last portrait against the Victor’s Wall belongs to Fergus Tancredo, our only male victor. Some girls swoon over him, but I never saw the appeal. Is it his ginger, styled hair? His long, thick beard? The tiny freckles on his forward? His aquamarine eyes? Whatever the reason, I just don’t see it.

I was an infant at the time of his victory, so I have no recollection of the Games as they occurred. But, he was one of the first victors I studied at the academy, as he won in the most straightforward manner: by being the most dangerous and skilled. His ability to wield both a dagger and a sickle was impeccable for someone his age. Once it was revealed only bladed weapons were available, he was guaranteed victory.

''“One day, I’m going to be on that wall,” I told an instructor during my first day of class. “And then I’ll be rich and famous, and everyone will wanna be my friend.”''

I shake my head, clearing away my childish memory, and walk down the corridor.

There’s a variety of rooms on either side of the hall, each associated with a specific weapon. Mace, kukri, whip. If it can be used as a weapon, there’s a room for it. But I keep walking until I reach the last door to my right. Engraved on the brass plaque beside the entrance are the words:

Blowgun Instructor: Leith Goldwyn

After I enter the room, I freeze when something moves in the corner of my eye. Is it my imagination? Am I paranoid? My questions are answered as the dark figure moves in my direction, taking the shape of a grown man. I flick on the lights to reveal the mysterious person.

“I thought you’d make an appearance,” Mr. Goldwyn says, leaning against the rack of blowguns.

I notice something in his hand, but it’s hidden when he crosses his arms. In that stance, his biceps bulge from his tight-fitted t-shirt, as if the cotton can’t fully contain them. If he’s trying to intimate me, it’s not working.

“How did you—”

“I saw you sneak a dress into your locker last Friday,” he answers my unfinished question. “But that’s besides the point. You’re going to volunteer, aren’t you? Even though you didn’t pass the exam?” They’re rhetorical questions. “And I know how stubborn you are, so I figure that I’ll offer some advice.”

“Well, I already—”

“Ah, ah, you didn’t let me finish.” He raises his calloused hand to shush me. “I know you’ve been training for the Games for a while, but”—he reveals what was in his other hand: a file with my name not it—“you don’t know why you didn’t pass the exam.”

“So, what? You’re just gonna hand me my results?”

He may lose his job for this, and he cherishes his job.

“Well, yes. Why else would I be here at 4:30?” He nudges the folder into my hand. “I would suggest you open it now, but it’s your choice. Open it when you’re most comfortable.”

I stop him with my hand before he leaves the room. “Wait, Mr. Goldwyn. Thank you. . . for everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” he says with a curt nod. “You’re a very talented student. I wish you the best of luck on your journey.”

Lorcan Estrelle - District One Male
Although a fine layer of dew covers the grass, I sit on the ground in my dark dress pants. In my lap rests a bouquet of spring flowers: azure hydrangeas, creme roses, white alstroemerias, navy delphiniums. Their colors appear vibrant against the dull surroundings. This is a Capitol-sponsored graveyard with the sole purpose of providing a resting place for its fallen tributes. I shouldn't be surprised the only other plants are a dying yew tree, a few cedar trees, and countless weeds.

Each granite tombstone contains the fallen person's name, participated Games, birth and death date, and a basic phrase. The one in front of me reads:

Artus Estrelle Tribute of the 16th Hunger Games Oct 16, 1639 P.A. — July 14, 1658 P.A. We Salute You For Your Sacrifice

The five-year anniversary of my brother’s death is in exactly one week,  the same day the Games begin this year. We had matching blue eyes and beige skin; everyone knew we were brothers, and I was supposed to follow in his footsteps. He was one of the most promising graduates of the Career Academy, a crowd favorite from the start. Everyone was surprised when he only lasted three days in the arena, taking a stray arrow to the throat.

When I close my eyes, I can vividly see his death: the arrow piercing his trachea, his allies panicking from the sudden attack, him collapsing to the ground, the cameras zooming in on his pale face as he suffocated on his own blood.

He promised me that he would come home alive. That day, I learned promises can’t be kept in the arena.

He returned home in the wooden casket, and I cried until I had no tears left. I refused to leave the house for almost a week, and I stole my dad’s spot in my parent’s bed. The house felt eerie and lonely without him, as if he were the telephone line to the family and we no longer knew how to communicate.

When I did leave the house, it was to attend his joint funeral. (It's a common tradition in One to have a shared funeral for both fallen tributes.) As his casket was lowered into the ground, I felt like I was burying a part of myself with him.

Maybe I did, because that was the day I stopped being a brother.

My wristwatch buzzes, and I instinctively rub my finger against its leather band. The stylish watch was a gift from Artus when he left for the Capitol. Since I was only ten at the time, I didn’t have much use for it. For three years, it sat in its original box until I decided to wear it. Now, the brown leather has faded from wear, and the clock is about twenty minutes behind due to a bad battery. It buzzes at the top of every hour, or, I guess, whenever it thinks it’s a new hour.

Reluctantly, I stand up with the bouquet in my hands. I’m supposed to be at the Justice Building in five minutes, as the citizens must arrive a quarter-hour before the reaping. (Although the Peacekeepers don’t enforce the rule too much, so long as you arrive before it starts.) Either way, I’m in no hurry to get there.

“I’ll see you next week,” I whisper, placing the bouquet in front of the tombstone. “Wish me luck. Only four more to go.”

A somber silence surrounds me while I walk to the City Square, as if a cartoon stormy cloud is looming over my dark-haired head.

Whenever I leave the cemetery, a sense of dreadful grief overcomes me. There’s a total of thirty-seven bodies resting in that yard, yet I’ve never seen anyone else in it nor have I come across flowers on any other tombstone. Did everyone else forget they exist? Are twenty years worth of fallen tributes overlooked when only three returned alive? I’ve debated buying flowers for all the graves to show them that their sacrifice was appreciated, but I have yet to do it.

I’m (unsurprisingly) one of the last people to arrive to the City Square. Most of the children have already been separated into those who are eligible to be reaped and those who are exempt due to this year's twist.

Since the reinstitution of the Hunger Games, a new rules was created that requires a twist every year. Essentially, every year is now a Quarter Quell. Some years, the twist is huge and heavily impacts the tributes' survival in the arena. Other years, the twist so small that it's like an old-fashioned Games. During Artus’ Games, the tributes were paired up with one another. If their partner died, so did they.

After the Peacekeeper draws some blood from my finger, he—or, is it a she? I can’t tell with the helmet—points me in the direction of eligible tributes.

Although I knew I satisfied the requirements for the twist, I still feel a renewed pang of apprehension. Am I going to be reaped? If I do, will someone volunteer? Despite popular belief, District One does not always send volunteers. A lot of children have a deep fear of going into the Games, even after years of extensive training. There’s always the chance you might not come home, and, sometimes, life is more important than fame.

At precisely 9 o’clock, Athénaïs Saralee, the escort of District One, structs out of the Justice Building. Following her is the mayor, his wife, and the district's three victors. While Athénaïs approaches the microphone in the center of the stage, the other five take a seat behind her.

Although she hails from the Capitol, Athénaïs’ appearance is not gaudy and exuberant. In fact, if it weren’t for her curly purple hair and bubbly demeanor, she could almost pass as a normal citizen. Her minimal makeup might be drab to the Capitol, but it make her seem more personable to the districts. While other escorts have cosmetic surgery to hide their age, her fair complexion holds its natural youthfulness. In fact, she's the youngest active escort. If she were living in the districts, she could’ve been reaped for the Games a year or two ago.

“Welcome, citizens of District One, to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” she says with a burst of enthusiasm. In the crowd, some of the adults holler and applaud, but the children stay silent. “As custom we will begin with a brief history of Panem and the Second Treaty of Treason, presented to you by Mayor Penleigh.”

A polite applause follows the mayor as he approaches the microphone. He retells the story of the rise of Panem, the country born out of the crumples of North America. For decades, the Capitol and its thirteen districts lived in unity. That ended when an idealist from Thirteen stirred a premature rebellion. It ended with his district's obliteration.

The remaining twelve districts competed in the Hunger Games as a form of penance. For seventy-four years, the districts handed over a teenage male and female representative. Although only a small percent returned home, nobody did anything. But when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark won the 74th Hunger Games, a sense of hope was revived in the rebels. That hope sparked the Second Rebellion, which began with the destruction of the 75th Hunger Games.

The rebels won the Second Rebellion. They rallied enough support from the common citizens to overcome the Capitol. District Thirteen resurfaced—it was not destroyed like everyone believed. A new president rose to power, and the Hunger Games were abolished. The district citizens finally had the freedom they desired.

When Katniss Everdeen died in 1641 Postquam Apocalypsis—“after the Apocalypse,” or P.A.—the loyalists started to act. The rebels were too arrogant, turning a blind eye to the loyalists' capabilities. This would, quit literally, kick them in the ass.

Within a year, the rebel forces were defeated, its leaders were executed on live television, and District Thirteen was destroyed for good. By 1643 P.A., the Hunger Games were recreated and reformed. In this new generation, the Second Treaty of Treason requires each Games to contain its own unique twist, never the same as before.

“In the last two decades, District One has successfully produced three victors,” the mayor continues. The victors rise from their seat, courteously waving to the cheering crowd. “Fergus Tancredo, victor of the 7th Hunger Games; Myriam Deirdre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games; and Adamaris Fidele, victor of the 15th Hunger Games.” The mayor waves for the applause to die down before continuing, “Now, I will hand the mic over to Athénaïs, who will select this year’s tributes.”

“Thank you, Mayor! As President Quain announced three months ago, this year’s twist limits the eligible reaping pool. It reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” She smiles. “Sounds like it’ll be an interesting year!”

The crowd shouts their approval. I can’t help but feel a little disgusted by my own district. During reaping season, everyone seems to be more verbal about their support of the Hunger Games. Surely, people can’t be so one-dimension that they turn a blind eye to the true brutality and devastation behind them, right?

“As usual, we shall start by selecting the female representative.” Athénaïs twirls her hand around in the glass bowl for a while, her finger tracing over the paper slips before plucking a single one. I don’t recognize the person’s name she calls, so I stand up on my tiptoes—the boys in my district are so tall—to get a better view. When a young girl with blonde hair walks on stage, I feel a pang of sympathy, but it only lasts until Athénaïs asks, “Are there any volunteers?”

Immediately, two girls volunteer.

When two people simultaneously volunteer, the escort selects which one will be tribute. In previous years, the escort usually selects the older tribute, the one who is closest to the stage. However, this is only Athénaïs’ second year with us, and last year, the volunteers went unopposed.

To my surprise, she points to the younger girl, mumbling something about her “being first.”

While the small girl is escorted back to her section, the volunteer struts to the stage, her dirty blonde hair waving from side to side with each step. Although my view is partially obstructed, I can tell she’s naturally beautiful from her stance. She emits confidence and sexiness, as if she’s fully aware that all the boys would be swooning over her slim figure and unmissable cleavage. Her name is Veira Faustus—she says with a hint of snobbishness, as if everyone should know it—and her uncle was the first tribute from District One.

“Well, I believe we should all give Veira a round of applause for her sacrifice.”

Veira curtsies as the audience claps for her.

“And now, for the male representative.” Athénaïs spends less time at this reaping bowl than the previous one, simply grabbing the first slip her finger touches. “And the selected man is”—she clears her throat—“Lorcan Estrelle!”

I murmur a curse.

The boys in my close proximity cast me a sideways glance before it clicks in their brain. Slowly, they begin moving away from me as if I’m suddenly poisonous, creating a small path to the aisle. Although my brain barely registers my movement, I begin walking towards the aisle. Four Peacekeepers appear to my side, escorting me to the stairs. I maintain a straight posture and tight smile as I walk up the steps, chancing a glance towards Veira. But I’m only met by unforgiving green eyes.

Nobody volunteers to take my place. When Athénaïs asked, I could hear the crickets chirping in the background. I’m not surprised; like I said, some people cherish their life more than fame.

Now that I’ve been reaped, everything seems to be going too fast: the handshake, the closing remarks, the anthem. Through it all, I only have one recurrent thought:

''Why me? ''

Different Worlds (D2 Reaping)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Xolani Satine - District Two Male
In the navy suit jacket, I look different: my bony shoulders are broader, my unremarkable pecs are larger, my calloused hands are smoother, and my dull brown eyes are warmer. Even the scar above my right eyebrow—a story I’d rather not think about—is less noticeable. My figure is healthier and burlier. I can feel my chocolate complexion radiating confidence and brutality, much like the other boys from my district. (I dare them to call me the “reject from Eleven” now.) Nobody would suspect that, underneath my shirt, my ribs are almost as well-defined as my abs.

“I knew you’d look handsome in that,” Momma says, appearing behind me in the reflection of the mirror. She squeezes my shoulder reassuring, a heartwarming smile on her face. “It was definitely worth every cent.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t too much?” I ask, turning around to face her. I’ve never had a suit jacket before because it’s always been too expensive for us to afford. Momma must have pulled a lot of strings to make this work. “Because I could just wear the button-up to the reaping. I don’t care.”

“And have the Capitol criticize you for being underdressed?” Momma gasps. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic. “Absolutely not! I want you to make a good impression from the start.”

“The Capitol loves its District Two tributes.” It’s a well-known fact that the tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four are always Capitol favorites. We’re the Careers, the ones who shed the most blood for them. “Momma, you don’t need to worry about me. I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Boy, do not make promises you cannot keep.” She points her forefinger at me. “I taught you better than that.”

“Momma—“

“No, don’t you dare argue with me.” I raise my hands in surrender and sit on my bed, allowing her to continue without interruption. “You and I both know that there are certain. . . risks involved in volunteering. Although you might be trained, you don’t know the competition. They could be stronger, faster, and deadlier than you. That being said, are you absolutely certain you want to volunteer?”

I take a moment to ponder this, but I already know I’m not going to change my decision. When I told Momma I was going to volunteer, she was concerned that I was too confident and too convinced that I would return home, but I know the risks: I may die or, even worse, lose my sanity in the arena. When someone goes in there, their survival is based on both skill and luck. Even the most trained survivalist could perish depending on what the Gamemakers throw their way. I’ve been contemplating whether I would volunteer or not for months, so I’m fully aware of the danger I’m putting upon myself.

“Yeah,” I firmly answer Momma’s question. I can see a flash of sadness dance across her eyes. “At least, that’s the plan.”

“Well, in that case, you’re going to need all the luck you can get.” She pulls a silver cross necklace out of her pocket, placing it in my palm, and I recognize it immediately. It belonged to my dad before his death. I remember him telling me that, before the Disasters, it used to symbolize faith and hope, two things he believed were lacking now. “He would’ve wanted you to have this.”

“Thank you,” I say, sliding the necklace into my navy slacks.

“I really hope you stay safe.” She pulls me to my feet for a tight embrace, and, for a moment, I can’t breathe. “But I know you’ll do great in there.”

“Momma, you’re acting like you won’t see me again.” When she suddenly pulls back and glares at me, I know exactly what she’s thinking. Before she criticizes my terrible wording, I quickly clarify, “You’ll see me in the Justice Building before I go.”

“I know, but it won’t feel the same,” she shrugs. “I just— I want to make sure I have more than enough time to tell you that I love you, and I’m very proud of the man you’ve become. I still remember when you were a little boy, carrying around a teddy bear that was almost as tall as you.” Although she laughs, tears swell in her eyes. “I know you have your own reasons for volunteering, and, even though I don’t really want you go, I know it’s something you have to do. I just hope that whatever you’re looking for, you find it.”

“Thanks, Momma,” I say, blinking the tears off of my eye. “I love you, too. Couldn’t have asked for a better mom.” I wipe away the tears rolling down her cheek with my thumb. “You’ve done pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

“That means a lot, honey,” she says, blushing. “Okay, give me one last hug, and then you can go. I know you wanted to stop by Zina’s before the reaping.”

“Bye, Momma,” I whisper in her ear during our hug. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

“You never could,” she whispers back. “Just remember to be you. The Capitol will love you.”

After a few moments, I start pulling away from the embrace, but my mom grips onto me tighter, holding me for a few more seconds before releasing me. I know this is hard for her. She had to watch her nephew go into the arena, and she was responsible for helping her grieving sister after his death. Although it really wasn’t an easy time for anyone in my family, she was the one that held everyone together. If I die in the arena, I don’t know who will help her cope with it.

“Tell Zina that I said ‘hi,’” Momma calls after me as I leave my bedroom. “Oh, and make sure you tell Mrs. Lourdes that we’ll still have game night this Friday.”

“No problem!” I shout from the front door. “I’ll see you later!”

When I leave my house, I take a moment to look at my neighborhood for one last time, taking in every detail possible before I walk away. While District Two is a wealthy district, I was raised in one of its poorest communities, where middle-class moms would warn their kids not to go. Everybody lives in unimpressive and unappealing gablefront cottages, each with a distinct flaw: boarded windows, weathered siding, torn shingles, cracked front porch, holes in the roof, and so on. Even the asphalt road is cracked and plagued by potholes from years of use. It’s truly an ugly place, but it’s home.

As I walk down the street, I pass a group of three mice eating a robin’s carcass. I’m not surprised; rodents and pests are a huge problem in my area. I’ve had to chase squirrels and raccoons out of my kitchen with a baseball bat, and I’ve had to squish centipedes in my basement. It seems that the only things that want to live here are wildlife.

Zina and her family live about a mile south of me, in a neighborhood between the ghetto to the north and the rich to the south. Their two-story house is much nicer than mine with its stone siding, slate roofing, mahogany windows, and a miniature chandelier in the middle of their foyer. Although her family claims to be “lower middle-class” citizens, it’s relative to the wealth in the district; if they lived in Districts Eleven or Twelve, they would be in the elite class.

When I reach her house, Zina is sitting on the steps of her front wooden porch, scrolling through her phone as she mindlessly curls her obsidian black hair with her finger. She wears a stylish black dress that accentuates her hourglass figure, and her golden jewelry contrasts beautifully with her unblemished mocha skin. Once she notices I’m standing in front of her, she looks up and smiles—the same smile that captured my heart years ago. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if we stayed together, but I’m eternally grateful we remained friends after the break up.

“You ready to go?” she asks, sliding her phone into her clutch bag.

“Yeah,” I nod.

“And you’re still going to volunteer?” she asks hesitantly. She was one of the first people I told, and the only one that knows my true motivation for volunteering.

“I am.”

“You know, you could do more for your mom here than in the arena, right? She’ll be able to find another job, but she won’t be able to find another son. What would she do if you don’t come back?” She pauses, and quietly adds, “What would I do if you don’t come back?”

“I need to do this,” I say firmly, crouching down and placing my hands over hers. “She’s not happy anymore. People keep targeting her—targeting us—and she’s on the verge of cracking. But if I win, if I come back, everything will change for the better.”

“And if you don’t come—”

“I don’t wan to think of that,” I shake my head. “If I start with a loser’s attitude, I’ll definitely die in there.”

“It’s not a ‘loser’s attitude,’” she scoffs. “It’s being realistic. Twenty-four people go into the arena, and only one comes out. You have less than a five percent chance of coming home.”

“But if you factor in my training and the handful of weak opponents, my chances are much higher,” I argue. “Look, you and I both know I’m not going to change my mind. Why don’t we just go and spend some time together before the reaping?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she sighs. “Let me just get my mom real quick. She wanted to say goodbye before you leave.”

Zina disappears into her house, leaving me all alone on her porch. I tuck my hands into my pockets awkwardly. I feel bad for upsetting her, but it’s something I have to do. I know the risks of volunteering, but I have my motivation: Momma. I will do anything to come home for her.

“Oh, darling! You look so handsome!” Mrs. Lourdes says as soon as she sees me, pulling me into an embrace and kissing me. Zina stands behind her in the doorway, her face unreadable. “Your mom really made sure you’ll make a good impression on the Capitol.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. She holds the embrace for a few more seconds before releasing me. “And, uh, can you do me a favor and look out for her while I’m gone?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Her smile alleviates some of my concern. “I’ll make sure she’s alright when you’re away. Is she still having game night this Friday?”

I nod. “In fact, she wanted me to tell you it was still going on.”

“That’s good to hear! I think we’re playing pinochle this week, which I haven’t played in ages. But, if I remember correctly, your mom is pretty good at it. Maybe she’s tryna break my winning streak; I’ve won for the last five weeks. Priscilla thinks I’ve been cheating, but I told her, ‘sweetie, once you’ve played these games as much as I have, you learn all the tricks to win.’”

“Mom,” Zina groans. “I hate to cut your conversation short, but we have to go.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll let you two go off and do your thing before the reaping.” She gives me one last hug, briefer than the first but somehow more reassuring. “You’re going to do incredible over there. I hope you stay safe.”

Honoria Brantlie - District Two Female
My house is silent this morning, something I have become familiar with on reaping day. Since my father is a victor, he’s busy around this time of the year, overwhelmed with everything from interviews with Capitol reporters to meetings with his fellow victors-turned-mentors. He’s always felt guilty for having to leave me alone, especially on these years when the reaping is later in the day. But he never forgets to leave me a thoughtful note on the refrigerator. This one reads:

''Honoria - I’m sorry that I can’t be there. Have a lovely reaping day. You’ll be staying with your aunt while I’m at the Capitol so don’t forget to pack a bag. I’ll make sure to see you before I leave. -Your Proud Father''

But I haven’t bothered to pack a bag yet. I don’t need to; unbeknownst to my father, I plan on coming to the Capitol with him. He will be surprised but pleased that his only daughter has the courage to volunteer to represent our district, following in his footsteps. I’ve had the idea since I first watched his Hunger Games when I was twelve, but the timing just never felt right. This year’s twist, though, was made for me. I’m eligible for the Games because of him; the signs couldn’t be any clearer.

I turn on the flat-screen television in the living room since I have nothing better to do. It’s only supposed to be for background noise, but I’m captivated when it turns to HGTV, the primary channel for the Hunger Games. It’s supposed to be unavailable to district citizens until all the reapings have finished, but my father has special privileges because of his victor status.

Since there’s an hour “lunch break” between the morning reapings and the afternoon ones, I’m able to have a thorough recap of the twelve tributes already selected for the Games.

District One produces some of the most gorgeous tributes, so I’m not amused when both are classically attractive. But, I am surprised when they don’t have any male volunteered. (Maybe I shouldn’t be since they’ve been doing terrible in the arena.) The following two reapings, for Districts Three and Nine, are underwhelming: the four reaped tributes pose no threat. In District Four, the reaped girl declined volunteers, which I didn’t know was possible. Bryony Linden, daughter of victor Sylvie Linden, is selected in District Seven, much to her mother’s dismay. Finally, District Ten has its third volunteer since the Hunger Games restarted: an eighteen-year-old boy named Taneli Masarie.

The doorbell rings as Caius Fulbright, the master of ceremonies, analyzes the current tributes.

Standing on my front porch is my next-door neighbor Aloisia, the only person my age living in the Victors’ Village. Her older sister, Ooma, won the Hunger Games a few years ago, becoming the first female victor from our district. Since we’re the only non-victors in the neighborhood, our friendship developed naturally. Hell, some people even think we’re sisters because of our closeness, ivory complexions, dark brown hair, and small figures. But thankfully, we don’t share a bloodline.

“Wow, your dress looks gorgeous!” she squeals. She’s much more feminine than me. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, this thing,” I say, grabbing the hem of the velvet dress as if to put it on display. “My father bought it when he was in the Capitol.”

“Well, you look stunning!” She smiles. “I didn’t realize you had boobs!”

“Uh, thank you?”

“It’s a compliment,” Aloisia confirms. “You just never wear clothes that do your boobs justice.”

“They’re more comfortable, though.” I’ve never understood how girls could wear unbearable clothes for hours on end. I’d rather wear a sports bra when I’m training than a lace one.

“Oh, sweetie.” She frowns. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

On the walk to the City Square, Aloisia rants about fashion. She explains the different “acceptable” outfits for each occasion and how to win over any boy. Her trick is to “always look natural.” But if she puts so much effort into looking “natural,” doesn’t that contradict itself?

As usual, the conversation is one-sided, but neither of us mind. It’s how we work: she mindlessly babbles, I partially listen.

When we reach the City Square, we follow the general direction of the children walking to the check-in counter. Some are directed away to join the general audience; others are directed to the right to join the pool of potential tributes. I’m surprised there’s a large pool of potentials. (I wish it was smaller.)

After the Peacekeeper draws blood, I’m directed to the right. Aloisia joins me a second later, sucking on her finger. We settle in the section for sixteen-year-old girls.

“I hate that they always take our blood,” she says. “There are so many better ways they could confirm our identity.”

“Yeah, but it’s customary.” I shrug. “It’s what they did before the Rebellion, so I think they just stuck with what they knew.”

“Ugh, the whole ‘traditionalist’ thing is annoying.” She rolls her eyes. “Our technology is so advanced! Why don’t we actually use it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they use it for other things.”

“Well, people are still starving, so clearly they’re not using it wisely enough.”

I stay silent.

Before Aloisia’s sister became a victor, the two were orphans. They didn’t have a warm meal every night, and they were sent to a new orphanage every month. (Apparently, the foster system is terrible in the wealthier districts since there are not a lot of children in it, but it’s hard to imagine District Twelve having a better one.) But they could still attend the Public Career Academy and receive adequate training for the Games.

A few years ago, Aloisia was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. Since the treatment was too expensive for the girls, Ooma volunteered for the Hunger Games. Her story of sacrificing her life to save her sister was inspirational, one that earned her many sponsors. As soon as Ooma killed her last opponent, Aloisia was transported to the Capitol to receive the best treatment possible. It was the happy ending the Capitol wanted, and it makes me wonder if the Gamemakers swung the Games in Ooma’s favor.

When the clock tower bell rings thirteen times to signal the start of the new hour, Jocasta Fairuza, the escort, walks onto the stage, followed by the mayor, her wife, and the three victors of District Two. I smile when I see my father on the stage.

“Welcome, lovely citizens of District Two, to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” Jocasta shouts into the microphone. The audience cheers. “We shall begin with an overview of the history of Panem and the recitation of the Second Treaty of Treason, presented by the mayor herself.”

“Do you think anyone will volunteer?” Aloisia whispers as the mayor begins her speech.

“Yeah.” I nod. “District Two almost always has volunteers. What would make this year different?”

“See, I’m not so sure.” She shrugs. “I’ve been reading some studies by Capitol researchers, and the percent of volunteers that have seen family or friends die in the arena is slim, even in the Career districts. They’re anticipating this year to have a record low number of volunteers.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that.” I think about the volunteers in Districts One, Four, and Ten. “I bet it’ll be the same as every year.”

“I just don’t see any girls here volunteering,” she whispers. Her hands are trembling as she looks around the crowd. Is she nervous about being reaped? “There’s just a different. . . vibe this year. Everyone seems gloomier than usual.”

“Aloisia, I’m going to volunteer.”

“What? Why?” she yelps. Some girls turn towards us with a scowl, so she lowers her voice. “You already have all the perks of being a victor—”

“Yeah, but I’m not a victor.”

“And that makes a difference how?” She crosses her arms and her frown deepens. “You will get everything you want, have an endless supply of money doing nothing, marry the hottest bachelor in the district—maybe even a victor. And you want to throw that away?”

“No, you don’t understand,” I argue. “I want to make my father proud.”

“Your father will be proud of you no matter what,” she huffs. “And he’d much prefer a living daughter over a dead one.”

“Then why did he waste so much money on sending me to the most prestigious academy?”

“For his own appearance.” She’s on the verge of hysteria. “People would disown him as a victor if he didn’t send his daughter to training. But nobody can truly be prepared for the Games.” She lowers her voice a notch, her words barely reaching my ears. “Do you know that Ooma is on meds for PTSD and depression? That she suffers from nightmares that have her screaming in her sleep?”

“We didn’t have the same training.” It’s a well-known fact that the Public Career Academy is not nearly as good as the private ones. “You know it’s different.”

“So, what? You’ve killed someone before?” Is that a serious question? “You’ve lived in the wilderness for weeks on end without a solid source of food?”

“People survive the Games with only three days of training. I have eleven years’ worth of training under my belt.”

“Those are merely numbers!”

“Numbers that make a difference.”

On stage, Jocasta approaches the microphone with a white slip in her hand. It contains the name of the reaped female.

“Look,” I continue, “you’re not gonna change my decision.”

“Maybe not, but I can criticize you for making a stupid one.”

Jocasta announces the reaped girl's name. It’s nobody that I know, but Aloisia’s gasp suggests she recognizes her. The girl is older than me, either seventeen or eighteen, with an ugly scar along her left cheek. As soon as the escort asks the crowd if there are any volunteers, I make sure that I’m the first one to speak.

“I volunteer!” I shout, raising my hand.

Nobody opposes me.

“You’re throwing your life away,” Aloisia mumbles.

I ignore the comment.

The girls in my immediate surroundings take a few steps away from me, creating a path to the center aisle. While the reaped girl walks back to her section, a group of Peacekeepers form a circle around me and escort me to the stage.

I look at my father with a wide smile, but he doesn’t return it. In fact, his lips are pushed into a thin line, and his eyebrows are scrunched together. Is he. . . upset?

Did I do something wrong?

Secrets (D4 Reaping)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Tycho Searling - District Four Male
On my fourth birthday, my grandma brought me to the beach where we walked along the shore for hours, collecting seashells and watching the boats glide across the water. Although she refused to let me swim due to the powerfulness of the waves, I fell in love with the ocean that day. It became my safe haven, my escape whenever I sought clarify. When I overheard my parents viciously argue about loyalty, I ran to the ocean so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of it; when my dad moved out, I started taking surfing lessons so I wouldn’t have to watch him carry his boxes; and when my parents finally got divorced, I cried at the beach so I wouldn’t look weak in my brother’s eyes.

“This is a special place for you, then,” Alaia, my girlfriend of four years, comments. She sits across from me in the inflatable raft, her paddle resting in her lap as her fingers brush against the surface of the water. “Is that when you made your seashell necklace?”

Upon its mention, I instinctively reach for the piece of jewelry around my neck. Although its string is frayed and some seashells are cracked, I still wear it every day. “It’s the only thing I have from my grandma,” I explain. “When she passed away, my dad got all of her belongings, and I haven’t seen him for years.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” she says, leaning forward and placing a comforting hand on my thigh. “I’m glad you shared this with me.”

“It’s even more beautiful during sunrise and sunset.” I spent countless days sitting on the beach before dawn and dusk, watching the orange and yellow flecks of the sun dance across the water. It’s truly a spectacular sight—no amount of words could do it justice. “I just. . . I love it here.”

We sit there in silence for a few moments, basking in the morning sunlight and the soothing sounds of the waves. “So. . .” she begins quietly, sounding almost afraid to break the tranquility. “Are you planning on volunteering this year?”

I’m not surprised by her question, as it’s a common one on reaping day. When a friend or loved one wants to “talk” the night before or the morning of the reaping, it’s usually to tell them of their plans to volunteer. I should know, I’ve had “the talk” twice in my seventeen years of life: first with my older brother four years ago, and second with my best friend last year. Neither of them left the arena alive.

“Yeah,” I say with a slight nod. Some might think it’s bizarre I’m volunteering after my brother and best friend both perished in the arena, but it’s nothing personal per se; it’s on behalf of my step-father, who was too old when the Hunger Games were reinstituted. “But that’s not the only reason I brought you out here.”

“Oh.” She sounds innocently surprised, her eyes widen and her lips part, and I notice a small blush growing on her cheeks. I want to punch myself. She thinks I’m going to propose to her, which is admittedly another common thing volunteers do before the reaping. “Go on, then.”

“Alaia. . .” I don’t know how to phrase it. Is there any easy way to tell your girlfriend that you’re into dudes? “Look, Alaia,” I begin again, “I just. . . I don’t think this is going to work between us.” A dark expression crosses her face. “It’s really not you—”

“‘It’s me,’” she finishes, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.”

“You have?” I ask. When could she have dated—and, subsequently, broken up with—someone else? When she was twelve? Thirteen?

“Well, not directed to me.” She doesn’t look into my eyes. I can tell she’s more angry than upset. Is that a good thing? “But I’ve heard other people say it before. It’s not exactly the most original break-up speech.”

“Alaia, I’m really sorry. I just don’t. . . I’m just—”

“Did you cheat on me?” she asks, glaring sharply at me. “Because I’ve heard rumors about you and Iris, but you told me you were just friends.”

Iris is my oldest friend—we’ve known each other since we were in diapers—and, after the death of Verne last year, she was practically promoted from “close friend” to “best friend.” When we were little, we were commonly mistaken as siblings due to our “not quite dirty blonde, but not dark enough to be brown” hair and grayish-blue eyes. We were practically inseparable back then, and, although we’ve grown and made other friends, she’s been one of the few constants in my life.

“No,” I respond firmly. “Iris is honestly just a friend, my best friend. There’s nothing between us.” She raises an eyebrow, a disbelieving look in her eyes. “It’s just that I’m. . . I don’t—” My brain won’t piece together the words I want to say, the words I should say. “I mean, I like you, but not like that.”

“And when did you figure that out?” Her tone becomes louder and meaner as it gains momentum. “When I was there for you when Verne died? When I told you, ‘I love you’? When I willingly got disowned by my dad for dating someone from a divorced family?”

“No, it’s just been recently,” I blatantly lie. It’s been nearly two years since I realized I was gay, two years where I’ve wanted to break things off with her. “Alaia, please, I swear I wouldn’t have kept dating you if I stopped having feelings for you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” she mumbles, looking off into the distance. “Just bring me back to shore. I need to get home before the reaping.”

The journey back to the shore is somber and silent, even the waves seem to have calmed down a bit as if it sensed our dismal mood. It takes about twice as long to paddle back to shore as it did to get out there. The entire time, Alaia’s oar balances on her lap, tilting up and down like a seesaw as I’m forced to paddle for the both of us. Fortunately, by the time we reach the littoral zone, the weak tidal currents provide extra support, giving my overexerted muscles some rest. As soon as we reach shore, Alaia jumps out of the raft, strutting away without another word.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger; this is not how I wanted it to go. After pulling the raft onto the sand so it doesn’t float away, I pull out a ziplock bag containing my phone and wallet. I quickly unlock my phone with my finger, sitting in the sand as I text Iris:

''I couldn’t do it. ''

She’ll know what I mean. Almost instantly, I receive a response:

''OMG! I’m on my way. You need to tell me EVERYTHING!''

I moan, closing my eyes and laying down—well, more like collapsing—against the ground with my phone and wallet resting on my stomach. Although sand uncomfortably sneaks into my tank top and swim trunks, I don’t bother trying to get it out. One of the earliest things people learn in District Four is that sand will get everywhere; there’s absolutely no point trying to fight it.

A shadow appears over my eyelids, and I reluctantly open my eyes to see Iris standing above me. Her “not quite dirty blonde, but not dark enough to be brown” hair has been lightened to a golden blonde—more likely from a bottle than the sun—and her silky blue dress makes her eyes look more blue than gray. However, the rest of her face has virtually stayed the same since we were children, albeit more matured: she still has chubby cheeks, a mole on her chin that I know annoys her, and dimples that make an appearance whenever she smiles. I really shouldn’t be surprised that our narrow-minded classmates can’t understand how someone could be “just friends” with a girl as beautiful as her.

“I’m assuming your text meant you didn’t come out to her.” She’s the only other person that knows I’m gay. “Because if I have to spend anymore time coaching you on how to break up with her, I’ll slap you.”

“Don’t worry, I broke up with her,” I reassure her. “That wasn’t really the hard part.” I cringe when I realize how terrible it sounds. “I just don’t know how to. . . you know. . .” I trail off.

“I know, I know,” she says sympathetically, gently sitting down next to me. “I’m really sorry you have to go through this. It’s not fair.” Iris is the most open-minded person I now, always putting herself in other people’s shoes to understand their situation. Maybe that’s why we’ve been friends all these years. “But she also deserves to know. You don’t want her jumping to any conclusions.”

“Yeah, I know,” I mumble. “It’s just. . . hard.”

“You should text her,” she says firmly, placing my phone in my hands. I want to argue, but I notice a glint of stubbornness in her eyes. She isn’t going to let me back out of this. “Just tell her that you want to talk. Do not come out to her over text.”

“Why not?” I genuinely ask. She look at me dumbstruck, as if I just asked her the stupidest question in the world. Maybe I did. “Like then she—”

“You cannot come out to your girlfriend”—ex-girlfriend, I correct in my head—“over text!” she screams. “There’s some things that you just have to do in person.” She takes a deep breath, rubbing her temples with her three central fingers. “Honestly, thank the sea you’re gay. You’re clueless when it comes to girls.”

“And yet, I somehow managed to have a relationship—with a girl—for four years,” I smirk.

She rolls her eyes. “Eh, Alaia isn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Iris was never a fan of my girlfriend. “Honestly, she would’ve probably married you just ‘cause you’re hot.”

“I don’t think she’s that shallow.” Am I still allowed to defend her, or am I supposed to bad-mouth her like so many other couples after they break-up? I don’t exactly know the protocol. “She’s actually a nice person if you give her a chance.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes once again. “Anyways, we should start heading back. It’s already after 9:30; the reaping starts in less than an hour.”

“Okay,” I agree, rising to my feet and wiping the sand off of my lap. I tuck my wallet in the back pocket of my swim trunks, but I keep my phone in my hand for a moment, debating whether I should text Alaia or not. “Do you think I—”

“Text her,” Iris cuts me off. “Just ask her if she’ll visit you before you go to the Capitol.”

Although a part of my brain doubts she’ll want to see me again—hell, she probably already blocked my number—I listen to Iris’ advice. I quickly send the text before I overthink it:

''Hey, could you please visit me before I leave? ''

“Sent,” I confirm with a nod, sliding my phone in my pocket so I don’t have to look at it anymore. “It’s all in her hands now.”

“How do you feel?” Iris asks, sympathy apparent on her face.

In response, I just shrug. I honestly don’t know how I feel. Iris is trained enough in “Tycho-ology”—a term she came up with to describe my nonverbal cues—to understand the gesture.

“Well, I’m here if you’d like to talk about it.” She places a soft hand on my back, tenderly rubbing it for reassurance. “But if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh; Alaia must’ve texted me back already. However, I don’t make an effort to check it, knowing my best friend will plague me with questions as soon as I pull my phone out. Instead, I keep walking as if nothing happened, even though I’m lost in a myriad of racing thoughts. The sand turns into grass, the grass turns into pebbles, the pebbles turn into concrete; before I know it, I’m turning onto my street. Iris waves goodbye as she walks towards her own house, which happens to be directly across the street from mine.

The moment I close the front door behind me, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Leaning against the door, I read Alaia’s text:

''Maybe. ''

Mayuri Odelle - District Four Female
A luxurious maroon dress rests on top of my neatly-made bed once I jump out of the shower. It looks expensive—possibly from the Capitol itself or one of the high-end retailers in the district—and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was never worn before. The color doesn’t look faded or washed at all, and there’s no uncomfortable stretches nor abnormal stitches; it might as well have just been picked up from the dressmaker. I’m pleased when it fits my figure perfectly, as if it were made specifically for me. Even its long sleeves cling perfectly to my arms, emphasizing the definition in my lean muscles.

“Do you like it?” my aunt asks, appearing in the doorway of my bedroom. Although they are a few years apart, she could practically be twins with my mom; they have identical silky black hair, narrow eyes, and small facial features. “I got it a few days ago, but I wanted to surprise you.”

“Who’d you get it from?” I ask. It’s a question about who, not where.

“Oh, I’m not really sure,” she says, scrunching her nose. She’s lying; I’ve been able to read my family’s facial expressions flawlessly for years. “I just kinda snatched it off the streets.”

“Please tell me you didn’t steal it from the mayor,” I say seriously. The reason I’m living with my aunt is because my parents are in prison for stealing from the mayor. Ever since, it’s been a competition to see who could steal the most expensive thing from his family without him noticing. “Because if you did—”

“I didn’t!” Her tone is high-pitched. “Seriously, I didn’t,” she repeats firmly.

“You know, stealing from the mayor’s daughter still counts as stealing from the mayor.” I raise my eyebrow, taunting her to try to lie to me again.

“Ah, you got me there,” she laughs. “So, what? Are you not going to wear the dress?”

“No, I’m still going to wear the dress,” I confirm. “I’m just sayin’ to be careful. This looks like it could’ve been one-of-a-kind.”

“Good, then that puts me in the lead,” she smirks. “Anyway, your uncle made some oatmeal for breakfast. Try to eat at least some of it before the reaping.”

“I’ll be right down, let me just do my makeup real quick.” I grab my makeup bag before walking past my aunt to the bathroom. “Oh, and can I borrow your gray stilettos?”

“Which ones?” she asks. “The prostitute’s, the seamstress’s, or the widow’s?”

“The widow’s.”

It takes me about ten minutes to perfect my makeup, and I’m taken aback by how mature I look when I’m done. My eyes look narrower with the black winged eyeliner, and my cheekbones look sharper with the subtle highlight. Although my mom would call me a whore for my vibrant red lipstick, I look sexy and borderline seductive in it. No longer do I look like a slender, eighteen-year-old girl; I look like a confident woman with nonexistent money to spend.

“Wow, you look beautiful,” my younger cousin says when I walk into the kitchen. She’s the same age as her sister when she went into the Games, and their similarities are uncanny. “Did Mom get that for you?”

“Yeah, from the mayor himself.” I look at her dress and raise my eyebrow; I’ve never seen it before. “Who’d you get yours from?”

“One of the trainer’s daughters,” she smiles smugly. “It was so easy too! She completely forgot to lock her locker during class. And when she found out her dress was gone, they put the entire Academy on lockdown to try to find it, but I was already long gone by then.”

“It would’ve been more impressive if you picked the lock,” my uncle murmurs. His back is turned towards us as he pours himself a cup of coffee so it’s hard to tell if he meant for us to hear it. My cousin frowns.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s pretty impressive,” I whisper into her ear. Her face lights up, smile spreading from ear to ear. “I think I’m going to start heading to the Square,” I tell my uncle. “Do you want me to bring Fairuza?”

“Please,” he responds. “Do you want any oatmeal for the road?”

“I’m good, thanks!” I absolutely hate the taste of oatmeal, but I don’t want to be rude; I slyly grab a banana without him noticing instead. “I’ll see you later!”

I drive an old-fashioned sedan—a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday—to the City Square since it’s nearly thirty miles away from my house. (Not everyone can live within walking distance from it.) Fairuza jumps in the passenger seat, and, for the majority of the ride, remains quiet. It’s unusual for her to be so silent, but I don’t question it; it’s nice just listening to the radio as we travel into the heart of the district.

“Do you think my dad’s ever gonna be proud of me?” Fairuza blurts.

“I don’t know if anyone can truly please him,” I joke. She’s fidgeting with her hands, though, so it’s clearly something that’s been on her mind. “But every dad is proud of their children, even if they don’t say it.”

“It just seems like he wishes I was more like Kelila.” Kelila was her sister that went into the Games a couple years ago. Her death really affected her family; I don’t even think they’re quite done grieving yet. “I just— I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you really can do.” I know they’re not the words she wants to hear, but it’s the truth. “It’s really all on him.”

“That just sucks,” she sighs. “You know, I’ve been thinking about volunteering.”

“Why?”

“Because it just seems like something he wants. He was so excited when Kelila volunteered, so, like, maybe if I do, he’ll be happier.” She shrugs. “Have you never though about volunteering?”

“No,” I say truthfully. For the last six reapings, I have not once considered volunteering, even though the money I would get from winning would be enough to get my parents out of prison.

“Then why even bother going to the Academy?”

I don’t respond, and the rest of the drive passes in silence. Although her question was not meant to be offensive, I feel attacked. My parents are the ones that started sending me to the Academy; I was never truly passionate about it. I would much rather prefer learning how the Capitol politics work than how to throw a knife. After my parents were imprisoned, I debated dropping out, but it seemed like it would be pointless. I already missed out on a “typical” education, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Since the Square is crowded by the time we reach it, I have to park a few blocks away. Fairuza jumps out of the car immediately to catch up with a group of her friends, but I don’t mind. I’m more than comfortable walking alone The line at the check-in counter is practically empty by the time I arrive, so I breeze right through it. Nearly ten seconds after I settle into my designated section, the escort appears on stage with an entourage of people behind her.

“Hello, citizens of this beautiful district!” It takes me a moment to realize it’s a new escort this year. (Our escorts almost always dye their hair blue to represent District Four’s fishing industry, so it’s easy to blend them together.) ”My name is Xevera Lethe, and I’ve been given the privilege to select this year’s tributes for the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” The audience’s cheers match her enthusiasm. “Before I select this year’s tributes, the mayor will present the Second Treaty of Treason.”

I tune out the mayor as he begins his speech, as it’s the same one I’ve heard for the last eighteen years. Instead, I stare at the girl’s purse right next to me. When I was young, my mom taught me that the reaping was the easiest place to pickpocket people, as everyone’s in tight quarters and focused on the stage. And, if they notice something went missing, they’re more likely to believe they dropped it than to suspect someone stole it. It’s essentially a pickpocket’s dream.

There are two simple rules to pickpocketing: always misdirect your prey from the targeted object, and never use your thumbs in someone’s pocket or purse. According to my mom, the thumb uses too much pressure when grabbing something, so a thief must use their other fingers—particularly their pointer and middle fingers—to go undetected. It’s a surprisingly helpful tip that has helped me never get caught, and it still holds its use today.

During the mayor’s speech, I mange to steal a silver bracelet, an unopened tube of lipstick and a small bottle of perfume from the girl’s purse. I subtly slide them up my sleeve as the escort approaches the microphone.

“Thank you, Mayor. That was a lovely speech,” Xevera says. “As President Quain announced, this year’s twist limits the eligible reaping pool. It reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” She smiles. “And now, without any further adieu, I will select the tributes for this year’s Hunger Games!”

As she walks towards the reaping bowl, I can practically feel a general wave of tension and apprehension from the girls in my immediate surrounding. I don’t understand how they can be so stressed; most of us have been training for the Games our entire lives. (Surely, I’ve never considered volunteering, but I know I’d do alright in the arena.) And it’s not like District Four has any shortage of volunteers.

“And the selected female participant is”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“Mayuri Odelle!”

I merely shrug. I have no doubt that someone will volunteer.

As I’m walking to the stage, though, I notice the mayor is staring at me intensely and almost. . . suspiciously. At first, I think he just recognizes my last name, as he most certainly remembers my parents. However, his eyes aren’t really focused on me, they’re focused on what I’m wearing. My veins turn cold as the realization crashes over me:

I’m wearing his daughter’s one-of-a-kind dress from probably the Capitol itself.

His eyes remain trained on me until I stand next to Xevera, and I internally cringe when I notice him whispering something into his suit jacket. He must have a hidden microphone in his pocket, and I have no doubt that he’ll have me arrested as soon as the reaping finishes. The Peacekeepers will probably surround me once I walk off the stage, and I’ll be locked away by morning. I’m never going to be able to see the ocean or drive my car again, unless. ..

“Are there any volun—”

“Actually, uh, I decline any volunteers,” I interrupt the escort. I’ve seen what prison has done to my parents; happiness is practically foreign to them. At least I have a chance to be free in the Games, and even if I don’t make it, I’d rather die in the arena than a prison cell. “Yeah,” I repeat more firmly. “I’d like to represent my district.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Xevera mumbles. She clearly has no idea what she’s supposed to do, but, in her defense, I don’t know if anyone’s declined a volunteer before. “I guess I’ll select the male representative, then—unless there is anybody already determined to volunteer.”

“I volunteer!” three people shout simultaneously. Xevera smiles and selects one of the boys in the seventeen year old section.

I analyze the volunteer as he walks on stage. He’s undeniably attracted with a chiseled jawline and styled sandy hair. Judging by his defined biceps, he’s been training for the Games for a while, but he doesn’t look familiar. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to a prestigious, private institute; he looks like he has money. When he smiles at the escort, I can practically hear the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. He’s not going to have any issues gathering sponsors.

His name is Tycho Searling, and his brother and best friend—two separate people, he clarifies—have participated in the Games. I briefly wonder if either of them were in the same Games as Kelila, but the odds seem slim. Still, I’m surprised he would volunteer; the two of them must’ve died within the last five years.

As we shake hands to congratulate each other, I’m surprised when I notice a hint of insecurity behind his gray eyes. It doesn’t seem to align with the confident persona he’s embracing.

He must be hiding something, and I want to figure out what.

Memories (D6 Reaping)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Kaia Palani - District Six Female
District Six is not a beautiful place. The manufacturing plants pollute the sky with a thick smoke, blocking sunlight from touching the ground for most hours of the day; the “fresh” air is tainted by a lingering smell of gasoline, which seems to cling to clothing better than any perfume or cologne; and the ongoing issue of morphine addiction in the poorer communities has been readily spreading like wildfire. I’ve often dreamed about moving to a prettier district, like District Four with its gorgeous oceanside view or District One with its luxurious pleasures, but I’m stuck in Six.

The only—and let me emphasize, only—reason this district is bearable is because of its diversity. Although our main industry is transportation, everyone has a unique passion and talent. My parents are renowned doctors who have actively been studying addiction and its effects on the brain. They’ve even created their own non-profit company to try to help the recovering addicts in the impoverished communities. Meanwhile, my brother has become a prominent figure in the political field, as he’s been rallying for general improvement in the district’s infrastructure.

While my family has pursued more “intellectual” careers and lifestyles, I’ve found my true passion in the creative arena, particularly in art. (One might assume this dreary district lacks creativity, but some of the most famous artists have called District Six their home.) The moment my parents brought me to my first art show, I became enticed in the breathtaking paintings and sculptures. They brought beauty into this dull district for me, and I hope that, one day, my pieces will have a similar impact on someone else.

I stare at my most recent piece: a painting of two little girls having a tea party with their stuffed animals at a miniature table. The first girl has olive skin, wavy auburn hair, and a myriad of freckles across her nose and cheeks; the other has beige skin, straight black hair, and narrow eyes. In a fancy calligraphy, written underneath the girls’ feet, are the words:

''Kaia and Clio Friends Forever''

It’s one of my favorite childhood memories, which I sometimes wish I could relive to fully appreciate it. We were so young, so pure, so naive to understand the harsh realities of the world. Those were the days when our biggest concern was who we would play with at recess, and our biggest enemies were our parents forcing us to eat vegetables.

''“We’re gonna be famous one day!” six-year-old Clio remarked once. “And then we’re gonna move to the Capitol and be rich!” ''

Her dream was to become a stylist for one of the “interesting” districts in the Hunger Games, as she absolutely adored the tribute parade. Whenever she thought of a new outfit, she would vividly describe it so that I could sketch it. It didn’t always match up with her initial idea, but we would continually adjust it until we were both satisfied. Unfortunately, she’ll never be able to see any of her designed costumes in the parade, if her ideas ever do reach the Capitol.

''“Kaia, promise me something,” Clio said seriously. We were in the Justice Building with tears streaming down our faces. I had never seen her so scared in her life, and I didn’t know what to do. “Promise me that you’re gonna keep the sketches. And when you make it to the Capitol one day, you’re going to make sure someone uses them.” ''

“Clio—“

''“Please, just say you will,” she was practically begging me. “Just don’t— don’t let me die without leaving something for people to remember me.” ''

It’s a promise that I’ve kept for three years, and I will undoubtedly keep until the day I die. I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to bring her sketches to the Capitol, but, in the meantime, they’re safely stored in my makeshift studio in my family’s attic.

She was a truly talented person; she deserved so much more than she was given.

''“I hear you have a knack for fashion,” Caius Fulbright, the master of ceremonies for the Hunger Games, commented during Clio’s interview. She looked sexy and confident in her silky red dress, much different from the twelve-year-old girl who cried in my arms the week before. “It’s a little odd for a person from Six, wouldn’t you say?” ''

''“Eh, it depends on who you talk to,” she shrugged. “Everyone thinks of Six as having just engineers, but the people are talented in so many other ways. Like my best friend is an incredible artist; she’s been painting for as long as I’ve known her.” ''

''“So your best friend was an artist and you were a designer?” Caius seemed delighted by the information. “Have you ever collaborated?” ''

''“All the time!”  Clio’s youthfulness was refreshing compared to her older, serious competitors. “In fact, we’ve always dreamed about moving to the Capitol so that I could become a stylist and she could become a professional painter.” ''

''“Well, you’re in the Capitol now. How do you like it?”''

''“It’s a dream come true!” Clio smiled as the audience cheered in response. “I just wish it were under different circumstances. But, I guess, this gives me something to fight for.” ''

''“And fight, you shall.” The gong sounded, signaling the end of interview. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present you, the lovely Clio Ottilie.” ''

''The next morning, I stared at the television in my living room, my fingernails digging into my thighs as the countdown began. My mom tried to whisper consoling words into my ears, but nothing appeased my anxiety. I imagined that I felt as terrified as Clio when she saw the surrounding arena. (That year it was a dense jungle filled with dangerous mutations.) There was no way she was going to survive without having allies. ''

''“I couldn’t possibly imagine allying with anyone in the Games,” she told me years before. “‘Cause then, I’d have to watch them die before I could come home, and I don’t think I could do that.” ''

''I desperately wished that she changed her mind since she went to the Capitol, but the announcers confirmed that she was a loner the night before. She was destined to die, and I could do nothing about it. ''

''When the gong sounded, I screamed frantically at the screen as Clio ran towards the cornucopia. I thought she would have known better, but I guess the fear of being defenseless in the arena got the best of her. She managed to grab a knife and a small backpack from the outskirts before trying to flee, but it was already too late. One of the Careers—the boy from One—threw an axe into the back of her dark-headed skull merely steps before she reached the trees. ''

I vomited the moment she collapsed to the ground.

When I finally stopped heaving nearly an hour later, I did the one thing that always calmed me: I painted.

I glance at the first painting I created after her death, which sits against the only window in my studio. It’s of Clio during the tribute parade, wearing an extravagant costume that she undoubtedly adored. Her posture was rigid but elegant, and she held a single rose in her hand as she waved towards the cheering crowd. She’s the only person standing on the chariot—I, admittedly, didn’t care much about her district partner—and I could not have drawn her more accurately.

I wanted to give the piece to Clio’s family as a gift, but I became too attached to just give it away. Instead, I created a second painting; this one of Clio in her arena apparel, wielding a knife in one hand and holding a rose in the other. It took me nearly three months to paint, as the colors never seemed to look just right; but, by the time I was done, she looked beautifully courageous and determined. I knew her family would absolutely love it.

However, I didn’t anticipate the painting to be seen by anyone besides her family, so I was surprised when it received Capitol attention. (According to Mrs. Ottilie, the district escort stopped by her house six months after the Games to give his condolences. When he noticed the original piece, he took a picture and shared it with some of his friends; it ended up spreading quickly throughout the Capitol.) Everyone in the art industry now knew my name, and Clio would never be forgotten.

Her death gave me the fame we always imagined, and I feel terrible about it.

Lark Devereaux - District Six Male
A light drizzle starts to fall from the sky as I stand alone within the crowd of eligible tributes. It’s fitting, in a sense. Nobody in District Six enjoys the reaping, and it’s especially more prominent this year. Everybody eligible has seen someone they loved die in the arena—that is, unless they’re related to our district’s sole victor—and we’re all traumatized from it. Broken tributes are going into the arena this year; how could the Capitol enjoy that?

''“What do you think about the twist?” my twin brother asked me a year ago. Although we were   fraternal twins, we looked almost identical with wavy dark hair, bluish-gray eyes, and a sharp jawline. The only noticeable difference between us was that I had freckles on my nose. “Having to fight against your district partner before even going in the arena seems intense.” ''

''“Eh, it’s not the worst one we’ve seen,” I shrugged. “Remember the year only twins could be reaped?” ''

''“How could I forget?” he exclaimed. “It was our second reaping, and we were both crying the night before. I don’t think either of us got any sleep that night.” ''

''“No, not at all,” I giggled. We had both tried to comfort the other, but we were too terrified to be of much help. “I guess we’re just lucky that neither of us have been reaped yet.” ''

“Why do you say that?” 

''Before I could explain, a voice interrupted us. “Lark! Cisco!” We both turned around to see our friend Linus pushing his way through the crowd. “I haven’t seen you guys in forever! Why haven’t you guys hung out with the group lately?” ''

''“Because Finnian’s a judgmental douche,” Cisco huffed. I raised my eyebrow at him. When did he get into a fight with Finnian? ''

''“I didn’t realize you guys were at odds.” Linus frowned. “What happened?” ''

''“He was talking shit about Lark for being gay,” Cisco explained. “Telling all these girls that he tried hitting on him and whatnot, even though I know my brother would never drop his standards that low.” ''

''“Oh,” Linus muttered. He gave me a look—the look that I absolutely hate, which all sexual minorities experience. Did he think I’m suddenly attracted to him? Does he think about every time we hung out in a different light? Would he ever hug me again? It’s hard to decipher whether his eyes were filled with surprise or disgust. “So you’re. . . gay?” ''

''The blood drained out of Cisco’s face. “You didn’t tell him?” ''

''“Nope, but it’s all good. We’re still chill,” Linus answered for me. “Anyways, I’m gonna go over by Finnian. It was nice seeing you guys, though!” ''

“Lark, I’m so'' sorry,” Cisco said as soon as Linus was out of earshot, running his fingers nervously through his dark hair. “I thought he was there when you told the others.” ''

''“He wasn’t, but don’t worry about it.” I couldn’t really be mad at him, we were twins after all. Besides, he truly meant no harm. “When did you and Finnian get into a fight? And where was I?”''

''“It was a few days ago. You were getting a prescription from the drugstore, and I was waiting outside. I saw them—Finnian, his girlfriend, and her friends—walking down the street and overheard the conversation.” He shrugged. “I mean, you know how he acts around them. I doubt he really meant it.” ''

''“So what’d you do?” I frowned when he didn’t respond. That’s usually not a good sign. “C’mon, Cisco, something must’ve happened if you guys are now in a fight.” ''

“It really doesn’t matter.” 

''“Cisco,” I repeated in a serious tone. “What’d you do?” ''

“Look, do you believe that I will protect you?” 

“What?” 

''“Do you believe that I will protect you?” he repeated. “Like literally do everything in my power to keep you safe and defend your reputation and whatnot?” ''

“Of course.” 

“Then it doesn’t matter.” 

At precisely 2:30 p.m., the doors of the Justice Building open, and a collective silence falls over the crowd. This is undoubtedly everyone’s least favorite day of the year, the day two children are chosen to be slaughtered in the arena. (It’s wishful thinking to even remotely believe they’re going to return; nobody here survives long in the Games.) The escort leads the entourage of people—the mayor, his wife, and the district’s victor—onto the stage, his bubbly demeanor starkly different from the seriousness in the rest of their faces.

My eyes linger on the escort much longer than they should. His name is Amadeus Vogue, and he’s been the district escort since the 19th Hunger Games. He has wavy, multi-colored hair—pink, lime, aqua, teal—but the hair on either sides of his head remains in its natural brown color. Although his smile seems absurd on a drab day like today, it’s undeniably charming and reveal his adorable dimples. I hate to admit it, but he’s attractive.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of District Six to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” Nobody responded, not even with a little clap. “As is customary, we will begin with a speech by Mayor Kendry.”

''“Do you still have a crush on him?” Cisco whispered, pointing to Amadeus. “Or was he just, like, your ‘sexual awakening’?”''

''“Please, never say that again,” I laughed. “And no, I don’t like him anymore.” ''

“Then why are you blushing?” 

''“Shut up,” I mumbled, looking down to hide my rosy cheeks. ''

''“Hey, no judgment,” he reassured me. “I’m just saying, I read an article about him, and, apparently, him and his boyfriend broke up this year. So he’s available.” ''

''“So what?” I raised my eyebrow. “Are you trying say that I should go for him?”''

“Yes.” 

''“You’re crazy.” I shook my head. “How, exactly, would that work?”''

''“Well, I haven’t thought of the technicalities yet,” he admitted. “But I think y’all would be cute together, so I say you should go for it.” ''

''“We’ll see,” I mumbled. “But thank you.” ''

“Thank you, Mayor, for the beautiful speech,” Amadeus says as he steps back up to the microphone. “As it was previously announced, this year’s twist reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” He clears his throat. “And now, I shall select the female representative for this year’s Hunger Games!”

''“This is my least favorite part,” Cisco mumbled. “The girls never come back home.” He wasn’t wrong; District Six’s sole victor was a man. “And especially with the twist, it just seems unfair.” ''

''“It’s how things are, though,” I sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it.” ''

“I know, and I hate it.” 

“And the female representative is”—Amadeus paused as if to make it more dramatic—“Kaia Palani!”

I recognize the name almost immediately, but I have never seen the girl in my life. She’s an artistic prodigy, known for her pieces on her best friend who was reaped a few years ago. (I feel a pang of sympathy in my gut as I realize the girl in the painting is—most likely—the reason why she was eligible this year.) She looks different than I imagined: olive skin, wavy auburn hair, chocolate eyes, freckles on her nose and cheeks, and a small stature. Although her facial expression is stoic and distant, her hands are noticeably trembling when she reaches the stage.

Nobody volunteers, but that was expected.

“And the male representative is”—another pause for dramatic flare—“Lark Devereaux”

''I was frozen as the escort announced my name. My brain wouldn’t process anything, my legs wouldn’t move, my arms wouldn’t stop shaking. All the boys around me started to back away to create a path to the aisle, except for my brother who stood rigidly beside me. The Peacekeepers started to move towards me; they stayed in the aisle, but if I didn’t move soon, I suspected they would forcibly take me to the stage. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. ''

''Cisco broke out of the stupor first, and he did the one thing my future self wishes he could take back. ''

“I volunteer!” 

''“Well, I’ll be damned,” Amadeus mumbled into the microphone. The crowd was just as surprised as myself. “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like District Six has its first volunteer in the history of the Hunger Games!” ''

But this year, nobody volunteers.

I’m going into the Hunger Games.

Grief and Relief (D3 Justice Building)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Skagen Matisse - District Three Male
As soon as the Peacekeepers leave me alone in a secluded room in the Justice Building, I collapse in the corner. My legs are too wobbly to support my weight, and my hands have not stopped shaking since the escort announced my name. I pull my thighs to my chest, resting my head on my bony knees as I take deep breaths. A wave of nausea crashes over me; I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that I won’t throw up on myself. Fortunately, I didn’t eat much this morning, otherwise it would be all over the floor.

I’m going into the Hunger Games. My body trembles viciously at the thought. ''I’m only fourteen, and I’m going into the arena. I’m going to die. I’m going to end up like Petrovna. ''

“Skagen.” I lift my head shakily when I hear my mother’s voice. I didn’t even hear the door open. She looks broken and defeated; her mascara runs down her face from her tears. “Skagen, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Mommy.” My voice cracks as another wave over tears stream down my face. She runs towards me, wrapping her arms around me as I cry. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

“Shh, you’re going to be okay,” she whispers. Her fingers run through my hair, massaging my scalp, as she attempts to soothe me. “Just let it out. I’m here for you.”

“I’m going to die.” A loud sob escapes my throat. “Mommy, I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that!” Her words don’t carry their usual strength; she must also realize the odds are not in my favor. “Honey, you’ve gone through so much with your father and sister gone. You’re stronger than you think.”

“But I’m—“

“No,” she interrupts me. “If anyone’s strong enough to make it through the Games, it’s you.”

“There’s never been a fourteen-year-old victor.”

“And there was no fifteen-year-old victor before Leith.” Leith is the only male victor from my district, so he’ll most likely end up being my mentor.

“So?”

“So someone has to be the first.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “Why can’t that be you?”

Eulalia Psy - District Three Female
Compared to the Peacekeeper’s interrogation room, the “tribute-holding” room in the Justice Building is luxurious: the brick walls aren’t stained with mysterious liquids (in hindsight, probably blood), the table is carved from mahogany, the chairs are cushioned, and the door is finely polished. If the Peacekeepers questioned people in here, they might be more inclined to confess their crimes. (I imagine that someone must have done studies about that; comfort undeniably promotes openness and honesty.)

The door slowly opens, and I find myself unintentionally smirking. I knew he would come. Although his face is obscured by his helmet, his posture and movements are uniquely his. He (almost leisurely) walks to the chair across from me, taking his precious time to sit down, as if to insert his dominance in this situation. After a moment, he pulls off his helmet, drawing out the gesture; he expects me to be surprised, but I am not fooled by his foolish games.

“Garson.” I raise my eyebrow in mock astonishment. Might as well play along with the child’s games. “I can’t exactly say I’m happy to see you.”

“I feel quite the opposite.” He grins, flashing his teeth at me like a dog. “In fact, I’m practically ecstatic about this circumstance.”

“Ooh, ‘ecstatic.’” I smile. “I’m very proud you’ve finally learned to open a thesaurus.”

“And I’m glad you’re finally being punished for your actions,” he says defensively. “Took a long time for the bitch to get what they deserve.”

“Are you suggesting you tampered with the reaping?” It’s nothing that I didn’t think of before. “Because I believe that classifies as an indirect form of treasure. You could get in a lot of trouble for that.”

“Actually, we got the Captiol’s blessing. Turns out your hacking has enraged the entire district.”

“What hacking?” I ask with feigned obliviousness. “I’m just a normal, District Three girl. I know my way around a computer, but to break into the government database”—I huff—“I could never imagine doing such a thing.”

“You know, your pride will be your downfall.”

“Ooh, using adages in your everyday speech,” I taunt. “Consider me impressed. Have you finally moved on from reading picture books?”

“I wish I could kill you right now.” His words are tainted with venom. “I wish I could shoot you between your eyes and watch your blood paint the wall behind you a beautiful crimson.”

“I’m truly astounded by your vivid imagery—”

“You know, I think my biggest regret is that I won’t be the one killing you.” He stands up so he’s looking down at me. He really needs to consider new intimidation tactics. “But I think I’ll still enjoy watching you die on t.v.”

I smirk as he starts moving towards the door. “I could always come back,” I suggest. “Then you’ll have the chance of killing me yourself.”

“Oh no, you’re not coming back.” He stops in the doorway, his back towards me. “The Capitol will make sure of it.”

Leith Taliesin - District Three Mentor
''“And the male tribute will be. . .,” the escort trailed off for dramatic effect. I absolutely hated it. “Skagen Matisse.” ''

''I felt all the built-up tension in my shoulders and chest leave my body simultaneously, and I could finally breathe again. Horizon wasn’t reaped; he’ll be safe in District Three. The thought of us being able to have a life together caused a little smile to form on my lips. However, my borderline blissfulness was subdued as a small boy shakily walked to the stage, barely holding his composure. His entire life was now in my hands. ''

“Leith?” Horizon’s voice breaks me out of my stupor. A wave of emotions rushes through me from the sight of him, his blonde hair practically shining in the sun and his hazel eyes so full of liveliness. I’m barely able to hold back my tears. “Is everything alright?”

My walls collapse, and tears start rolling down my cheeks. Horizon rushes to my side immediately, pulling me into his arms. “I was so scared,” I whisper, face pressed against his shoulder. “I just— I couldn’t—”

“Shh, you’re fine.” He rubs my back soothingly. “I knew you were just being strong for me these past few days.”

“I knew you were scared,” I admit. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

He chuckles quietly. “And I admire you so much for that, but you really didn’t need to.” He rubs a tear off of my cheek with his thumb. “I wouldn’t have minded if you cried a little too.”

“Oh, you were crying enough for the both of us,” I teased. The tears were forgotten; we both laughing now.

“And now you’re crying for the both of us.” He fake scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you’re so emotional, aren’t you?”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. When he opens his mouth to respond, I stop him the only way I know how: a kiss.

“That’s so cheap,” he says when we pull apart.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” I smile. The train horn “choos” behind us, signaling all required personnel should start boarding for the Capitol. “Well, that’s my cue to go.” I hand his hand in mine, twiddling with his fingers. “Are you able to watch the dogs for me?”

“You’re not taking them with you?” He tilts his head to the side. “Like I can, but I thought you always brought them with.”

“Not this year.” I keep twiddling with his fingers to alleviate some of my anxiety. “And, you know, if you want, that gives you a chance to move in with me.”

He chuckles, and my hands freeze. That can’t be a good sign. “Oh, you sly mister.” His eyes are twinkling. “Did you really leave your dogs home so you could ask me to move in with you?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, ducking my head to hide my blush.

“You’re ridiculous.” He combs a hand through my hair. “And yeah, I’ll move in with you.”

“You will?” I can’t contain my smile. “This day could not get any better!”

“But it could get worse.” I jump at the sudden voice, nearly bringing Horizon to the ground with me. Anahita, my mentoring counterpart, stands near the train entrance with her arms crossed. She doesn’t look happy. “Horizon, always a pleasure to see you.”

“You as well, Mrs. Parthenie.”

“Leith, I’m so glad you’re having the best day of your life, but we really must be going along now, shouldn’t we?” She’s not the type of person that wants an answer to her question; she expects obedience. “Kiss your ‘boy-toy’ goodbye, and get on the train.”

“I love you.” I steal one last kiss on his lips. “Be safe, and don’t forget about the dogs!”

“Don’t worry, they’ll help me move!”

Once I’m onboard, Anahita closes the door behind me. She stands there for a brief second, staring at me intensely. As I open my mouth to ask her about it, she interrupts, “So when are you gonna tell him you cheated?”

A Mother's Fault (D7 Justice Building)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Juniper Anatole - District Seven Male
I justifiably blame my mom for a lot of things: my parents’ divorce, my general discontentment, my mental health. And now, I can add my impending death to the ever-growing list. If she learned to keep her legs closed, I wouldn’t have a half-brother who was reaped for the Hunger Games, and if he never existed, I wouldn’t be eligible for this twist. I wonder if she even cares that I’ve been reaped, or if she’s just out getting pregnant again.

“You have a visitor,” one of the Peacekeepers says. I don’t think it’s standard to have two Peacekeepers in the room with the selected tribute; hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re here because they view me as a threat.

Maybe I am.

“Let them in.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs casually on the wooden table. “After all, I’m on dead man’s time here.”

It’s my dad. I really shouldn’t be surprised that he’s my first—maybe my only—visitor, especially since I’m the last of his family still alive. (At least, for the time being.) We share many similar physical traits: a pale, almost ghastly, complexion; dark brown, borderline black, hair; light gray eyes; and an alarmingly skinny figure. I’m forever happy I inherited most of my looks from him; my mom has had enough influence on my life already, even in her absence.

“Juniper.” My dad’s voice cracks. I’ve seen him cry before, but I’ve never been the cause of it. My smile falters a bit. “I’m so sorry.”

“Dad, it’s fine.” I move my legs off the table; it feels inappropriate now. “It’s not your fault.”

“But if I just—”

“No, it’s not your fault!” I run my hand through my hair. “If Hebe wasn’t such a whore, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Your mother is sorry—”

“Wait, you talked to her?” I stand up to my full height. I might only be an inch taller than my dad, but I hope I intimidate him enough. “Did you talk to her before you came here?”

“Well, I just thought—”

“Unbelievable,” I scoff. “You’re so frekain’ naïve that you don’t even realize she’s using you! She’s bad for you, Dad.”

“When did you become the parent?”

“When you started making stupider decisions that me.” I snort, shaking my head. “Is she here right now?”

His silence is enough of an answer.

“She doesn’t expect to see me, does she?” I’m conflicted about whether I want to laugh from disbelief or scream at his stupidity. “Oh, that’s never going to happen.”

“She wants to apologize.”

“Apologize! She doesn’t even care!“

“She cares!” I open my mouth to interrupt, but he stops me. “No, you’ve spoken enough; it’s my turn. You haven’t given her a chance since the divorce, you haven’t seen her try to reconcile with you because you were too stubborn. And now, she’s here, trying to apologize for something she truly is not responsible for, but you won’t let her—that’s all on you.”

“Whatever you want to think. Just let me know if she’s there for you when I die, or if she’ll disappear like when Amara killed herself.”

Sylvie Linden - District Seven Mentor
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or if there’s even anything to do at all. The mentors—well, just Matvei and I—hop on the train once the reaping concludes to start discussing a general strategy, to determine who will advise which one, to calculate how much money could be scavenged from last year. But what’s the protocol when your daughter is reaped? Do you join the rest of the family and visit her in the Justice Building, or do you merely say your goodbyes separately in the Capitol?

I walk towards the train. Bryony was reaped because of me, because of my reckless decisions. I doomed her to an early demise, and I can’t face her, let alone the rest of my family, with that knowledge. She deserves to know, just. . . not yet.

“I didn’t think you’d be here so quick,” Matvei says, downing the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. “Why aren’t you with your family?”

“I just didn’t want to deal with it.” I move towards a couch besides the mini-bar. “Not right now, anyways.”

“Ah, is this about the Daedalus situation?” I freeze mid-stride. “What? You don’t think people know about it?”

“And what do you know?”

“That you and Daedalus were a thing back in the day, and every year, you two sneak off to a secluded room do ‘the dirty.’”

I chuckle and sit down on the couch. “Oh, you’re still so young. You should learn, sooner or later, that rumors are almost never true.”

“No, they’re usually not, but there’s always some truth to them.” He sits in the chair adjacent to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So why don’t you tell me what’s real.”

“You’ve changed since—”

“Stop deflecting.” His raised tone throws me off. He’s never yelled at me before. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Okay, fine.” I take a deep breath. “Emrys—you know, my husband—broke up with me before my Victory Tour. He couldn’t take all the cameras and interviews and stuff, so he left me. Then, when I was in District Two, I met this man, same age as me, who was charming and nice and considerate. He told me that he was grateful the escort didn’t select him as the volunteer, because he didn’t want to be my enemy. One thing led to another, and, next thing I know, I’m waking up in his bed, late for my train, naked.”

“You knew him before he was victor?”

“Honey, I’m the reason he was reaped.” I sigh. “When I was late for the train, I ruined the schedule for the rest of the day. Three weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.”

“With Bryony,” he confirms. “So Bryony is Daedalus’ child?”

“Yes,” I nod, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “I had already gotten back with Emrys, so I pretended like it was his child. Bryony looks so much like me, nobody asked about the father. But somehow, someway, President Quain found out because Daedalus was reaped when he wasn’t eligible.”

“I thought he volunteered?”

“He was coerced into volunteering.” The first tear rolls down my cheek. “The only child he had at the time was Bryony, and— and—” I take a deep breath to compose myself. I can’t be hysterical now, not when the tributes—when my daughter—could arrive at any moment. “And, I just. . .”

“What?”

“Is it bad that I regret keeping the pregnancy?”

Bryony Linden - District Seven Female
“You know your mother is going to blame herself for this,” my dad murmurs in my hair. I stay frozen in his arms. I don’t want my parents to blame themselves for this situation, much less my possible death. “So I need you to be there for her, to make her believe she’s not at fault for this. And I need you to win for her.”

“Dad, I can’t—”

“No, I know, that’s a big promise to make, but I need you to try your absolute hardest to come back home.”

“I will, Dad.” I take a deep breath. “I promise.”

We stay locked in each other’s arms for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes; I don’t know how long, but time seems to freeze. His shoulder is much damper than it was before from my tears, and I know his sniffling isn’t from allergies. For a moment, we’re not in the Justice Building anymore; instead, we’re in my bedroom, sobbing over the death of our family dog. I thought that was the most devastating thing that could happen to me, but I was wrong, gravely wrong.

“Mister Linden, your time is up,” a Peacekeeper says, barging into the room. He turns towards me. “You have another visitor.”

“I love you, Brie,” he whispers one last time before following the Peacekeeper out the door.

My mouth hangs wide open as the next visitor enters the room. Her platinum blonde hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, styled in a bob cut, and she dyed a few strands of her bangs violet. Her hazel eyes look dull and lifeless under the light, her posture is slouched and defeated, and the fresh cut on her lips suggests she was recently in a fight. She no longer looks like the girl I dated nearly a year ago; instead, she’s a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” I eventually ask, leaning-slash-sitting against the central table and crossing my arms. “No, why are you here?”

“You were reaped.”

“You don’t say.” My tone is heavy with sarcasm. “Have any other incredible discoveries?”

“I miss you.”

“Did you tell your boyfriend that?”

“He’s not my—“

“Oh, so the cheaters didn’t last. Can’t say I’m surprised,” I scoff. “So what, you’re here now to apologize? Because you think I’m stupid enough to come back to you?”

“My family knows.” I raise my eyebrow. “Brie, my family knows.”

“About. . .”

“About us.” Tears swell in our eyes. “They know that we were together, that we were ‘lezzing out’ and—”

“‘Lezzing out?’ Are you serious?”

“Yes, and they. . .” she sighs. “Well, they kicked me out, and I didn’t know where to go, and I just thought that— that you could. . . I don’t know, help?”

“Because I don’t have enough going on right now?” I laugh, wholeheartedly laugh until my stomach hurts. “You’re so freakin’ selfish, do you realize that? I’m literally forced to fight to the death in the Hunger Games, and you think I’m going to prioritize you because you had a fight with your parents?”

“I know you’re leaving, but your family—”

“Is going through a lot as well.” I stand up, turning my back towards her. “Get out of here. I can’t even stand to look at you.”

“I hope you die,” she mumbles as she heads to the door.

“At least I’ll die knowing I had a roof to live under and a family that loved me.”

She slams the door behind her.

Be Honest (D8 Justice Building)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Nadina Windlass - District Eight Female
I’m not pretty. Although I’m not exactly ugly, I stray far from classical, feminine beauty. I don’t have long, wavy hair; I don’t have bodacious breasts that boys drool over; I don’t wear makeup or paint my nails; I don’t wear jewelry (haven’t even pierced my ears yet); and I’m too tall to wear high heels, lest I want to be taller than all the boys my age. Compared to the other girls in Eight, I’m barely average. Nobody could imagine someone falling for the “special”—because unique, apparently, wasn’t bad enough—orphan who lives on the streets.

I’m not pretty, so when I was assaulted, I was told I should be grateful that anyone wanted me in the first place, that this meant I was desirable. It meant that people could look past my flat chest and masculine physique, albeit they must be “repressing their homosexual desires.” Others thought I was lying about the incident to gain popularity, as if I’d want to call any of those birdbrains my friend. I’m fine with being all alone, and the more I repeat it to myself, the more it feels true.

A Peacekeeper enters the room. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you don’t have any visitors,” he says hesitantly. It must be the first time—at least, since he’s been working—that nobody had a visitor. “Would you like to be escorted to the train?”

“Yes.” I nod decisively. “Thank you.”

As we enter the hallway, I can hear crying in the adjacent room. I nearly snort. My district partner must have a loving family, people who will actually miss him when he’s gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if a dozen of his friends are waiting to see him, maybe even a girlfriend if he’s old enough. People will be weeping at the funeral—hell, people will attend the funeral. I, on the other hand, will merely be another grave in the Tribute Cemetery.

The Peacekeeper has just brought me outside the Justice Building, when I hear loud clacking behind me. Someone is running in high heels. “Nadina, where are you going?” The voice belongs to Kimani Tierza, the same woman who drew my name during the reaping. “Don’t you want to say your goodbyes to your family and friends?”

“I don’t have any family or friends, so I’d rather not waste my time in a room by myself.”

“But you have a visitor.”

I pause mid-stride and turn towards her. “Who?”

“You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

I groan. “Kimani, I’m not in the mood for games. Just tell me.”

“C’mon, I promise it’s someone you’ll want to see.” Just reaches for my hand, but I swat it away. “Please, just trust me.”

Against my better judgment, I follow the pink-haired, crazy woman to the empty room. I expect her to leave after we reach the room, but she follows me inside. For five minutes, nobody else enters the room. It takes me a moment to realize what’s really happening here.

“So you’re the visitor?” I scoff. “You know, you could’ve just talked to me on the train. There’s no reason for me to have come—”

“I thought you wanted to say goodbye at home.” Her smile makes me sick. “You know, just in case you don’t return.”

“I’m not going to return.”

“You can’t go into the arena thinking—”

“No, I’m not pretty.” She looks confused. “And because I’m not pretty, I’m not going to win the Games.”

Baize Edmonia - District Eight Mentor
Scotch tastes better when you’re in a happy mood, when you know one of your tributes might not die in the arena. Last year, the scotch tasted exceptional; at least, it did until my promising protégé refused to kill his female companion in the pre-arena battles, even though she posed no threat to the competition. But this year, neither tribute stands a chance: the boy is too young to last a few days in the arena and the girl is too austere to earn any sponsors.

I hope their farewells are as meaningful as possible.

“Do you want another glass?” the bartender asks.

I nod. “Wait, you’re not an avox?”

“No,” he chuckles, grabbing the bottle from the shelf. “Never committed a Capitol offense, still have my tongue.”

“Then why are you here?”

“President Quain allows lower-class Capitolites to take on jobs that are traditionally given to the avoxes. Rumor has it, he might extend the offer to district citizens.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, you never know.” He pours the scotch into my glass. “He’s a man full of surprises. I don’t think anyone really knows what he might do next.”

“Ah, cheers to that,” I say, taking a swig of my drink. “So, you’re not an avox. You must have a name.”

“Mordecai.” He eagerly reaches out to shake my hand. I hesitantly take it. “And you’re the Baize Edmonia, victor of the 11th Hunger Games.”

“I am.”

“Am I able to ask you about your Games, or is that off-limits?”

I’m not surprised he wants to hear about it, it’s a question almost every Capitolite I’ve met has asked. If there’s no chance you or a loved one can go into the arena yourself, you want to know about it. I let him ask away.

“Was it hard killing your boyfriend?”

I down the rest of my drink. I can’t answer the question otherwise.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He was my family, you know, and his death will haunt me til the day I die.”

“You don’t have a family?”

“Not one that I care about, anyway,” I scoff. “I honestly hope they’re doing absolutely awful.”

Octavian Espen - District Eight Male
“I just don’t understand,” I murmur to myself, pacing back and forth in the small room. “I don’t know anyone— anyone who has been reaped. It’s wrong, the reaping was flawed.”

“Honey—”

“No, Mom, the reaping was flawed! I shouldn’t have been reaped! We should tell someone!”

“Octavian, listen.” It’s the first time my dad has spoken since he entered; he’s been too busy crying to form any audible word. “Your aunt. . . she was— she was in the Games when you were young.”

“I thought you were an only child.” I stop pacing. “Grandma said she only had one kid.”

“She did, it’s just—” He starts crying again. I’m getting annoyed with his tears by now; I’m the one that deserves to be crying right now, not my grown-ass dad. “It’s just—”

“Mom, what’s he trying to say.”

“It’s not my story to tell,” she says, raising her hands in surrender. “Just give him some time—”

“I don’t have anymore time.” I hold myself back from screaming. “So tell me, now, about my aunt before I ask someone else about it.”

“Your aunt,” my dad repeats. He takes a deep breath before continuing, “Your aunt is. . . well, she’s really. . . she’s your half-aunt.”

“And that’s why I haven’t heard about her?”

He nods. “Your grandpa was a little. . . promiscuous before your grandma got sick. Then he met a woman and she became pregnant with a little girl and. . . well, she named her Baize.”

“Baize? As in Baize Edmonia?”

He nods again. “My dad knew she was pregnant, but he didn’t think she would keep the pregnancy. But, she did.”

“But now you know. How?”

“When she was in the arena, the Capitol requested an interview with my dad. And then after she won, my dad tried reconciling with her, but. . . but. . .” A new wave of tears streams down my dad’s face, but he vainly rubs them away. “But she denied him.”

“Well, I don’t blame her,” I snort. “Grandpa left her!”

“Octavian, you better not speak to your father in that tone.”

“No, I will,” I say matter-of-factly. “He’s crying because his sister—his half-sister—didn’t want to be a part of a family who started caring about her when she was rich and famous.”

“That’s not—”

“It is, that is what happened.” Against my will, I laugh. “And now, now, my life is in her hands, in the hands of my aunt who probably doesn’t even know I exist, yet hates me nonetheless. ‘May the odds be ever in my favor.’”

Deception (D10 Justice Building)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Laelia Lantbruk - District Ten Female
I don’t bother saying my goodbyes in the Justice Building, I don’t know what I could possibly say to alleviate my parents’ fear and anxiety. When my cousin was reaped a few years ago, we were all terrified that she wouldn’t return home, and I listened to my aunt fret about not having a “perfect” farewell for weeks until my cousin officially won. I refuse to have my parents go through the same skepticism, so I decided to take the option away from them.

“Laelia, why are you here?” my cousin asks, hesitantly approaching me on the couch. She has a glass of white wine in one hand. “Didn’t you want to say bye to your parents?”

“You don’t know what I had to go through when you were gone, Gania,” I mutter. “It was awful. Everyone wished they said ‘I love you’ more and whatnot.”

“But now, they’re going to think you hate them, that you didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“I’ll leave them a letter, and I’ll just have you deliver it to them, assuming I don’t make it back.”

She looks like she’s about to put up a fight, but she surprisingly lets it go. “Fine, fair enough. How are you doing otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” I dwindle my fingers. “Nervous? Worried?”

“Nervous and worried about you going into the arena, or because Taneli volunteered?”

“Why would I be—”

“Laelia, you told me years ago that you had a crush on him.”

“Yeah, but then I had a boyfriend and—”

“And what?” she laughs. “You lost your feelings for him for forever? You don’t even find him attractive anymore because you already had a man?”

“No. . . I mean, he’s still cute.”

“Yes, he is.” She pulls me into a sideways hug. “And you still like him.”

“I do not!”

“Oh, you absolutely do.” She slyly takes a sip of her wine. “You know, he did volunteer pretty quickly, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I was surprised.”

“Maybe this means he likes you to.”

“What? So he decided to volunteer to protect me?” I snort. “That sounds like a ridiculous way to tell someone you like them. You won’t even be able to have a ‘happily ever after.’”

“Sometimes, it’s better to know you’re protecting the person you love than regret it otherwise.”

“Oh, so now he loves me?”

“You never know!”

“No, I do know.” I sigh. “He won’t fall for me. I’m too basic, too plain.

“Ah, because being a ginger in District Ten is so common.”

“You know what I mean! He probably prefers his woman with large biceps and toned abs, neither of which I have.”

“So, what? You’re just going to let your feelings go unresolved until it’s too late?” She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “C’mon, just ask him why he volunteered. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“Maybe I will,” I mutter, covering my hands with my face. “Is it pathetic that I really hope he volunteered for me?”

“No, it just means your in love.”

“I’m not ‘in love.’” I roll my eyes. “I just want to know that someone like him can. . . can like someone like me.”

Taneli Masarie - District Ten Male
When I asked to go to the train immediately after the reaping, I was surprised when Laelia followed my request; I don’t know why my district partner wanted to avoid the farewells—she definitely looks like the type of girl to have a loving family and a lot of friends—but maybe there’s something else happening. I was even more surprised when her plea was granted, whereas mine was denied since I had an “important visitor” waiting for me.

I don’t know who would be waiting for me. My parents are dead, and I avoid having friends.

“Ah, Taneli Masarie,” Mayor Agustin says as I enter the room. The Peacekeeper closes the door behind me, but I doubt he walks away. “Sit, why don’t you. I think we have some things to talk about.”

“Such as?” I raise my eyebrow yet I sit in the chair across from him anyways.

“Your parents.”

“Ah, those two. How are they doing? I’m surprised they aren’t here.”

“They’re dead,” he deadpans. “But you already knew that. We found them this morning, bludgeoned to death with a mace, or so we believe; we have’t been able to find the murder weapon yet.”

“And you’re telling me this because. . .”

“Because you’re next-of-kin, of course.” He stands up and leans over the table, staring me in the eyes. “But we found your prints on the scene. We have reason to believe you were involved.”

“Ah, but you see—”

“Oh, don’t try lying to me.” He slams his fist against the table. I smirk at his rage. “We found your bloody shoes near the scene. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice a big pile of dirt in the middle of your backyard?”

“What a coincidence.”

“No, not a coincidence.” He sits back down. “We also found hair and finger prints in your parents’ blood. Forensics is confirming it’s yours as we speak.”

“So what are you going to do?” I challenge. “Imprison me? Execute me? I’m already going into the Games.”

“I can make sure you never come back.”

“See, but you don’t want to do that.” He grunts. “You know why? Because District Ten needs another victor—”

“Gania won three years ago—”

“Yeah, but that merely made us noticeable to the Capitol. We’re tied among the Career districts for the most victors, so we need another victor if you want to have the Capitol cherish us, not just notice us.”

“We don’t need—”

“Yes, we do need the Capitol’s adoration. Most of the district is in poverty; you know well enough that the number of children taking tesserae resembles that of District Twelve. So yes, we do need another victor if you want money, if you care about your people.”

He stays silent for a few moments. “So what do you suggest we do? Just exonerate you for murdering your parents?”

“Oh, my parents are dead?” I feign innocence. “Oh, I can’t die now. I need to make it home for my sister. She won’t be able to survive on her own.”

“You don’t have a sister.”

“Find me one.” I lean back in the chair. “The Capitol will love it; I can practically see all the donations piling up.”

He stands up abruptly, walking towards the door. “You’re narcissistic and psychotic, you know that?”

“And you’re a mayor who doesn’t care about his people, threatening a tribute, whose time is already limited, of guaranteed death.” I salute him farewell. “I can’t wait to see what you do.”

He slams the door shut behind him.

Destry Torkili - Head Mentor (from District Ten)
My twin brother and I stand in the lobby of the Justice Building. Since our co-mentor, Gania, wanted to spend some private time with her cousin before the frenzy of “preparing for the Hunger Games” began, we decided to wait for Taneli to finish his farewells. We didn’t have the chance to see his visitor enter, but we’re hoping to offer some condolences once they exit—or, at least, I’ll offer my condolences, since my brother is rather emotional stunted.

“Who do you think it is?” my brother asks. “His parents? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?”

“I’d assume it’s his parents. They’re probably asking why he volunteered.”

“We vol—”

“No, you volunteered. And I was forced into the Games with you.” For the 3rd Hunger Games, the twist was that only twins could be reaped, with each district required to send one set despite the traditional gender rules. “I didn’t want to volunteer.”

“But we’re alive, aren’t we?” He speaks as if everything is black-and-white. “So you can’t be mad at me now.”

“I still can—” I pause when I see the man exiting Taneli’s room. “Is that Mayor Agustin?”

“It sure is.” He waves to the mayor. “Mayor Agustin, what are you doing here?”

“Ah, Armin, Destry, pleasure to see you.” He smiles politely. “I was talking about some official business I had to clear with your tribute.”

“What happened?” I raise my eyebrow. “Is he in trouble?”

The mayor takes a minute before responding, “No, he isn’t. His parents were found dead this morning.”

“Murder?” my brother asks. I nudge him in the ribs. “What? If he’s here, it must be something serious.”

“You can’t just assume—”

“No, your brother’s right,” the mayor confirms. “It was murder. Very brutal. Needed to ask if he knew anything about it.”

“How’d they d—”

“That’s not the concern here,” I interrupt my brother. “Is he a suspect?”

“No, no, not at all.” Despite his words, the mayor doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s just standard protocol.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Look who’s being rude now,” my brother mumbles.

“I’m just asking. I think we should know if we have a murderer as—”

“Aren’t you guys murderers?” the mayor asserts. I don’t know how to respond; I’m taken aback by the comment. “Anyways, I should be going. I’ve already wasted enough time here.”

As the mayor walks away, my brother snickers. “Damn, he really got you, didn’t he?”

“I’m not going to mentor someone who killed his parents.”

“Well, you don’t even need to.” My brother shakes his head. “Your Head Mentor, remember? You don’t have to worry about specific tributes.”

“You don’t mind mentoring a criminal?”

“No.” The fact that he says it so matter-of-factly, so cooly, makes me nauseous. “Besides, we don’t even know if he did it. The mayor said it was protocol.”

“Either way, I plan on figuring it out.”

Lifelines (D5 Train Ride)
TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Zephyrin Greer - District Five Male
Although the exterior of the train looked large, I’m stunned by the vastness of its interior. A single car contains both a mini-bar and a general living room with two long couches, a cushioned chair, and a mahogany coffee table. Another car has a large dining room with an overhead chandelier, and the one next to it, nearest to the conductor car, apparently has a gourmet kitchen, although it’s off-limits to tributes. Everything appears refined and expensive; I should’ve probably expected it, since it’s used for Capitol officials outside of the Hunger Games season, but it’s still. . . overwhelming.

I always thought District Five was a beautiful place, and I’ve never imagined nor dreamed about living anywhere else. (Arguably, my family is pretty well off, so I’ve never dealt with half the cruelties the working class face.) Yet somehow, the sheer beauty of the Capitol is enticing. If I weren’t already engaged, I would marry the Capitol, no doubt.

“There you are!” my cousin Bronsen says, entering the car. “I was wondering where you went.”

“I’ve just been looking around.”

“Have you seen the bedrooms here yet? I swear, they’re twice the size of my childhood bedroom. Took me by surprise the first time.”

“Is it the same size of the one in your new home?”

“Bigger.” He moves behind the mini-bar. “Do you want something to drink? An old fashioned? A whiskey tonic? They have practically everything here.”

“Just a beer, I probably shouldn’t be drunk when we reach the Capitol.”

“Understandable.” He grabs two beers from the refrigerator, twists off the caps, and hands one to me. “So, it looks like you’re taking this pretty well.”

“Yeah.” I take a swig of the drink. “I don’t know if I’m in shock or just really good at handling stress.”

“The latter undoubtedly, you were the only one not crying when I was reaped.” He chuckles. “Wow, that seems so long ago.”

“Yeah, it does.”

We sit in blissful silence for a few moments, sipping our beers as if we were back on his couch in District Five. Out of all our cousins, we were the closest in age, so we’ve practically been raised together; honestly, I know more about him and his personal life than I do about my younger sisters. He’s going to be the best man at my wedding, assuming I don’t die before the ceremony.

“So if I’m going to the Capitol, does this mean I get to meet Leith?” I ask casually.

Leith Taliesin was Bronsen’s co-victor and lover in the arena, and the two have maintained their relationship since. There was some drama last year between the two, but it’s allegedly been resolved; rumor has it, the two are planning on getting married soon, yet Bronsen has constantly told me otherwise. But now, I’ll hopefully be able to hear both sides of the story, and I’ll maybe learn more about what happened last year.

“Eh, I don’t know, maybe.” He smiles. “But don’t get your hopes up, he’ll be busy mentoring his tributes.”

“Do you know who they are yet?”

“Well, we were the last reaping, so the official list should be out.” He grabs the tablet resting on top of some magazines off the coffee table. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, Caius Fulbright has already published his initial reactions.”

He opens the tablet, scanning each app until he finds and clicks on the one titled “Current Tribute Status.” A grimace appears on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Leith’s tribute is thirteen years old, so he’s definitely going to be busy.”

“So I’m not going to meet him?”

“It depends on how much effort he gives.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, when tributes are so young and so meek, mentors can claim they’re a ‘dead man walking,’” he explains. “If they do, they’re no longer able to accept money from sponsors until after the first twenty four hours of the Games have passed.”

“So mentors can just give up on their tribute?” My stomach aches from the very thought. “Why would they do that?”

“Sometimes, it’s better.” He shrugs. “The money they earn then goes to their district partner, and if both are deemed ‘dead men walking,’ the money goes straight to the district.”

“Have you ever declared a tribute as a ‘dead man walking’?”

“No,” he says firmly. “But I know some people who have, like the mentors for Nine and Twelve who aren’t even from there.”

“That’s just wrong.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.” He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s just something that happens.”

“Still. . .” I sigh. This conversation needs to change. “Have the initial reactions come out yet?”

“Ah, let me check.”

He clicks on a different app, this one labelled “Hunger Games News.” There’s a handful of articles related to the 20th Hunger Games, the most recent being about the Victory Tour from six months ago, and a single article about the twist for the 21st Hunger Games.

“It doesn’t look like anything’s out yet,” he confirms. “But it’ll probably come out within the next hour or so.”

“So what should we do?”

“Talk and drink.” He nods towards the beer in my hand. “And you can tell me about what’s new with you and Acacia.”

“Nothing much, just planning the wedding and everything.”

“That’s gotta be stressful.”

“Undoubtedly.” I chuckle. “Man, I still can’t believe the wedding is in two months, assuming I’m still around.”

“Don’t start freaking out on me now.” He points a finger at me accusingly. “‘Cause then I’ll start freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” I laugh. “I’m just trying to be real.”

“And those are different because. . .”

“Because I’m not trying to sugarcoat it to myself and convince myself that I’ll win, but I’m not exactly terrified of my fate.”

“Why?”

“Because my mom taught me that ‘everything happens for a reason.’” I nudge him in the shoulder. “Besides, if your monkey-brain can win, I think I can too.”

“Touché.”

Jenikka Amias - District Five Female
I stand in the middle of my designated bedroom, feeling an odd mixture of fearfulness and wonderment. It’s nearly twice the size of my room at home, and the bed could fit me and my younger siblings comfortably. There’s even a colorful painting adjacent to the dresser that probably costs more than my entire house. Is this what the Capitol is like? Extravagant furniture, gigantic rooms, and expensive artwork? If so, I don’t like it.

I want to be back in District Five.

But I know that’s not a possibility—not yet, I vainly assure myself—so I carefully take a seat on the edge of my bed, as if it could collapse under my weight at any moment. I can’t deny that the room is nice, beautiful even, and it’s somewhat promising to know the Capitol cares for its tributes. (At least, they care as much as a butcher cares for a cow before it’s slaughtered.) Maybe I’ll adjust to it throughout the week, maybe I’ll expect everything to be large and luxurious; but for now, this is all foreign territory and I’m a terrified immigrant.

I jolt to my feet when someone knocks on the door.

“Jenikka, are you in there?” a man asks. I recognize the voice immediately and frown. “It’s Flick. Can I come in?”

Flick Hewlitt won the 14th Hunger Games when he was sixteen years old, a fact I was retaught every year because he was District Five’s first victor. His victory provoked minor backlash from Districts One and Two, claiming that the Gamemakers’ mutations unjustifiably targeted their tributes, yet no official lawsuit was ever filed. Although he is praised as a celebrity in my district, I can barely stand the sight of him because he failed to bring my brother home the next year. I wonder if he stills remembers, or if he’s stopped seeing his tributes as people.

“Yeah, you can come in.” I’m surprised my voice doesn’t waver, despite my immediate urge to scream. He walks into the room. “What do you want?”

He raises an eyebrow at my brashness. “Are you mad at me?” I shiver at his authoritarian tone. “Because that would be a stupid way to start things off with your mentor.”

“Maybe I am, maybe—”

“No, stop talking right there.” He raises a hand to silence me. “You realize I’m the only one that’s going to help you in the arena, right? I’m your lifeline now.” His expression darkens. “So you better get over whatever feelings you have and stop playing this little ‘rebellious’ game of yours.”

He opens the door to leave. “Where are you going?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I thought you’re supposed to help me!”

“Only when you want help.” He stares at me from outside the room. “It’s your death, not mine. Do whatever you want.”

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, tears form in my eyes and stream down my face. He doesn’t remember my brother Ferric at all, isn’t regretful nor apologetic at all. He doesn’t care about me, about his tributes. It’s not a surprise his tributes never last long in the arena, and now, I’m going to be on that list.

“No,” I mutter, wiping away my tears. “He needs to care.”

With more courage and determination than I’ve had in my life, I leave the room to track him down. I’m unsurprised when I find him in the bar car, pouring himself a glass of hard liquor. Bronsen and Zephyrin sit on a couch in the middle of the room, raising an eyebrow when I stomp in. I don’t care if they’re here; I need to say what I want to say.

“You killed my brother.”

“Excuse me?” Flick scoffs. He stops pouring his drink. “Please elaborate.”

“You killed my brother because you didn’t care,” I stress. “And you’re going to kill me because you don’t care.”

“And your brother is. . .”

“Ferric, the first tribute you mentored!” I want to punch him in the face. “Do you really not remember or are you just acting stupid?”

“It’s been years—”

“Six years!”

“So what?” He throws his hands in the air. “Do you want me to apologize? Do you want me to say ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’? Or are you just finding another reason to be mad at me?”

“I think I’m justifiably—”

“No, you’re not!” The whole world seems to go silent. “You’re mad because you were reaped, because you’re going to die. And you want to blame me?” He shakes his head. “You’re the stupid one here.”

He storms past me, drink in hand.

“Where are you going now?”

“Anywhere but here.” He turns to me in the doorway. “And if you follow me, I might actually kill you.”

“What’s his problem?” Zephyrin asks.

“He gets like this when he’s in withdrawal,” Bronsen clarifies.

“Wait, withdrawal!” I don’t feel apologetic that both of them flinch at my scream. My world is slowly crumbling apart, one piece at a time. “Withdrawal from what exactly?”

“Uh. . . coke.”

“Like cocaine? My mentor is a cocaine addict?”

“It’s more common than you might think. It helps—“

“It helps?”

“Wait, have you done coke before?” Zephryin asks his cousin.

“I would’ve told you if I did.” Bronsen turns back towards me. “Anyways, yes, it helps with some of the bad memories. I know it sounds bad, but without it, he can’t mentor at all.”

“So my lifeline in the arena is my mentor, and his lifeline is coke?” I laugh. “I’m getting a drink.”

“You’re thirteen!”

“I’m thirteen and going into the Hunger Games with a coke addict for a mentor.” I unscrew the vodka bottle’s cap. “I think I deserve a drink, don’t you?”

He stays silent.

It's Only Us (D9 Train Ride)
<p style="text-align:right;">TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Farah Cybele - District Nine Female
Since District Nine is located right next to the Capitol, we’re supposed to arrive before noon. We won’t even know half our competition before we’re preparing for the Games. But, it works out well due to District Nine’s lack of victors. This gives us a chance to meet our mentor, a victor from Two, and discuss our general strategy. Maybe he’ll tell us how to defeat the bloodthirsty Careers, assuming he actually wants us to win. His district patriotism might be strong, but I guarantee he’ll want to do anything to stop being a mentor for a poor district.

“Ooh, the District Four results just came in!” Valentia Ives, my district escort, chimes from the adjacent couch. She’s the definition of a pure Capitolite: a ocean green, teal, and violet mohawk with her sides shaved; pink eyebrows; red lips; and a love for the Hunger Games. “It looks like it’s one volunteer and one reaped tribute.”

“They didn’t have two volunteers?”

“They would’ve had two,” she says, tapping on the tablet in her hand, “but the girl declined.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the Hunger Games! Who wouldn’t want the opportunity?”

I bite back my retort.

“Anyways, we won’t know the next batch of tributes for another thirty minutes.” She stands up, placing the tablet on the coffee table. “Do you want me to get you anything? Some food? A drink?”

“A pack of cigs.”

She curls her lip. “Oh, those things are disgusting! They’re going to kill you!”

“Not if the Games kill me first.”

“A pack of cigs coming right up!” Her cheeks turn a bright red. “Is there anything else you want me to grab?”

“Some chocolate.”

She nods and leaves the room.

I grab the abandoned tablet off the coffee table, and I’m surprised it unlocks from my fingerprint. The Capitol must not care that much about security, or they gave all tributes access to it. Either way, I’m happy. After scanning each page, I click on the app labelled “Betting Table.” But, since some tributes still have to be reaped, our chances of survival haven’t been calculated yet. I close the app and open another, this one labelled “Current Tribute Status.”

“Well damn.” I grimace when I see the other tributes.

Districts One, Three, Four, Seven, and Nine already have tributes, so their profiles are accessible. The tributes from One and Four look powerful and beautiful. Even if they weren’t Careers, they would gather a lot of sponsors. The boy from Three is going to die in the bloodbath; he’s too young to survive long. But the girl might be a threat, assuming she’s as smart as she looks. Both tributes from Seven are scary, especially the girl whose mother was a victor.

If the other districts reap similar tributes, I’m screwed.

“Here you go!” Valentia chimes from the doorway, carrying a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a chocolate bar. “It was easier to find than you would think.”

“Thank you so much!” I smile, tossing the tablet aside.

“You’re welcome.” She hands me the items. “You know, Havan is crying in his bedroom. Maybe you can go talk to him, calm him down a bit.”

“I’m not his mother.”

“No, but you’re his district partner.” She sits down next to me. I shift so our knees don’t touch. “You two are in this together, whether you like it or not.”

“Why do you care?”

“You know, I remember your sister.”

“What?”

“Your sister, Amandine Cybele. I mean, you two have the same last night, so I just assumed—”

“She was my cousin.”

“Well, I remember her nonetheless.” She rests her hand on my knee. “I may enjoy the Hunger Games as much as the next Capitolite, but I do care for my tributes. It’s not easy coming from a losing district.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” She doesn’t recognize my sarcasm. “Go check on Havan. Trust me, he’ll appreciate it.”

Havan Thorpe - District Nine Male
I always wanted to kiss a girl, to fall in love, to get married, to have children. It sounds stupid, but it’s been a dream of mine for years. Now that I’ve been reaped, though, I’ll never have the chance to do any of those things. The chances of me winning are slim: nobody has ever won in District Nine and the youngest victor was fifteen years old. At this point, I can only pray that my inevitable death is as painless as possible.

My tears are gone, dried up from me lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling in defeat. I’m going to die; it’s as plain and simple as that. There’s no point in crying anymore. Would I really want to be remembered (if anyone remembers me) as the crybaby from Nine? Obviously not. So I might as well enjoy the luxuries of the Capitol while I can.

I jolt upright when someone knocks on the door.

“Havan?” It’s my district partner, Farah. “Hey, are you still in there?”

“Yeah, come in!” I wipe the tear stains off my cheek.

“I thought I heard you crying.” She sits near my feet at the edge of my bed. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Just preparing for my death.”

“Preach.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her pocket. “Do you want one?”

“I’ve never smoked before,” I admit, but I grab one anyway. “How do I do it?”

“Well you light this end.” She demonstrates with her own cigarettes. “Put it in your mouth, then take a breath.” A puff of ashen smoke escapes her lips. “You’ll feel a tingle in your throat.”

I cough as soon as I try to inhale, and my eyes become watery.

“Don’t worry! I coughed the first time I smoked, too. But you’ll get the hang of it. Just try taking a smaller hit.”

When I try again, I inhale a little less, and I surprisingly don’t cough. “I did it!”

“Yes, you did.” She smiles. “You’re a natural.”

I don’t know if being a natural smoker is a compliment, but I smile anyway. My parents would be frowning if they saw me right now. They were huge critics towards drugs, and they’d threaten to send me to rehab if I even touched a cigarette. But they also haven’t gone into the Hunger Games before. I’m in new territory, so I get to make the rules.

“I wonder what our competition is like.”

“They’re terrifying,” Farah admits. “I saw only a handful of them, and they look fierce. I’d be surprised if I survived the bloodbath.”

“Which means I’ll die before we even enter the arena.”

“Hey, don’t freak out on me now.” She places her hand on my calf. “I’ll be there for you.”

“We’ll be there for each other,” I correct.

“And maybe one of us will make it out of the arena, despite our odds.”

“Maybe.”

The Scars We Hide (D11 Train Ride)
<p style="text-align:right;">TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Makari Amazu - District Eleven Male
In my frayed button-down and black dress pants, I look different: my features appear more defined and my posture seems more professional. Even my frizzy hair appears purposefully messy rather than a result of my laziness. I wonder what the Capitol thought of me during the reaping. Are they criticizing my fashion? Laughing at my subpar outfit? Or do they recognize my limited options? Do they realize that the districts, especially the outlying ones, are not the Capitol? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

When I start unbuttoning my shirt, I see them: the white scars against my dark body. Faint near the shoulders, but prominent on my back. Long, thin scars from multiple whippings that cascade down my back in a spiderweb. It’s my punishment for preserving my HIV-positive grandmother’s life. She’s barely able to feed my sister and I, so buying the necessary medicine wasn’t an option. I should be happy they haven’t executed me yet, but I guess even Peacekeepers have a heart. It’s the price I’m willing to take to keep my family alive.

I frown when I hear Fresia, my district partner, argue with her mother outside my bedroom. She should be happy she has a caring mother in the first place. Mine abandoned us after my sister was born, dropping us off at our grandparents and never coming back. I hate to say it, but I wish she’s dead. I wish the regrets every decision she ever made because my sister and I are practically orphans now. My grandma only has so much time left. I just wish she lasts until my sister’s eighteenth birthday so she isn’t forced into the foster system.

The yelling grows louder. I can’t take it anymore. People really fail to recognize their blessings. I toss on a shirt and open the door.

“Can you two stop yelling?” The two immediately close their mouths.

“Tell them off, son,” Amara Copperdust, my mentor, says.

“I was just telling my mom—” Fresia begins, but I cut her off.

“No, you two need to grow up and start acting like adults. This is ridiculous! Poppi, I honestly would hae expected more from you.”

The woman in question crosses her arms. “And what gives you the right to talk to me like that?”

“Well, we’re all in the same boat now, aren’t we?” She purses her lips. “And if you won’t be mature enough, then I will. Seriously, act like a mother and a mentor for your daughter. No one is to blame here.”

“You have guts, I give you that.” Poppi glares at her daughter. “Maybe I should mentor him instead.”

“No, because you would deliberately sabotage my chances if it meant your daughter survived.”

She raises her eyebrow. “You don’t think I’d be a good mentor?”

“I think your motherly instincts would override that.”

I’m surprised she doesn’t fight back. That means I won the argument.

“Now, you two need to talk it out, preferably using your inside voices. Let me know when you finally figure it out or we arrive at the Capitol; whichever comes first.”

That being said, I slam the door behind me.

For a moment, I think they’re about to start shouting again, but I’m pleasantly surprised when I hear footsteps walking away from my room. Relieved, I lean my back against the door and slide down to the ground. I bite my tongue when a sharp pain pokes my butt cheek, suppressing my yelp.

I smile when I pull my sister’s necklace out of my back pocket. At first, my grandma wanted to give me her most prized possession: her silver wedding ring. Although my grandpa died before I was born, she hasn’t taken it off in decades. But she told me she wanted to die wearing it, so I refused. If I died with it, she would never be able to look at it again, much less wear it. I couldn’t do that to her.

My sister’s necklace, though, was a present from me for her fourteenth birthday. It was her golden birthday, so I had to buy her something special. I picked up extra shifts on the plantations, and I spent my nights doing inventory at the market. When I saw a shipment with a silver, dog-tag necklace, I asked the owner about it. He gave me a massive discount so I could buy it before her birthday, and I personally engraved it. It reads:

<p style="text-align:center;">To my lovely sister, Who is stronger than she looks, smarter than she admits, and more courageous than she believes. You will always be loved.

If I die in the arena, I hope she still keeps the dog-tag. It holds too much worth, too much symbolism, to just go to waste.

No, I need to make it home. For my family.

Fresia Blodwyn - District Eleven Female
My mother and I sit on adjacent couches in the main car, looking everywhere except at each other. We haven’t spoken a single word since Makari yelled at us. Amara stands next to the mini-bar, arms crossed. She’s stated, numerous times, that we’re both acting childish and immature. At least I have a right to be childish and immature; I’m only sixteen years old after all. But my mother—well, she has to get over herself. She is the legal adult here.

“Are one of you going to say something?” Amara asks, a deep frown on her lips. “Or will Makari really be waiting in his room until we reach the Capitol?”

“I don’t have anything to say to her,” I snort.

“Nor do I.”

“Okay, you two are seriously acting so toxic right now.” Amara sits down on the chair in front of us, crouching forward with her elbows on her knees. “You’re both channeling your anger into each other when you’re really mad at the system.”

“I didn’t know you became a therapist.” My mom raises an eyebrow. Since she was Amara’s mentor, she’s always treated her as an inferior. “When did this happen?”

“When I realized you two needed therapy.” She turns towards me. “You’re upset that you were reaped, and you’re blaming your mother for it.” She turns towards my mother. “And you’re upset because you think the reaping was rigged.”

“Incorrect.” My mom glares dagger at me. “It’s because my daughter’s pregnant.”

Amara’s eyes go wide, and she leans back in her chair. “I did not know this.”

“Exactly. The ‘Arena Baby’ is going into the Games with a baby of her own. The Capitol is just going to love this.”

My mother and her boyfriend went into the Hunger Games seventeen years ago. She was almost eight months pregnant at the time, but she refused to abort nor deliver me early for the sake of my survival. If she was going to die in the arena, she was going to die with me. When I was born on the fifth day of the Games, I earned the nickname “Arena Baby.” After that, the sponsors showered my mom in gifts. (One could even say we had a baby shower in the arena.) Unfortunately, my father still died in the arena during the finale, so I don’t remember him.

I guess this means it’ll be my second time in the arena.

“How far along are you?” Amara asks me, looking at my stomach. “You’re not really showing.”

“Only six weeks.”

“I swear, I should’ve never let her have a boyfriend.” My mother crosses her arms. “Then this would’ve never happened.”

I shrug. “Or we could’ve never known the father.”

“Now you’re just trying to annoy me.”

“So what’re you going to do?” Amara asks me. “You know, with the baby.”

“I have no idea.” I glance towards my mother. She frowns. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so mad at you.”

“I might’ve overreacted a little too.” That’s the best apology I’ll ever get from my mom. “You’re young, you’ll make mistakes. I shouldn’t be so critical.”

“Thank you.”

“Amara, go get Makari.” My mom looks to her co-mentor. “We should start discussing our plan if we want these kids to survive.”

An Explosion (D12 Train Ride)
<p style="text-align:right;">TUESDAY, JULY 7th, 1663 P.A.

Emeri Malloy - District Twelve Female
Ever since I first visited the mines, I’ve always hated tight quarters. There’s no fresh air to breathe nor any means to escape. If someone were to get trapped, they’re as good as dead. My mom claims this is why I’m a dancer: I enjoy the space, the freedom, the opportunities. While the majority of the district is confined underground, I’m on the stage. I was born at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The Capitol should have been my home.

I unbuckle my beige character shoes, letting them drop to the floor with a thud. They’re the most expensive shoes I own, and they’re versatile: I can wear them for formal events and dance recitals. That is, if I ever dance again. It won’t be a possibility if I don’t make it out of the arena. The thought alone makes my stomach stir.

“Who would I be without dancing?” I whisper to my reflection.

In the mirror, I look meek. My face looks immature and childish: a narrow nose, olive eyes, thin eyebrows, small ears, bony cheeks, and a flat jaw. It’s fitting that my straight, dirty blonde hair is styled in a simple braid. But my body resembles a dancer: lean yet strong. Although my arms are slender, my core is toned and my legs are muscular. After all, dancing is a sport. I don’t know why people are always surprised I’m in shape.

“I would be nothing.”

''“You just have to find other interests,” my mother told me. “You’re young, you still have so much to learn.” ''

“But dancing—”

''“Honey, you won’t get far with dancing.” My mother frowned. “I’m not trying to sound mean, but you might not even walk again, much less dance.” ''

''I looked at my broken leg. “Topher wanted me to keep dancing.” ''

''“Honey, you can’t keep living your life for him.” She placed her hand on my thigh. “I know he was your partner, but he’s dead, sweetie. You just have to accept that.” ''

“Mom, I told'' him I would keep dancing. For him.” I swatted her hand away. “I’m not going to break a promise to a dead man.” ''

“Emeri—”

“No, Mom, I’m not going to break my promise.”

''She kept her mouth closed. ''

I stare at the tattered blue ribbon pinned to my dress. Although the “First Place” lettering have faded over time, it’s my most valuable item. It marks the first time Topher and I won a competition. We were both new dancers at the time, but ever since, it became a passion. He even brought his into the arena, and once he died, he gave it to me in his will. So, I guess, his ribbon is the reason I was eligible for the Games.

It’s funny how everything plays out.

Isidore Crusoe - District Twelve Male
I was twelve years old when my father murdered my mother. Everyone believed it was an accident, but I know the truth. My parents weren’t a happy, loving couple; they hated one another. They just knew how to act in public. When my father was about to blow up our old house, he asked my mother to go back inside. He said he left something important, something vital for their business. But the moment she stepped through the front doors, he let off the explosives.

I became his partner then. (After all, it was a family business.) He taught me how to create bombs out of everything, as long as there was a source of electricity. But I was never as stupid as my mother. Once my father placed the explosives, I left the building. He’s unpredictable and impulsive. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill me if it meant getting a hefty paycheck.

I never want to be like him, but I’m afraid I might.

The Games change a person.

“Isidore, how are you doing?” Cress Mariposa, my district escort, asks.

I gag when I see her rainbow mohawk and cheetah print tattoos on the side of her head. Combined with her multiple piercings, she looks like a freak. Do Capitolites really find that attractive?

“What’s with the look?”

“The sight of you makes me sick.” I turn my back towards her. “Leave before I vomit.”

“Well that’s incredibly disrespectful,” she huffs. “Do you speak to your mother with that tongue?”

“I would if she were still alive.”

Cress is speechless.

“Are you going to just stand there like an idiot, or are you going to leave?”

She doesn’t move.

“You know what, I’ll just leave then.”

I wish I could slam the door behind me, but the sliding doors make it impossible. When I reach the front end of the train (before the restricted area), I slump down to the ground. I wish I could go into the arena with Cress and the other Capitolites. Killing them would be like killing evil itself. Besides, it only seems fair for the Capitol to get a taste of their own medicine. They’re not as pure as they like to believe.

When I notice an electrical panel against the wall, a plan formulates in my mind.

''As long as there’s a source of electricity. . . ''

Cress Mariposa - District Twelve Escort
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Am I really that repulsive to look at? Do I scare the tributes away? Maybe that explains why I’ve been trapped escorting District Twelve for the last decade. Everyone knows only the deadbeats are assigned to the lower districts. But I thought it was just for consistency. If escorts switched districts every year, the citizens would be confused and alarmed. They’re not exactly the smartest people.

I shake my head. No, I’m beautiful. It’s a fact my wife reminds me every morning while she’s making breakfast. Hell, I’ve been a model for years. The Capitol loves my style. What does a teenager from District Twelve know anyway? Their fashion is bland and dull. Seriously, it wouldn’t kill them to add some color to their clothes.

“Are you okay?” Emeri asks, peeking out from her bedroom door. She’s such a sweet little girl, not like most of the kids in her district. “I heard yelling.”

“Everything’s fine.” I check my makeup before turning to her. “Your partner is being a pain.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug. “Just got back to your room. I’m going to talk to him.”

She nods and closes the door.

I fix my posture, standing up as straight as possible, before walking towards Isidore. If he won’t listen to me, I’ll make him listen to me. I don’t want to act like a tyrant, but I will if I need to. Some kids just need some extra authority.

“Hey, you little piece of—“ I stop in the doorway when I see him fiddling with an electrical panel. “What are you doing?”

“None of your business.” He continues playing around with the panel.

“Stop that!” I order. He doesn’t listen. “Stop it before I call security!”

He ignores my threat. “You know, you only need one spark to create an explosion. Just one.”

“You’re a terrorist!”

“No, I’m a tribute.”

“Security!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “''Security! We have a terrorist on board!''”

“I wish you could’ve gone into the arena.” He finally turns towards me. I can see that he cut a few wires, but the rest looks normal. It doesn’t look like a bomb at all. “I would’ve killed you. But, since that’s not possible, I’ll take this instead.”

I laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but a few broken wires won’t do anything. Besides, the main panel is in the control station for this very reason.” I cross my arms and smile. “But I applaud you for your attempt.”

“I don’t need the main panel.” He pulls a small device out of his pocket. “Like I said, I only need some electricity.”

My smile drops. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Would I?” He smirks. “Are you trying to call my bluff?”

“Yes.”

“Your mistake.” He turns his back towards me. I can’t see what he’s doing but I hear a click. “Goodbye, Cress.”

“Isidore—”

BOOM!

<p style="text-align:center;">END OF PART I.

Keep It Fractured (At the Capitol)
<p style="text-align:right;">WEDNESDAY, JULY 8th, 1663 P.A.

President Mettius Quain - President of Panem
I run my hands through my dark, spiked hair. How could this happen? The tributes should have been checked before they entered the train, before the reaping began. If anyone possessed a pocketknife, they were to be detained. We don’t even allow the tributes to use sharp knives by themselves. Our job is to protect the tributes before they enter the arena, so everything they do is carefully watched.

This entire situation is a mess.

I glance up when someone knocks on the door. It’s the Supreme Commander. “Sir, we have the final casualty list.”

“How many?”

“Seven. Five dead, two injured.”

“And the tributes?”

“The boy died, but the girl is alive and in stable condition. She had some serious injuries to her torso and limbs, but the doctors say she’ll make it.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief. “And the cause of the explosion? We’re certain it was the boy?”

“Yes.” The man nods. “We have video evidence, and forensics is analyzing the scene right now. They haven’t found any signs of vehicular malfunction, so they’ll confirm it soon.”

“Good, good.”

“Sir, how would you like to proceed?”

I rub my fingers through my beard. “I have no idea.”

“Sir, you realize this might be a sign of another rebellion.”

“Yes, I do, thank you.” My tone drips with sarcasm. I lower my hand. “And if we want to stop the rebellion before it starts, we have to think strategically.”

“But sir, it’s only a matter of time—”

“That doesn’t mean we act impulsively!” He closes his mouth. “If we even glance at our past defeats, we’ll see that we always acted too early. We never thought it through; we just confronted the immediate issue.”

“So we shouldn’t do anything about the situation?” He raises an eyebrow. “The media will be all over this. Everyone will want to know what happened.”

“Then we give the media a story to tell.”

“That the District Twelve boy blew up the train?”

I shake my head. “No, because then we’ll look vulnerable.”

“So what do we tell them?”

I sit there for a moment and think. In the past, all the rebellions have been won by whichever side had the most unity. The Capitol was the most united in the First and Third Rebellion, but the districts were more communally united in the Second. If even one person betrayed their side, it meant imminent defeat. So if we want to prevent the rebellion, we have to attack it from its very heart: we have to stop the unity from forming.

“We’ll tell them that the train malfunctioned.” I stand up, move to the front of my desk and lean against it. “We’ll tell them District Six sent us a faulty train. They’re the reason District Twelve lost a tribute. And to rub it in, we’ll change the chariot theme to death and betrayal.”

“But sir, the chariot rides start in twelve hours.”

“They’re professionals, aren’t they?” I smile. “Let’s see what they can do.”

He nods. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, make sure all the forensics reports indicate that the train malfunctioned. Just in case those journalists get their hands on it.”

He nods and starts to exit the room.

“Oh, and make sure the girl is abled and healthy.” I sit back down behind my desk. “If that means giving her prosthetics, do it. We want to show the districts we care.”

“Will do.” He turns to me in the doorway. “And sir, make sure you get some sleep. You’ve been working all night.”

“Hey, nobody said being the president was easy.” I laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ll be well-rested for my speech today.”

Lar Verrucosis - District Nine Mentor (from District Two)
I groan when my phone buzzes for the nth time in the last twenty minutes. Through my window, I see that it’s still pitch black outside. Who would be calling so early in the morning? It’s just rude, especially since all mentors are required to keep their phones on during the Hunger Games season. Whoever it is, they should know better.

When it buzzes again, I roll over, grabbing it from the nightstand. The brightness of the screen initially blinds me, but I blink a few times until my eyes adjust. Fergus, one of the victors from One, has left me at least twenty text messages. His last one reads:

''LAR! WAKE UP! I NEED HELP!''

All traces of tiredness vanish as I bolt upright. Something serious must’ve happened. I toss on a pair of sweatpants and send him a quick text:

I’M UP!

He responds before I finish changing my shirt:

''Come to the D12 floor. It’s important''

After I leave my bedroom, I’m surprised when a waft of coffee fills my nostrils. Someone else is awake? At this hour? Either something catastrophic happened and all the other mentors are aware, or Ooma is suffering from insomnia again.

I blink when I see Daedalus in the kitchen, staring blankly at the oven clock. He’s supposed to be with the District Nine tributes. After all, he was assigned to be their mentor this year. But he hasn’t really been acting like himself since his daughter volunteered. I wonder if he’s even been up to District Nine floor, or if he’s just been lounging around here all night.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s startled by my question, nearly dropping his coffee mug. “Oh, you scared me.”

He’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. “Have you been up all night?”

“Yeah.” He blushes. Daedalus never blushes. “I wasn’t able to fall asleep.”

“Is it about Honoria?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at his coffee. “I’m scared for her, Lar. She volunteered for me, but. . . but I didn’t want that for her.”

“Okay, you’re really freaking me out right now.”

He sighs. “I’m freaking myself out right now.”

I stare at him for a moment, thinking. “What if we switched tributes?”

“What?”

“Like, if I mentor the District Nine pair and you mentor your daughter. Would that help?”

He looks like a puppy about to be adopted: hopeful and happy. “Ye—Yeah, that’d be incredible.” I’m afraid he’s about to give me a hug, but even that’s too out of character for him. “Thank you.”

“Great, now go get some sleep.” I walk towards the elevator. “I need to figure out what’s wrong with Fergus.”

“Oh, one of his tributes died.”

“What?” I whip around. “How?”

“Yeah, it’s been all over the news. Their train crashed on the way to the Capitol. Had a mechanical error or something.” He empties the rest of his coffee in the sink. “Apparently the girl will never walk again, so District Twelve is officially out of the competition.”

“No wonder he’s freaking out.”

“Yeah, and he’ll probably know the whole story.”

Laelia Lantbruk - District Ten Female
I’m already awake when my alarm goes off, having spent the entire night tossing and turning. Gania told me to talk to Taneli before we reached the Capitol, but I chickened out. It didn’t seem like the right time. (I don’t know if there ever will be a “right time,” but asking him after the reaping definitely seemed like a terrible idea.) What if he doesn’t like me, anyway? I’d just look like a love-struck idiot swooning over him. But then again, what if he does?

I can’t handle the waiting, the anticipation, the what-ifs. The sooner I get this off my chest, the sooner I can focus on winning the Games. If I lost my feelings for him once, I could lose them again. We both set our alarms at the same time, so I know he’s awake. All I have to do is walk across the hall and knock on his door. It’s literally the easiest thing I could do. So why do my legs feel heavy at the very thought?

I can’t do it.

But I do it anyway.

He opens the door with no shirt, unkempt hair, and half-lidded eyes. I can’t look away from his solid abs. Maybe I won’t be able to get over my feelings for him after all.

“Laelia?” My name sounds beautiful on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”

“I just had to ask you something.” I’m surprised I’m able to articulate the words so smoothly while my stomach spins in circles. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” He opens the door wider, and I squeeze past him. While he moves to sit on his bed, I stay still near the entrance. It’ll be easier to escape this way. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Why did you volunteer?”

“Why did I—What?”

“Because—look, I get if you were trying to be all romantic and volunteer for me, but that just destroys all of our chances.” When I notice his confused expression, I want to punch myself in the face. “Of course, I totally get if that’s not why you volunteered. I mean, it’s stupid for me to even think—”

“Laelia, wait.” He stands up and grabs my hand. My face burns when he intertwines our fingers. “I don’t think this ruins our chances at all.”

“You what?” I bite my cheek before I start smiling like a goof. “Are you saying that you like me too?”

His smile is as radiant as the sun. “Of course.”

I smile so wide that my lips hurt. “Well, that’s—”

“Taneli—“ My cousin stops in the doorway, staring at us. “Oh, Laelia. Hey.” She blushes. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you guys, but we just got some urgent news from home. It’s for you, Taneli.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know if you should be here, coz. It’s just for—”

“Don’t worry, you can tell her.” He pulls me into a sideways hug. “Besides, if I play my cards right, I might be able to call her more than my district partner.”

“Oh.” Gania looks from Taneli to me to our hands. “Well then. I’m sorry Taneli, but they found your parents dead after the reaping.”

“No, that can’t be true.” He breaks out of our hug, dropping to his bed in defeat. I’ve never seen him so emotional before, blinking the tears out of his eyes. “How did they die?”

“It looked like it was murder.”

“Oh my god.” He covers his eyes with his palms.

“Taneli, I’m so sorry.” I kneel down in front of him, placing my hands on his knees. “I’m so sorry someone did that to you.”

“It’s okay. At least I still have a reason to live.” He looks up at me with teary eyes. “You.”

My heart breaks into a million pieces.

Betrayed by Clothes (Chariot Rides)
<p style="text-align:right;">WEDNESDAY, JULY 8th, 1663 P.A.

Caius Fulbright - Master of Ceremonies
“Good evening, citizens of Panem, and welcome to the 21st Hunger Games!” I smile at the camera. “I am Caius Fulbright, Master of Ceremonies for the seventh year and counting.”

“And I’m Lucretia Laurent, Announcer of the Hunger Games for the eighth year and counting.” My beautiful co-host smirks at me. She’s such a dramatic person, and I love it. “In just a few moments, we’ll get our first glimpse at this year’s tributes.”

“Unfortunately, we will not be able to see all the tributes tonight.” I subtly push out my lower lip. Since I’ve been in front of the camera so much, I know it won’t pick up on my fake sadness. “Due to a train crash, neither tribute from Twelve will be here. Isidore Crusoe, their male tribute, died on-site. But Emeri Malloy, their female tribute, is alive and in stable condition. She’s expected to make a full recovery before the Games.”

“We would like to send our deepest apologies to Isidore’s family and the entire District Twelve. It’s unfair to see such a handsome young man die before he’s able—”

The national anthem begins, cutting Lucretia’s off mid-sentence. Our frowns shift to smiles in a second. The chariots are our favorite part of the Hunger Games: we get to see the districts and the Capitol come together. At this moment, we’re collectively one nation. We’re able to forget our past challenges and display the true greatness of Panem.

“You know what that means.” I look at Lucretia. “The chariots are off!”

Distinct One is always classically beautiful, no matter the theme. Their tributes were raised in a similar environment to the Capitol, so they don’t look awkward wearing rich gems. My eyes are drawn to the female tribute, Veira. Rubies are woven into her blonde hair, her black dress is embellished with rubies, and her lipstick and nails are bright red. She looks murderous yet greets with a wide grin and polite wave. Her district partner, though, looks uninterested. His three-piece suit resembles Veira’s dress: its base color is black and rubies are sewn into its shoulder pads and vest. But if his beauty won’t take him far with his sour mood.

“Someone must’ve peed in his cereal this morning,” Lucretia laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen District One with a pouty tribute.”

“It’s no wonder nobody volunteered,” I scoff. “Who would want to save a crybaby?”

District Two wears gladiator-style armor with silver blades sticking out of their bodies. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the masonry district exemplifies this year’s theme; it was practically made for them. In the corner of my eye, I notice Lucretia staring at the boy and his muscular, dark figure. Part of his torso is on display, the armor deliberately ripped in half, and a sword hilt protrudes from it. As the chariot passes us, I notice a bloodied blade stick out of his black. On the other hand, the girl’s armor is intact yet she has two throwing knives sticking out of her neck. Her hair is styled into a bun with specs of silver, and upon closer inspection, I notice they’re small daggers. Their stylists really overdid themselves this year.

“Now he looks like a victor,” Lucretia comments.

“He looks like someone you would like in your bed.”

“Oh, shut up!” She slaps me.

District Three is bizarre, as the tributes were drastically different outfits. The small boy wears a white lab coat, dark trousers, and bloodstained gloves. His dirty blond hair is spiked and frizzy, as if he had been struck by lightning. It would be more charming if he embraced the “mad scientist” costume, rather than looks like a timid child on Halloween. The girl wears a silver, bedazzled dress that look unnatural on her body. She’s much more of a “sweater vest and button-up” kind of girl. A horrendous style, but one unappealing people tend to wear. Some sparks of electricity seem to jump across her dress, so I guess that’s how she meets the “death and betrayal” theme.

“I wonder if their stylists even tried to talk to one another before the chariot rides.” I grimace. “They look like a mess.”

“That’s just the District Three way. Intelligent yet messy.”

My mouth drops when the next chariot struts out. The District Four stylists exceeded all of my expectations, especially since the theme was changed so suddenly. Their male tribute wears an aquamarine vest, unbuttoned to display his toned figure, and dark trousers. His chest and cheeks are covered in blue-gray glitter, accentuating his features. Meanwhile, his district partner wears a gorgeous, teal and aquamarine dress with a glittery torso. Seaweed is braided into her black hair, and her makeup is minimal but it works. A trail of water follows in their wake, and I recognize what they’re supposed to resemble: drowned victims.

“They’re stunning,” I breathe out. “The vest, the dress, the glitter. Everything is so well-executed. Their district should be proud.”

“I wish I could look good with that much cleavage.” Lucretia laughs. “But age does wonders to the body.”

“Darling, you always look good.”

“Caius, are you flirting with me?” She winks.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

I repress a laugh when I see the District Five pair, but not because of their costumes. The eighteen-year-old boy is over a foot taller than his thirteen-year-old district partner who has yet to grow into her features. But their outfits are mediocre. The boy is shirtless—his stylist is definitely trying to swoon sponsors with his muscular build—with jagged bolts of lightning painted on his chest and back. His dark hair is spiked, and his eye makeup is dark. He looks like a modern, devious Zeus. Meanwhile, the girl wears a golden, knee-length dress with blue lightning bolts sewn in random places. Her makeup is similarly dark, and she has a scowl plastered on her face. I wonder if she’s supposed to resemble a Greek goddess.

“Well, there isn’t much blood and betrayal in their costumes?” Lucretia scoffs.

“I think it’s more about the symbolism.”

“Well, nobody cares about symbolism unless it’s flashy and extravagant.” She looks at her nails in boredom. “You’d think their stylists would recognize that by now.”

The District Six pair wear matching olive green jumpsuits with two breast pockets and multiple stitched patches. A bulky black belt is tied around their waste, and their pant legs are tucked into old-fashioned boots. Their hands and cheeks are covered in charcoal, which much be a reference to the auto shops in Six. Neither tribute looks happy to be on the chariot; they stare straight ahead at the District Five chariot. I notice some minor smoke forming at their feet, becoming increasingly prevalent. Eventually, the smoke engulfs them.

“Are they on fire?” I scream, leaning forward for a closer look. “Was it intended? Who are their stylists?”

“Just wait.” My co-host raises her finger. “Desdemona and Tempeste created their costumes. Something’s going to happen.”

Sure enough, something does. The smoke evaporates as quickly as it appeared, revealing two unrecognizable warriors. Instead of the jumpsuits, the pair wear completely different outfits. The girl wears a colorful dress, extending so far that it drags along the ground. She has a bow in one hand, and a quiver of arrows is thrown over the other shoulder. (Is this her weapon of choice?) The boy wears a black romper, partially unbuttoned to show his chest, and dark sunglasses. He holds throwing knives in both hands. When he carelessly tosses one towards the sky, it explodes.

The crowd roars.

“Well, I’ll be.” I scan the program to find their names. “Lark Devereaux and Kaia Palani have left the audience screaming."

“They sure have.”

The Capitolites are still chanting for the District Six pair when the next tributes arrive. District Seven has no issues meeting the theme: both tributes have a bloody axe lodged into their heads. The boy wears a plaid, red and navy button-up, dark jeans, and hefty boots. He’s not smiling. (Him and the District Five girl should be friends.) The girl—Sylvie’s daughter, I remind myself—wears a matching plaid button-up, white shorts, and knee-high boots. Some audience members greet the newcomers with applause, but Lark is hogging the show with his exploding throwing knives. It’s disappointing that their impressive costumes are being outshone by the preceding pair.

“How do you think they got the throwing knives to explode?” Lucretia asks, head turn to the side. “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“But how about the District Seven pair?” I nudge her in the side. “Their costumes are pretty good, don’t you think?”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “I expected the axe-in-the-head stuff.”

“How?”

“Well, they’re the lumberjack district after all.”

The District Eight pair is unnecessarily disturbing—I wouldn’t be surprised if the cameras censored out their entire chariot. Their outfit consists of pieces of skin (or what looks like skin), sewn together to create a bodysuit. The seams are jagged and unprofessional, either due to artistic vision or sewing skin is not as easy as fabric. If their stylists were trying to draw the attention away from the District Six pair, it worked. But not desirably.

“Well, that’s. . . something,” Lucretia mumbles.

District Nine alleviates some tension with their mediocre outfits. The boy wears a white tuxedo with a bedazzled vest and lapel. He has bloody claw marks drawn all over his face, as if a jaguar mauled him. The girl wears a sleeveless, full-length white and gold dress with tiny jewels threaded into its hem. A knife sticks out of her heart, staining the surrounded fabric with its fake blood.

“So many of the tributes don’t seem to like it here,” Lucretia comments.

“It’s a big adjustment.” I shrug. “They’ll be better for the interviews.”

The District Ten pair smile when their chariot arrives, and I immediately notice they’re holding hands. (Is this a romance I smell?) They wear stereotypical cowboy outfits: a white-button up, a black vest with two holsters, dark jeans, and leather boots with rubber spurs. Their necks are wrapped in a whip, which their counterpart holds in their available hand, and their faces are whitened with makeup.

“This reminds me of last year’s Games.” I smile. “Remember how the District Ten round went?”

“When the boy strangled his partner with a lasso? Absolutely!”

“It was the most exciting round.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The District Eleven chariot is the last one to leave the chariot. (District Twelve couldn’t participate because their tributes were either killed or injured in the explosion.) The boy wears a floral suit jacket, white slacks, and brown shoes. Various flowers are tied into his hair. Since his face is covered in dark makeup and he holds a scythe, I assume he’s supposed to resemble the Grim Reaper himself. His district partner wears a strapless, flowery dress that’s long enough to touch the ground. Her red lipstick matches the rose in her hand, which she mindless plucks. As such drops each pedal, I’m happy it doesn’t explode when it touches the ground.

There’s already been too many explosions today.

“Aw, the Arena Baby is all grown up.” Lucretia smiles. “It looks like she’s following in her mother’s footsteps.”

“Don’t start calling out who the victor is so early.” I laugh. “We don’t even know what these tributes are capable of. Besides, so many of these tributes are related to victors.”

“Which means, this will be an interesting year!” She smiles.

“And. . . we’re off!” the cameraman says. “Great job, you two. Charming as ever.” In his earpiece, he says, “Camera four, zoom in on the President for his speech.”

Lark Devereaux - District Six Male
President Mettius Quain is a frightening person. Behind his fair complexion, tortoise-shell glasses, dark hair, stubbled beard, and expensive suit is a cold-blooded murderer. Rumor has it (and rumor is often based on truth), he poisoned his parents and older brother at the latter’s wedding ceremony. The newlywed was the heir to the throne, but with his demise, Mettius assumed the position. He’s young, cold, and calculating. Although he’ll be the best thing for the Capitol, he’ll be the worst thing for the districts.

As he begins his speech, Kaia nudges me in the side.

“What?”

“You have an observer.” She nods in the direction of the District Four pair. Sure enough, the boy is staring at me intensely. He quickly turns away when we make eye contact. “He’s been staring since we arrived.”

“Well, that can’t be good.”

“Maybe he remembers you from last year.” She shrugs. “You do look like your brother.”

“We were twins.”

“You’re still twins, even if he’s dead.” She frowns. “Clio is still my best friend, even if she’s gone.”

Clio was—is—Kaia’s best friend who was reaped years ago. It was the year that only children who took out tesserae could be reaped. Cisco and I were exempt because my parents actively refused to put us at an increased risk for the Games. But somehow, we both got reaped anyway.

“Besides, his best friend went into the Games last year, too.” She glances towards him. “Maybe he just wants to talk or something.”

“How do you know that?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Coilee showed me an article about how all of us are related to previous tributes.

Coilee Namaka won the Hunger Games less than a decade ago, and she remains the sole victor from Six. I don’t know much about her victory nor have I ever had an interest about it. (But maybe I should learn about it, since I am going into the arena now.) The only thing I know is that only girls could be reaped that year.

“Did you know there’s no information about how the District Three girl was eligible this year?” Kaia continues. “I think she did something that made her get reaped.”

“You think the Capitol tampered the reaping?” I whisper. The Capitol has ears everyone; one can never be too careful. “That’s illegal!”

“We’re in their home. They make the rules now.”

“Didn’t they always?”

Bryony Linden - District Seven Female
“Well, screw the District Six tributes,” Juniper mumbles as our chariot strolls into the stables. “They took all the spotlight away from us.”

“I thought you didn’t even care about the Games, anyway.”

Since I met Juniper, he’s actively verbalized his disdain for the Games and the Capitol altogether. He hates his parents, hates District Seven, hates Panem, hates everything. I don’t think he’s cared about anything in his life. If I were to bet on any of the tributes’ placements, it would be him: he’s going to die in the bloodbath.

“I don’t,” he scoffs, jumping off the chariot when it stops. He pulls the fake axe out of his head. “But I’d like to at least be recognized. Not everyone can be the child of a victor.”

“You still have training and the interviews.”

“Those don’t mean anything.”

“What are you talking about?” I yank the axe out of my head, grimacing when some artificial blood drips on my legs. “It gives the Capitol a chance to actually meet the tributes and know their abilities.”

He ignores my comment. “Do you think we’ll have a joint funeral?”

“What?”

“I mean, I know your mom’s a victor, but the funerals are always held together. It’s tradition or whatever. So when we die—”

“What makes you think we’re going to die?”

“Maybe if you were the only victor’s child going in the arena, I might think differently.” He crosses his arms. “But there’s six other people related to a victor. Your odds are slim.”

“The odds are often misleading.”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, you should start saying goodbye to your mom now. You’re going to die soon; you just have to admit it.”

I’m baffled. “Well. . . at least my mom’s not a slut.”

“No, but her daughter is.”

He walks away.

Baize Edmonia - District Eight Mentor
My scotch tastes incredibly sour, and I grimace with every sip. The stylists destroyed my tributes’ chances of earning a sponsor with their skin-sewn bodysuits. They couldn’t have created their normal, flamboyant outfit with different patches of fabric? Hell, I could come up with something more presentable with such a late notice. But no, they had to use skin instead. It’s even worse knowing they used real human flesh. Where did they find that?

“I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here.” I turn to see Emeric standing in the doorway. “The bar truly seems to be your best friend.”

Emeric Devere is one of the mentors from District Four who won his Games a year after mine. He reminds me of my boyfriend (albeit with more matured features): a fair complexion lightly tanned by the sun, honey blond hair spiked in the front, and a chiseled jawline with an untrimmed beard. The only difference is that my boyfriend died in the arena.

“What can I say?” I shrug, turning back to the bar. “It helps me think.”

“No, it kills your brain cells.” He sits in the chair next to me. “So, your stylists really screwed up your nephew’s chances.”

“Half-nephew,” I stress. “I didn’t even know he existed until I read that Capitol article.”

“Oh, my bad.” He blushes. “Your parents died when you were young, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what I told you.” I take a sip of my drink. “But that was a lie.”

“So your parents are alive? Do you know them?”

I nod. “At least my father is. I have no idea about my mother.” I sigh. “After I won, he claimed me as his. Wanted me to donate some of my earnings to save his sick wife.”

“You didn’t save your mom?”

“She wasn’t my mom, just my dad’s wife.” Another sip. “But yeah, I didn’t give him anything. It’s not like I owed him. The foster system wasn’t exactly a lovely place.”

“Damn,” he mumbles. “And the boy? What’re you going to do with him?”

“No idea.” I down the rest of my drink. “He’s a scrawny, twelve-year-old boy with no sponsors. Maybe I should just say he’s a ‘dead man walking.’”

“Or, you could actually try.” I frown when he moves the bottle of scotch away from me. “Sober up and find him sponsors. He didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t take your anger out on him.”

“What? I’m a vengeful person now?”

“Baize, you’ve always been a vengeful person.” He rests a hand on my shoulder. When I look up, he’s no longer there; in his place is my late boyfriend. “You’re going to regret it if you don’t help that boy out. So make something happen.”

Introductions (Training Day 1)
<p style="text-align:right;">THURSDAY, JULY 9th, 1663 P.A.

Tycho Searling - District Four Male
I groan loudly when there’s a knock on my door. Why did someone have to remember I exist? Isn’t it too early for this?

I roll to my side, glancing at the clock on my dresser. 9:47 a.m. it reads in bright blue lights. That means I’ve been lying in bed, fully awake, for almost one and a half hours now. Group training starts in thirteen minutes, but I don’t want to leave my bed. Hell, I’m probably the only Career to ever want to skip group training.

But I have my reasons.

I know I’ll see The Boy there. The Boy with the unblemished fair skin, messy brown hair, and adorable freckles. And I know he caught me staring during the chariot rides yesterday.

You’re being childish, my step-father’s voice whispers in my head. ''Get up and move! We didn’t raise a wimp!''

Well, I’m in the Capitol now. I don’t have to listen to his voice in my head anymore.

“Tycho, c’mon, training starts in like ten minutes!” Mayuri shouts, cracking the door open. “I’m coming in so you better be dressed!”

“I am, don’t worry,” I murmur, rolling onto my stomach. I bury my head in the pillow as my district partner sits beside me. “I just don’t want to go to training today.”

“Unfortunately, it’s required.” She places an empathic hand on my shoulder blade. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? I mean, we’re practically in the same boat right now.”

“No.” It’s partly muffled by the pillow. It takes me a moment before I register her words. “Wait, was that a pun because we’re from Four?”

“Not intentionally,” she chuckles. “Okay, then if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong, get dressed.” She tosses a pile of folded clothes—the avoxes must’ve brought them in early this morning—in my face. “If you’re not ready in three minutes, I’ll drag your ass down to the gymnasium, even if you’re in your boxers.” Her eyes dare me to question her abilities. “I might not look it, but I’m actually pretty strong.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Good.” She smiles like a shark. “Now go to the bathroom and get dressed. I’ll wait for you.”

The training outfit consists of a dark gray polyester shirt, black sweat shorts, cotton socks, and charcoal shoes. (How did they even figure out my shoe size?) Sewn onto both the sleeve and the pant’s leg is a raised patch with the tribute’s district number—mine reads “4”—outlined in silver.

Before I leave the bathroom, I wash my face and brush my teeth. Might as well try to look presentable in front of the Gamemakers.

In front of him, my brain supplies.

“Time’s up!” Mayuri barges through the door. The toothbrush falls out of my mouth. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried you weren’t gonna be dressed for a moment.”

“And yet you still came into the bathroom,” I manage through a mouthful of toothpaste.

She shrugs. “It was worth the risk.”

I roll my eyes, rinse out my mouth, and comb my fingers through my sandy hair to get rid of the bed head. After glancing in the mirror one last time, I turn towards Mayuri.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“See, was it really that hard?” she jokes, ruffling my hair as if we’ve been friends for years. I fix it on our way to the elevator. “I would have preferred to leave earlier to talk to the other Careers, but Cordelle thought we should stick together—do the whole ‘united front’ thing.”

Cordelle Vitka was the victor of last year’s Hunger Games, but I’ve avoided talking to her since I volunteered. I can barely look at her without remembering that she killed Verne, a boy that was practically my brother. She didn’t even bother to come to his funeral nor did she send her condolences to his family. (Usually, if the fallen’s partner won, the latter would talk about them at the funeral.) Then again, none of the District Four victors have ever killed their partner, so I guess it was a first for everyone.

“I think I’m going to try to be the leader,” Mayuri says as she clicks the elevator button. “No offense, but I’ve had enough of the strong boys always being the leader.”

“That’s under—”

I stop mid-sentence when the elevator doors open.

Just my luck.

The District Six pair is standing inside, talking and laughing with one another. But as soon as our eyes lock, their conversation dies and their smiles drop.

I hate that they’re afraid of us, but I understand why. We’re the Careers, the bloodthirsty jocks in the arena. They lived normal lives hoping they would never get reaped while we trained in academies for the Hunger Games. We have years worth of weaponry under our belt, but they’ll only have three days. Hell, I would be afraid of us.

“Your guys’ costumes were amazing,” Mayuri says as we step into the elevator. I’m taken aback that she’s starting a conversation with them. She’s not a normal Career. “And I thought ours were good.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” the girl stutters. She looks to the ground, blushing. “It was actually my friend’s design.”

“Wow, your friend must be very talented.”

“She was.”

Mayuri frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

The conversation ends after that.

When we reaches the basement, the pair from Six scuttle to join the other tributes. They try to get lost in the crowd, but my eyes keep drifting to The Boy. (I should learn his name so I can stop referring to him as “The Boy.”)

“You like him, don’t you?” Mayuri asks.

I gape at her. “I’m not—I don’t. . . what?”

“You like him,” she repeats. “Your cheeks were all rosy in the elevator, and you keep staring at him as if you wanted to take him to your bedroom and—”

“Shh, lower your voice!” I hiss, scanning the surroundings to see if anyone is listening. But nobody else is near the elevators. “Was I really that obvious?”

She shrugs. “Probably not. I’m just good at reading people.”

I groan, rubbing my palms into my forehead. “I’m totally screwed, aren’t I?”

“Maybe a little.” She places her hand tenderly on my shoulder. “Romance in the arena is always bound to end badly. But don’t worry, you’ll have me and the rest of the Careers.”

I wish that was more reassuring.

Veira Faustus - District One Female
One of the first lessons I learned at the Career Academy was to always you know your enemy: their name, their fighting style, their weapons of choice, their strengths, their weaknesses. Even knowing their dominant hand could be useful in a fight. If you know your opponent, you can’t be surprised by them. And because of that, you can’t be defeated.

As Head Trainer Uphelia begins her tour of the gymnasium, I glance at my competitors.

Zephryin from Five—I learned all the other tributes’ names on the train ride—is the tallest non-Career, followed closely by Taneli from Ten. Based on their muscular figures, I’d expect them to favor melee combat. But they also need more food than others to accommodate their weight, so unless they know how to hunt, they’ll be weakened if we cut off their cornucopia supplies.

Nadina from Eight is the tallest girl, standing a couple inches under six feet. Her nonchalant demeanor might be intimidating to the others, but I’m calling her bluff. Eyes don’t lie, and her hazel eyes say that she’s damaged beyond repair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she breaks before we enter the arena.

I’m hesitant to claim that Bryony from Seven and Fresia from Eleven are potential threats, even though their parents are victors. It could go either way: they could be dangerous if they have already been trained or they could be average if their mothers hoped they wouldn’t be reaped. I guess I could also add Laelia from Ten to the “potentials” list, as her cousin won the Games a few years ago. But for all three of them, it comes down to how well they handle their weapons of choice.

Without their chariot costumes, the District Six pair, Lark and Kaia, pose no threat. They look scrawny in their training outfits, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t even touched a weapon before last night. Their stylists may have earned them sponsors, but their mediocre training scores will destroy their chances.

Eulalia from Three, Juniper from Seven, and Makari from Eleven are oddballs, which alone makes them the largest threats. If you can’t anticipate someone’s moves, you can’t dodge their attacks. They might go from a defensive fight style to an offensive one in a heartbeat. And while Eulalia is not as strong as the other two, her intelligence (assuming she is like most people from her district) could overpower anyone. The longer they survive in the arena, the higher their chances of winning will be.

The other non-Careers are unremarkable. Skagen from Three hasn’t stopped shaking since he came to the gymnasium. Jenikka from Five is the shortest and the weakest of the tributes. Octavian from Eight is only twelve years old. Havan from Nine looks like a pushover, and his district partner, Farah, smells like cigarette smoke. I highly doubt any of them will last more than a few minutes in the arena.

“If you have a question about any of the equipment, feel free to talk to the instructors. One should be at each station,” Uphelia concludes. “You are all free to start training.”

The crowd disperses, and I watch where each tribute goes.

Zephyrin, Juniper, Bryony, Nadina, and Taneli go to the weapons section. It’s a bold yet respectable choice. Maybe they know more about weaponry than I presumed.

Fresia walks to the plant identification station. I wouldn’t be surprised if she already knew everything; she is from Eleven. But wasting time refining her skills will prevent her from learning new, valuable information.

Kaia goes to the camouflage paint station, whereas Lark goes to the snare station. I expected the pair to stick together during training, but I guess they decided to branch out. They’ll probably still be allies, anyway.

I snort when I see Eulalia and Jennika join Lark at the snare station. Their conversation—that is, if they even speak to each other—must be interesting.

At the same time, Laelia joins Kaia at the camouflage station. I guess the cowgirl isn’t going to follow in her cousin’s ruthless footsteps. After all, camouflage paints are rare in the arena, and it takes hours to disguise oneself with their surroundings. It’s a stupid excuse for a “weapon.”

Havan and Farah disappear to the bathroom. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tamper with the smoke alarms and light a cigarette. It seems like they’re more interested in enjoying their last few days than trying to survive.

Skagen and Octavian go to the fire-starting station together. It’s truly a pointless skill to learn for the arena. If you start a fire, the smoke will alert any other tribute in the general vicinity. It’s like you’re screaming for someone to come kill you.

Makari is the last tribute (besides the Careers) to settle on a station. He decides to learn the essentials about hunting. It’s an incredibly smart choice: he’ll learn how to use a weapon, how to kill an animal, and how to cook meat without starting a noticeable fire. He’s going to be the biggest threat in the arena if he survives the bloodbath.

“So you must be Veira,” the girl from Two says, crossing her arms. “I’m Honoria.”

“I know.” Did she expect me to be an incompetent blonde from One? “Your dad won the 4th Hunger Games. He’s the oldest person to win.”

“You know your facts.”

“It’s important to know your enemies.”

“Am I your enemy or your ally?” She raises her eyebrow. “Assuming you are joining the Career pact.”

“Both.”

Bronsen Raede - District Five Mentor
While the tributes are at training, it’s their mentor’s responsibility to find sponsors. Some Capitolites prefer a thorough, in-person conversation about why they should give their money to that tribute. Others simply need a short e-mail or phone call to know who’s name to write on their check. I usually choose the latter option, since it’s been hard these last few years to explain how a prepubescent boy could win.

But this year, it’s different.

This year, my cousin is going into the arena.

The reality of it didn’t hit me at first, but it set in during the chariot rides. He’s supposed to get married in two months, but he could be dead before then. I know he stayed strong when I was reaped, but this is different. I’m accountable for how he does in the arena.

What would I tell my aunt or his fiancée if he dies?

“Bronsen, what are you still doing here?”

I turn to see Flick, District Five’s only other victor, walk into the kitchen. Coilee Namaka, District Six’s sole mentor, stands behind him with her arms crossed.

I can never tell if the two are a couple or strictly drug buddies, but they spend all their time at the Capitol together. If they are a couple, they’re a weird one: Flick has pale skin, a permanent frown, and very much resembles a drug user whereas Coilee has golden skin, a bubbly demeanor, and a petite figure. (She prides herself on the fact that she’s of “Asian” descent, a pre-apocalyptic country or continent or something.) Honestly, the only similarities between the two are that they won the Hunger Games and they love drugs.

“I got distracted,” I mumble, standing up. “I can leave if you want.”

“No, you don’t need to leave,” Coilee chimes. Flick glares at her sharply. “What? My entire suite is empty; we could just go there if you want privacy.”

(They’re definitely a couple.)

“No, he’ll leave soon enough.” Flick glowers at me. I don’t think he really likes me. “Let me just grab my bag.”

“Kinky,” I whisper as I sit back down at the kitchen table.

“What’d you say?” he shouts from his bedroom.

“Nothing.”

“You know I have ears, right?” He returns with a beaten, black duffle bag. I’ve seen it before, but he hides it whenever people are around. “My dealer sent me a new bag this morning. He says it’s the good stuff.”

(Maybe they’re not a couple?)

“Would you like to try it?” Coilee asks me. She sits in the chair next to me.

I shake my head. “No thanks. I still have to talk to some sponsors.”

“Oh, your cousin was reaped, wasn’t he?” She frowns. “I’m sorry about that. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing alright.” I shrug. “I’m still processing it, though.”

“You know what helps with that?” Flick asks with a cheeky smile. He pulls a bag of dried, shredded green leaves from his duffle. The smell makes me gag. “Weed.”

“I don’t think—”

“No, trust me, it works,” Coilee adds. “It’s how I figured out Lark and Kaia shouldn’t ally with each other.”

“They aren’t allies?” I raise my eyebrow.

“They aren’t fighters.” She shrugs. “If someone attacks them, they’ll be as good as dead. That’s both of my tributes dead in one fight. So I told them to find other allies.”

“Why doesn’t Zephyrin just ally with one of them?” Flick asks, grinding the weed is a metallic device. I’m surprised he’s trying to help. “It’s not like Coilee isn’t around here all the time. You two could work together.”

“Yeah, and then it will be so much easier to get sponsors!” Coilee is practically jumping in her chair with joy. “Everyone loves my tributes!”

“But you said your tributes weren’t fighters—”

“Dude, have you even seen the size of your cousin?” Flick rolls the mashed-up marijuana into a joint. “He’s twice the size of my bitch of a tribute.”

“Besides, I think Lark needs a strong man to guide him.” Coilee tosses her lighter to Flick, and the grotesque smell becomes stronger. “Then you won’t need to waste your day talking to sponsors.”

“What would I do instead?”

“Smoke.” She snatches the joint from my co-mentor’s hand. “It’ll help you think and relax.”

“I mean. . . “ I glance between her and Flick. The latter looks like he might kill me if I stay. (He must have thought I would leave once I was done stressing about Zephyrin.) Then again, I do love annoying him. “Yeah, let me try.”

Taneli Masarie - District Ten Male
Besides the normal weapon stations is the “Simulation Chamber,” a room designed to test one’s combat abilities through holographic opponents. Although their weapons are virtual and harmless, the tributes are allowed to bring their own weapon of choice inside. I’m surprised not a single Career has tested it yet. But I guess they’re more concerned about intimidating the other tributes than actually train for the arena.

Or maybe they’re afraid everyone will see their fighting skills are subpar.

“Can you set up a simulation?” I ask the trainer in charge of the station. “I’d like to try it before lunch.”

“And your weapon?”

“A mace.”

He nods, clicking a button to open the glass doors. “You’ll have three minutes to defeat five opponents. Good luck.”

I give him a thumbs up and walk inside.

The interior of the “Simulation Chamber” is surprisingly cold, and I have to suppress my urge to shiver. Its white walls are pristine and polished, much like the rest of the Capitol, and a series of large blocks are set up around the floor. A single staircase rests on the far side of the room, leading to its upper level. Although it’s supposed to mimic a traditional combat arena, I have  reasonable doubts when I notice the shovels, umbrellas, and other miscellaneous objects lying on the floor and against the wall.

When would anyone use a shovel to fight someone?

“Simulation initiating.” I jump when the computerized voice booms throughout the room. A timer appears in the center of the room. “Simulation will commence in three. . . two. . . one.”

I grin when the first faceless hologram appears, charging at me with a machete. If all of these opponents are going to be this moronic, it’ll be an easy workout for me. Even my parents tried to put up a fight.

I deflect the hologram’s swing with the hilt of mace, causing them—is it a them or an it?—to stumble a few steps back. Before they can raise the sword again, I shove the spikes into their stomach. They shatter into a million pieces, which dissolve before touching the ground.

If this is supposed to—

My thought is cut off as an arrow pierces my shoulder. I growl in pain.

“What the—” I reach for the arrow, but it disappears. “Wait, their weapons can hurt me?” I glare at the mirrored door where I imagine the trainer is standing. “A warning would have been nice.”

I dodge the archer’s next shot by ducking behind one of the blocks.

They’re stationed on the upper level, which gives them an incredible vantage point. The only issue: the staircase is across the room. If I run fast enough, I can avoid the arrows and attack them up close. Everyone knows an archer’s biggest weakness is close combat.

I wait a few seconds until the archer’s shots slow down before turning the corner and making a run for it. Their reload speed accelerates as I get closer and closer, but each arrow glides past me.

But when I reach the staircase, another hologram appears in front of me; this one wields a bowie knife. I’m forced to retreat behind a large block. I might have been able to defeat both of them in a melee fight, but the archer’s range gives them an unfair advantage. (Then again, when is anything fair?)

When the one with the bowie knife follows me behind the block, I pin them against it. I’m surprised when I actually feel their weight underneath my forearm. Using all of my strength, I plunge the mace deep into its skull. As the hologram shatters, my weapon gets stuck in the wall.

It’s in too deep. I can’t pull it out.

“Of course,” I mumble.

While I attempt to yank my weapon out of the wall, the final two holograms appear behind me. I’m forced to abandon it, dodging one of their axe swings with a somersault. The other one tries to gut me with a machete, but I knock it out of their hands. Since my options are limited, I lure them to the edges of the room where the archer can’t reach.

That’s when I see it: the shovel.

Maybe the Gamemakers want to see if we’re able to use nontraditional objects as weapons. (At least, that’s what I hope.) It’s a weird challenge, but the Capitol is a weird place.

When the hologram swings its axe again, I deflect the blow with the shovel’s shaft. (I swear, they look just as confused as I am, even without a face.) While they're in that state of vulnerability, I plow it through their chest.

As it disintegrates, the second one lunges at my legs with their machete. I jump, narrowly dodging the blade, and kick it in the stomach. While they stumble a few steps back, I finish the job by whacking it in the face. I can practically hear their neck snap as it vanishes.

“Thirty seconds remaining.”

The archer’s shooting speed and range increases drastically, and I’m forced to crouch behind a block once again. There’s no chance I can reach the staircase without getting hit. But time is running out. I have to do something.

“Screw it!”

I turn the corner and throw the shovel towards the hologram. Before they’re able to fire another shot, the shovel goes straight through its chest. If they could speak, I guarantee is would be screaming right now.

I just killed it by throwing a shovel.

“Simulation complete.”

Skagen Matisse - District Three Male
At precisely 1:30 p.m., the tributes are called for a (mandatory) thirty-minute lunch. The cafeteria is a large room attached to the north side of the gymnasium. It contains three long, rectangular tables and over twice as many chairs as tributes. If everyone wanted to sit alone with their district partner, they absolutely could. (But I don’t think I want to sit by Eulalia. She scares me.)

Since the survival stations are closest to the cafeteria, I’m one of the first people to be served. My stomach grumbles as I place a plate of roast beef and green beans, a bowl of potato soup, and a cup of sparkling water on my tray. I’ve never eaten as much food as I have in the Capitol, but everything here is delicious and savory. Back in District Three, I lived on fruit snacks, fast food, and microwavable dinners. My family only went to fancy restaurants on special occasions.

I sit in the back corner of the room and eat my food in silence, hoping nobody notices me. The last thing I want to do is make enemies. (Although I guess everyone here is my enemy.) But if everyone forgets I exist, I have a better chance in the arena.

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?”

I glance up to see Octavian from Eight pointing at the chair next to me. We spent an hour learning how to start a fire this morning, so we talked a little. (We bonded over the fact that we’re the two shortest boys here. Most of the others are at least a foot taller than us.) But I wouldn’t exactly call him a “friend.”

“Sure.” I move my tray a little to give him some more room.

“Did you see the District Ten dude?” I already know this will no longer be a quiet lunch. “He went into the Simulation Chamber. Even the Careers were impressed.”

Just another tribute to fear, I think to myself. Great.

“I think they might recruit him,” he continues, “which means there will be seven Careers this year.”

“I think he’s too obsessed with his district partner.” I point at the huge boy in question who has his arm slung around a red-haired girl. “They wouldn’t let both of them join their pact.”

Octavian shrugs. “I still think they’re recruit someone, though. Maybe the guy from Seven? I think I saw him and the dude from One talking.”

“I don’t even think the dude from One wants to be a Career. He spent all morning avoiding his partner.”

“Maybe she’s just annoying.” He takes a bite of his bread. “She looks like the bratty type.”

I stare at him with my mouth agape.

“What?” he asks. “Does she not look like a brat?”

“You can’t just say that,” I explain. “She’s older than us.”

“So what?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m just saying what I think. Why does it matter that I’m younger? We’re all still going into the arena, anyway.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And what makes you two think you can sit here?”

I shrink in my chair as the deep voice vibrates my bones.

I shouldn’t have let Octavian sit here.

The brute from Two stands in front of us with his arms crossed. His biceps are as big as my head, and I bet he could snap my neck without breaking a sweat. The rest of the Careers stand behind him with devilish sneers. This is the opposite of what I wanted.

“Well, you see, this is a chair.” I turn towards Octavian, astounded by his boldness. Who does he think he is talking to a Career like that? “And since nobody else’s butt was on it, I decided to put mine on it.”

“You do realize you’re like thirteen, right?” the beast scoffs.

“Twelve, actually.”

“Wow, what a pipsqueak. Do you even realize how small you are?” He leans forward on the table, staring daggers at Octavian. “Or do you have body dysmorphia?”

“That’s a terrible diagnosis.” Eulalia appears behind me, glaring at the Career pact. Is she standing up for us? I thought she despised me. “Narcissistic personality disorder would be more fitting, but you wouldn’t know that. It looks like you haven’t even touched a book in your life.”

“Ooh, the boys’ mom came to save them.” He mockingly claps. “Touching performance, really. But maybe you should learn to mind your own business.”

“Maybe you should learn a lesson about decency.” Her lip curls. “And maybe take a shower while you’re at it. You smell like shit.”

“Ah, you think you’re so smart with your glasses—”

“And you think you’re so tough with your biceps.” She raises her eyebrow. “But it’s a facade, isn’t it? You’re just targeting the small tributes to hide how weak you are.”

“I’ll target you while I’m at it.”

“Try it,” she taunts. “But your allies will find out that you’re a phony.”

“You three are dead.” He points at us. “Just wait for the bloodbath.”

With that, he turns sharply and walks to a different table. The other Careers linger for a moment, glaring at us before following him.

Octavian nudges me in the side. “Dude, your district partner is a badass.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She rolls her eyes and walks away. “I didn’t do it for either of you.”

“I think she’s a psycho,” I whisper in Octavian’s ear.

Nadina Windlass - District Eight Female
After the huge lunch catastrophe, the afternoon training session seems to be running more smoothly. The Careers have reclaimed their position at the weapon stations, but they no longer draw attention to themselves. I think both the District Three girl and the District Ten boy showed them—and the Gamemakers, since they’ve been watching—that the other tributes should not be neglected. We might not have trained for the Games, but our raw talent is undeniable.

As if the Careers haven’t been acting weird since lunch, they don’t even bother trying to stop others from using the weapon stations. (I’d go so far as to say they’re actually sharing the space with them.) The Districts Seven and Eleven girls have been throwing axes and shooting arrows, respectively, for almost an hour now, and the blonde from One actually complimented them. I feel like I’m in an alternate reality.

But if the Careers are easing up a bit, I might as well get some more practice with weapons. Nobody knows how long their whole “passive mentality” thing will last.

I walk to the sword station where the males from Two and Eleven are already practicing. The Careers give me a curt nod as I approach, while the other boy keeps swinging his sickle through dummies. It’s alarming the Career is being friendlier than the other man.

This really is an alternate reality.

My finger trails over the thin blade of a katana before I grab it. After spending two hours this morning trying different weapons, I came across this one, which felt natural in my hands. I might not be as talented as the Careers (and probably never will be), but at least I can protect myself now. Because I refuse to be weak again.

I walk over to three dummies standing in a triangle, letting the blade screech along the floor. The trainer raises her eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. When I’m in front of the first dummy, I raise the katana to its throat. Then, I swing.

Its head drops to the floor with a thud.

“Impressive.”

I turn on my heels, raising the katana to attack. The boy from Eleven’s eyes go wide as the blade touches his throat.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t mean any harm.”

“I’m sorry.” I lower the weapon. “Instincts.”

“Good instincts to have,” he chuckles. “Would you like to spar?”

I raise my eyebrow. “You know we can’t hurt each other, right?”

“If we can spar with trainers, we can spar with other tributes.” He shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like we’re using real weapons. They’re just batons.”

“Batons are weapons.”

“Only idiots use batons,” he huffs. “Like, what’s the point in beating someone to death? It takes twice as long as killing someone with a knife.”

“That’s morbid.”

He shrugs. “So will you spar with me?”

“Why don’t you ask someone else?”

“Like Xolani?” He points to the boy from Two. So that’s his name. “He will take me down in a second.”

I raise my eyebrow. “So I look weak, then?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “You look about as strong as me.”

“So you’re weak?”

“Why do you have to be so complicated?” He doesn’t sound annoyed, just amused. “But yes, I’m weak if that means you’ll spar with me.”

“Not today.” I turn my back to him. “I have two dummies left.”

“After?”

“Maybe.”

Makari Amazu - District Eleven Male
We don't spar.

Havan Thorpe - District Nine Male
Training ends at exactly 6:30 p.m. Farah and I spent the day sitting in the hallway near the bathrooms, puffing at cigarettes and talking. I learned her family was huge drug traffickers in District Nine before they were killed, which would explain her smoking tendencies (and her terrible behavior, for a matter of fact). She was probably born with a nicotine addiction or something, but I keep that to myself.

“Do you want the last of it?” She offers me the last of the cig.

“No, I’m good.” We went through two packs today. I don’t cough anymore, but it still stings my throat a bit. “You can have it.”

“I don’t want it.” She stands up and stomps it out. “You wanna go?”

I glance at the dozens of discarded butts on the ground. “Do you think we should clean up our mess?”

“Someone else will.” She grabs my hand. “C’mon, I want some food.”

She drags me to the elevator, and I stop putting up a fight. It’s not like the trainers won’t know it was us. (Some of them walked past us in disgust a handful of times.) But if Farah doesn’t care about it, then why should I? Why should I care how they feel? They’re just here to make the Games more interesting.

Although the rest of the gymnasium is empty, the boy from Seven stands next to the elevator with his arms crossed.

He scrunches his nose as we approach. “You two smell like fire.”

“And you look like death.” Farah raises her eyebrow. “What’s your point?”

“How did you even get cigs? Aren’t you like ten?”

“Wow, and you’re stupid too,” she huffs. “Don’t you know you have to be at least twelve to be reaped.”

“Oh, so you’re twelve then?”

The elevator opens. Since the six higher-numbered districts share an elevator, the three of us enter it together. While I click the “9” button, the other boy clicks the “7” button.

“You wish,” Farah scoffs. “You seem like a pervert kind of dude.”

“Or someone whose standards are higher than you could ever be.”

My district partner blushes. She must be really mad because I’ve never seen her blush, even during our argument with our mentor. “‘Cause prostitutes are ‘higher’ than me.”

He snorts. “At least prostitutes know who they are.”

The elevator opens on the seventh floor.

“Farewell, nicotine addicts.” He says as he walks out.

“Farewell, douchebag,” Farah responds for us.

The elevator door closes, continuing its ascent upwards. I expect Farah to badmouth the boy, but she surprises me.

“Damn, he’s so hot.”

I stare at her with my head tilted. So this is what girls like? Rebellious boys with dark features and snarky words? They enjoy the taunting and the teasing? Is that even healthy?

No wonder I haven’t kissed a girl yet. I don’t understand them.

A Twist of Fate (Training Day 2)
<p style="text-align:right;">FRIDAY, JULY 10th, 1663 P.A.

Daedalus Brantlie - District Two Mentor
I wait until midnight before crawling out of my bed. The lights are off in the hall, so I assume everyone else is fast asleep. At least, I hope so. (It’d be difficult to explain to my daughter why I’m sneaking off in the middle of the night to hang out with my ex-lover.) (Then again, she has to know what sex is.) (Wait, has she had sex?) But, as Sylvie likes to put it, we’re just “taking off some steam, nothing more.” It’s her way of dealing with it, but I’ve never understood it.

It’s not like it’d be the first time a victor has cheated on their spouse. (Although we undeniably set that precedent.)

I use my phone flashlight to navigate my way to the elevator. (If I turn on a light, I’m afraid someone will come out of their room.) When I reach the elevator, I click the down button. Almost immediately it opens.

Anahita Parthenie, the victor of the 1st Hunger Games, stands in the elevator.

“Daedalus? Where are you going?”

I groan. Ever since I met Anahita on my Victory Tour, I disliked her. Her tan skin and warm eyes conceal her inner cruelness and ruthlessness. She’s taken on much of the Capitol lifestyle: her nails are absurdly long, her outfits resemble those of an escort, and her circular nose-piercing is connected to her helix-piercing via gold chain. If she were to be from any of the districts, I’d assume it’d be One. She no longer looks like a District Three citizen.

“Where are you going?” I ask, noticing the ground button is already clicked. “Off to the President’s Mansion?”

She purses her lips. “That’s none of your business.”

“That’s as good of an answer as any.”

“And where are you going?” She raises her eyebrow. The elevator door closes and begins its downward descent. “To meet Sylvie? To talk?” She fake laughs. “Oh wait, I doubt there’s little talking going on there.”

“You’re just jealous because your husband cheated on you with a younger woman.”

“And you couldn’t even keep a wife for more than a year,” she scoffs. The elevator reaches the ground floor. “Just remember to wear a condom.”

“I’ve never used one before, why start now?”

As she leaves the building altogether, I walk to the Mentor’s Suite.

The Mentor’s Suite is a large room with multiple couches and chairs, a few tables, and a large flat-screen television in the center. When the tributes enter the arena, most of the mentors come here to watch the Games, direct the flow of sponsor money, and chat with one another about the current predicament. After popular demand, a side-room, containing a bar and general eating area, was attached. Now, the mentors are able to have a drink on hand whenever they want it (and a lot of them take advantage of it).

Sylvie sits at one of the corner tables, a finger twirling a strand of her blonde hair. She straights up when I walk in.

“Daedalus.” Her voice sounds strained, as if she’s been crying for hours. Maybe she has. After all, her daughter was reaped. “We need to talk.”

“We don’t normally talk.” I raise a suggestive eyebrow.

Her cheeks turn bright red, which contrasts beautifully against her beige complexion. “I know. . . but—“ She sighs. “But it’s serious.”

“Is everything alright?” I place my hand against the small of her back. She shudders. “Is it about your daughter?”

“Yes,” she breathes out.

“I know it’s tough.” I lower my voice. “It’s okay to be scared. Hell, I’m losing my mind because my daughter’s going into the arena, too.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“You aren’t afraid for your daughter?” I raise my eyebrow. If I could describe Sylvie in one word, it would be anxious. She’s an apprehensive person at heart. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, I am.” She massages her temple with her fingers. “It’s just. . .”

“What is it?”

“She’s, well—“ She breaks off, and I’m almost certain she won’t finish that sentence. But she surprises me sometimes. “She’s your daughter, too.”

I freeze. “What?”

“I got pregnant the first time we hooked up.” She’s talking so fast her words are slurred. “On the Victory Tour. And I know it wasn’t from my husband because we were broken up at the time. It had to have happened on the Tour, and you were the only one I hooked up with.” Tears are streaming down her face now. I want to comfort her, but I can barely move. “And. . . well, yeah, Bryony’s your daughter too. I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, but I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble because of what we did so. . .”

An awkward silence passes between us for a few minutes. Sylvie surprises me for the second—no, the third—time tonight when she breaks it.

“Daedalus, say something.”

“I should have worn a condom.”

Lorcan Estrelle - District One Male
“What do you mean you’re not allying with us?” Veira’s nostrils flare. I swear her olive eyes turn a shade darker. “You must really wanna die, don’t you?”

“I thought you didn’t even want me in the alliance anyway.” Honoria crosses her arms, but she looks more annoyed than enraged. She’s the polar opposite of my district partner: cool and composed under pressure. “We’re enemies, aren’t we?”

Veira huffs and turns towards Xolani. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

He raises his eyebrow. “And why would I know about it?”

“You’re her district partner, aren’t you?” She mockingly frowns at him. “Or, wait, did nobody want to tell the boy that looks like he belongs in District Eleven.”

“What did you just call me?” He moves right into Veira’s face. “Want to say that again, to my face?”

“You look like you belong in Eleven,” she spits in his face. I knew she wouldn’t back down from a challenge. “But they probably didn’t want you either.”

Xolani clenches his fist, and I expect him to throw a punch. Would the trainers stop the fight, even though we’re allies? What would the other tributes think? What would the Gamemakers think? But Mayuri stops the fight before it begins.

“Why don’t we just figure out what we should do from here?” She steps between Veira and Xolani, and the two hesitantly take a step back. I didn’t expect that to work, and (by the looks of it) neither did she. She turns to Honoria. “And you, you should leave.”

“Gladly.”

Honoria walks to the girls from Districts Seven and Eleven. So that’s who she left us for. I wonder if my allies notice.

“So, Xolani,” Mayuri says coolly. “Why did your district partner ditch us?”

“Why would I know?”

“I was just wondering if you heard anything.” Unlike Veira, she doesn’t have any hostility in her tone. I’m surprised. “Like was she and her mentor talking about it this morning?”

“All I heard was her dad tell her to ally with the girl from Seven.” He stares at Veira. “But he didn’t say why.”

“Her mentor is her dad,” Tycho clarifies.

“I hope you just spoke your thoughts for yourself,” Veira scoffs. “Because if you really tried mansplaining it for Mayuri and me, we’re going to have some problems.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Mayuri reassures.

Veira snorts.

“Anyway,” she continues, “we should figure out what to do now. We lost one of our allies, so I think we should try recruiting someone.”

“Who made you the leader?” Veira crosses her arms and stares at the other girl. “We didn’t have a vote.”

“Well, you and Xolani can’t be the leader ‘cause you both wanna kill each other, and Lorcan and Tycho aren’t the most extroverted.” She shrugs. “So I assumed the role. Does anyone oppose?”

Nobody, not even Veira, says anything.

“Good.” She smiles. “I think the boy from Ten would be a great addition.”

“Taneli?” Veira raises her eyebrow. “He’s in love with his district partner. They’re probably already allies.”

“Trust me, he’ll choose us over her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m pretty sure it’s all a ruse.”

Fresia Blodwyn - District Eleven Female
Ever since I was a child, I’ve never been a morning person. I enjoy the quietness of night when the whole world seems to freeze. While most of my district began work in the fields at dawn, I had the luxury to sleep in before school. I guess it’s a perk of being a victor’s daughter. (Although I’d argue that there’s a lot of disadvantages as well. Like how I was constantly interviewed about what it was like being born in the arena, even though I don’t remember it.) So when Honoria, the girl from Two, walks towards Bryony and me, I’m not in the mood to deal with it.

“What are you doing here?” I sneer at her. If there’s one thing I learned from my mother, it’s to never trust a Career. They always have something up their sleeve.

“We’re allies now.” There’s not a trace of sarcasm in her tone.

“What?” I raise my eyebrow, glancing at Bryony. “Who gave you that idea?”

“Fresia, it’s fine,” Bryony reassures me. “Our parents talked. They’re the ones who came up with the idea.”

“Was my mom involved in that conversation?” I doubt my mother would keep something like this hidden from me. But she’s also been acting increasingly secretive lately. “Or was it just your parents?”

“I think it was just our parents. They had their reasons.”

“Which are?”

Bryony looks at Honoria. “Do you want to answer that?”

The other girl shrugs. “I would if I could. But I’m pretty sure my dad just thought it’d be smarter to ally with you than the Careers.”

“You don’t know?”

“Do you?”

I don’t miss Bryony hesitate for a moment. “Yeah, our parents have been friends for years,” she explains. “And they thought we could be good allies ‘cause of it.”

“So my mom isn’t one of your parents’ friends?” I raise my eyebrow. “So now I’m being kicked out of my own alliance?”

“You aren’t being kicked out.” Bryony sighs. “We’re just adding someone to our alliance.”

“Besides, your mom isn’t very welcoming.” I glare at Honoria, but she shrugs it off. “What? That’s just what I heard.”

“You should learn a thing about decency.”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Bryony yells. “Let’s just stop being rude to one another and get back to training.” She turns to the other girl. “Honoria, do you know how to make a snare?”

With that, we silently walk to the knot-tying station. The trainer seems amused that the three of us are together. Why shouldn’t he be? We’re the victor’s children going into the arena. And now we’re allying with each other. Maybe that is the reason Honoria joined the alliance, but I doubt it. There’s something more; I sense it.

About fifteen minutes into the lesson, my stomach lurches. I recognize the feeling right away.

“Oh, shit,” I curse, dropping the rope and making a run for it.

“Morning sickness,” Bryony says from behind me. I assume she’s explaining to Honoria. “I’ll help her.”

“Morning sickness?” Honoria repeats, barely audible now that I’m halfway across the gymnasium. When it clicks in her head, she screams, “Wait, she’s pregnant?”

Every head turns towards me.

When I reach the hallway to the bathroom, the tributes from Nine sit against the wall sharing a cigarette. The smell of the smoke fills my nose. I can’t hold it back anymore: I throw up all over the pair.

“What the hell?” the girl screams, jumping to her feet. “You couldn’t have walked a few more feet and made it into the bathroom?”

“You couldn’t have found somewhere else to smoke?” Although my words are harsh, my voice is weak.

She scoffs and walks into the girl’s bathroom with her district partner.

“Hey, are you okay?” Bryony appears in the hallway, placing a hand on my lower back. It alleviates some tension in my stomach. “Do you need anything? Water? Juice?”

“I just need to sit down.” Bryony helps lower me to the ground and lean against the wall. “Did Honoria follow you?”

She raises an eyebrow. “No. Why?”

“Are you going to tell me why she’s really our ally?”

“What do—”

“I saw your face when she asked you if you knew. And it looked like you damn well knew.” When she stays silent, I continue, “C’mon, I think I should know why I should trust a Career.”

“She’s. . . well.” She drops to the floor, sitting in front from me. “She’s my. . . sister.”

“What?” She flinches when I scream. “She’s your—“

“Shut up,” she hisses. “I don’t think she knows.”

“She doesn’t know?” I raise my eyebrow. “How do you know but she doesn’t?”

“Because my mom told me.” She runs a hand through her hair. “But I don’t think. . . no, I’m certain her dad didn’t.”

“Your dad.”

“What?”

“He’s your dad, too.” Bryony stares at me for a few moments before her eyebrows skyrocket. “Wait, you didn’t think of that?”

“No.”

Kaia Palani - District Six Female
Yesterday at lunch, everyone mostly sat by their district partners. (It’s hard to make close friends within the three-and-a-half-hour morning session.) But today, it’s clear that alliances have formed. The girl from Two seems to have allied with the girls from Seven and Eleven. But other than that, the Careers consist of their typical districts. The boys from Five and Six sit together, although they don’t talk to one another, and once again, the boys from Three and Eight sit together in the back corner. Everyone else sits by their district partner or alone.

I hesitantly walk over to the District Ten pair. Laelia and I talked a bit yesterday at the camouflage station and again in the afternoon, but we aren’t exactly friends. Either way, I think her and her boyfriend will ally together since they can barely keep their hands off each other. For my own sanity, I don’t want to get in the middle of that.

“Hey!” Laelia greets me with a smile. “Do you want to join us?”

I nod, avoiding eye contact with her glaring boyfriend.

“Kaia, have you met Taneli yet?”

“I don’t think we have,” he answers. He reaches out to shake my hand. “Taneli Masarie, District Ten.”

“Kaia Palani, District Six.” He squeezes my hand tightly as we shake. I bite my tongue so I don’t whimper.

“Did you guys see that the girl from Two left the Careers?” Laelia whispers. “I think there’s some drama with them.”

“Speaking of which,” Taneli murmurs, straightening his posture.

I look over my shoulder to see the girl from Four approaching. My heart stops. The last thing I want to do is have a fight with a Career, especially after what happened yesterday with the boys from Three and Eight.

“Taneli, could I speak to you?”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my girlfriend.” He places his hand of Laelia’s, and she practically swoons. “I’ll just tell her, anyway.”

The girl bites her lip. “We were wondering if you would be interested in joining the Careers?”

“He’s already my ally.” Laelia confirms my suspicion. “So he’d politely decline.”

“Honey, wait—”

“No, you’re not allying with her.” She glares at the Career. “So go tell everyone else in your alliance that he’d politely decline.”

But there’s no politeness in her tone.

“Why don’t you just get back to me?” The girl ignores Laelia’s comment, looking straight at Taneli. As she turns to walk back to her allies, she adds, “Just let me know.”

“What was that about?” Laelia glowers at her boyfriend. “You’re not really thinking about joining them, are you?”

“Babe—”

“No, you’re not going to ‘babe’ me.” She crosses her arms. I wonder if they even realize I’m still here. “We can’t waste our moments being apart. It’s not worth it.”

“Babe, listen to me.” If he wasn’t so muscular, I’d almost call it a whine. “If I join the Careers, then I can protect you.”

“How?”

“Because I can make sure they don’t go near you in the arena.” He smiles slightly. “And if I can get them to avoid you, you’ll survive.”

“But—”

“No, I need to make sure you survive. And if that means joining the Careers, that’s absolutely what I’m going to do.”

Laelia looks like she’s conflicted between affection and anger. Her lips keep twitching like she’s about to smile, but her frown holds strong. But when Taneli kisses her hand, she grins from ear to ear.

“Trust me.”

“I do,” she breathes out. “I do, one-hundred percent. But. . . who am I going to ally with?”

“Why not Kaia?” He looks at me. So I guess he didn’t forget I was still here after all. “You two seem close, right?”

He’s looking at me to answer. I nod.

“See? You two would be great allies!”

“I guess. . .” Laelia mutters. I’m offended.

“Just make sure you protect her with your life.” I freeze under his intense glare. “If anything happens to her, you’re dead.”

As he walks to the Career table, Laelia smiles.

I stay frozen with fear.

Octavian Espen - District Eight Male
Almost every tribute has gone to the weapon stations, in spite of the intimidating boy from Two standing near it the entire time. (His name is Xolani. I learned it yesterday after he threatened Skagen and me.) Even the small girl from Five was able to practice using a slingshot without anyone batting an eye. It’s almost like the Careers are advocating for everyone to learn about weaponry.

But, for some reason, Skagen and I have yet to go there.

“Skagen, don’t you think we should try using a weapon?” I ask. We’ve spent the last hour learning how to start a fire, even though we already learned about it yesterday. “Don’t you think it’s important?”

“Everyone can wield a knife,” he muffles, staring intently at the pile of wood in front of him. “We’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“We’ll be fine.” He looks at me sharply.

I can see the fear in his eyes. He’s afraid of Xolani, afraid that we’ll be threatened again. That’s probably why he doesn’t want to go there. But the older boy hasn’t been doing anything to anyone since our fight yesterday. I doubt he’s waiting around the weapon stations for us.

“You’re just scared of Xolani.” I cross my arms. “Even you know we should go over there.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Yes, it is. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.” His forehead scrunches. “Xolani is standing over there to scope out the competition. He’s picking his targets.”

“Yeah, right!” I snort. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared.”

“I can’t tell if you’re really naïve or really stubborn.”

“Maybe both.” I shrug, turning my back to him. “Either way, I’m going over there.”

“Good luck!”

As I expected, Xolani doesn’t acknowledge me while I walk to the station. Nobody glances at me because nobody cares that I’m learning how to wield a knife. They just respect my decision and continue training on their own. Even the trainer doesn’t mind teaching me the basics of blades and killing. (Although it annoys me he thinks I haven’t held a knife before. I’m not that young that my parents still cut my food.)

When the trainer finishes the lesson, I’m left alone to practice with dummies. It’s weird at first, stabbing an inanimate object. (Then again, it’ll probably be weirder stabbing an animate object, especially another person.) But I get in the swing of it fairly quickly. I’d almost call this therapeutic, but that thought freaks me out. If I have the chance, will I kill someone in the arena?

The knife falters in my hand, and I end up cutting my palm.

“Shit!” I yelp, dropping the knife and covering the cut with my left hand. Blood seeps through my fingers. It must be deep. “Can I get some help?” I call to the trainer.

He initially seems annoyed, but when he sees the blood, he rushes over. “How bad is it?” He gently moves my left hand away to look at the cut. “I think you’re going to need stitches.”

“It’s that bad?” I groan. This is embarrassing.

He nods.

As I’m guided to the first aid station, someone snickers behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Xolani staring at me with a smug smile.

Skagen was right.

I just got higher on Xolani’s “target list.”

Zephyrin Greer - District Five Male
Lark is not a good ally. It’s not like he’s disrespectful or hostile or anything, but he’s merely average at everything he does. He’s neither smart nor stupid, strong nor weak, quick nor slow. Hell, I don’t even know if he prefers a certain weapon over the others. Speaking of which, I don’t think I’ve even seen him at the weapon stations yet. Does he realize he has to learn sooner or later if he wants to survive the arena?

But I don’t say anything.

My cousin told me to “avoid being so blunt.” (His words exactly.) This alliance is supposed to help me. Lark has garnered a lot of Capitol support from his chariot costume. If he earns a decent training score and has a memorable interview, he could easily have the most sponsors out of all the tributes. I’m his ally strictly to win over the audience, nothing more.

“Do you think they actually put poisonous berries in the arena?” Lark looks at a computer screen with pictures of plants. We’ve spent over an hour at the plant identification station, but he still mixes up the edible and the deadly ones. He’s literally the epitome of mediocrity. “Like, even after the whole ‘Katniss and Peeta’ thing?”

“Well, the Games are about survival as much as murder, so yeah. Besides, the trackers have poison in them,” I explain. “If anyone does something that stupid again, they’ll die.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“The only reason I know is because of my cousin.” I shrug. “It’s not really common knowledge.”

“Do you think the same would happen if someone tampered with their tracker?” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, like how the 75th Hunger Games ended?”

“I assume. I’m pretty sure the Gamemakers have a back-up for everything. But as long as you do what they want, you’ll be safe.”

“Nobody's really safe in the arena.”

I don’t respond.

My eyes wander to the weapon stations. The girl from Eight and the boy from Eleven spar with one another. They’re both strong and agile, and it’s hard for me to tell who has the upper hand. I wish one of them had a better chariot costume and earned more sponsors. But even I saw how poorly the Capitol reacted to the District Eight’s outfits. Who thought wearing skin bodysuits was a good idea?

“I hope we don’t come across them in the arena.” Lark nods to the pair. “They’re more intimidating than the Careers.”

“I’d be more concerned about the dude from Seven.” I point to the boy. He throws a spear with perfect accuracy through a dummy’s chest. “I think he could take down the Careers by himself.”

“He must have trained before the Games, right?”

“Where would he get a spear in District Seven?” I raise my eyebrow. “Axes would make sense, but spears. . .”

“It’s not unheard of to buy weapons at the black market.”

“Have you bought weapons at the black market?”

I hope he has. That would explain why he hasn’t gone to the weapon stations yet. Maybe he’s already incredibly talented with a bow or a chakram or a mace. He just didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Maybe he’s not boringly mediocre after all.

But he just shrugs.

“That’s not an answer,” I point out. “C’mon, we’re allies, just—”

A bell goes off, signaling the end of training.

He smiles at me. “Saved by the bell, huh?”

“I mean, you could still tell me.”

“Later.”

Emeri Malloy - District Twelve Female
My head is pounding. Beep. My arms are rigid. Beep. I can’t feel my legs. Beep. There’s someone else talking. Beep. Their words are slurred. Beep. My heart is racing. Beep. My neck is stiff. Beep. I open my eyes. Beep. Someone’s next to me. Beep. She looks worried. Beep. She wears all white. Beep. Is she an angel? Beep. I must be dead.

“She’s awake!”

Beep. I turn my head. Beep. There’s a heart monitor. Beep. So I’m not dead. Beep. I must be alive. Beep. How am I alive? Beep.

“Emeri.” The lady appears in my line of sight. Beep. “Emeri, can you understand me?”

I try to nod, but my neck is too stiff. Beep.

“Emeri, can you understand me?” she repeats. ''Beep. ''“Blink once for ‘no’ and twice for ‘yes.’”

I blink twice. ''Beep. ''

“Good.” She smiles. ''Beep. ''“Do you know where you are?”

I blink once. ''Beep. ''

“Do you know what happened?”

I blink once. ''Beep. ''

“Do you remember the explosion?”

I freeze. Beep.

“Emeri, do you remember the explosion?”

Everything comes back to me like a wave. The intense argument, Isidore stomping away, Cress following him, the loud boom, the train crashing. I listened to Cress’ orders and stayed in the bedroom, but I knew something was happening. Did Isidore blow up the train? Was this some act of rebellion? When the explosion happened, I was flung across the room. I must have blacked out because I remember nothing after that.

“Emeri—”

I blink twice. Beep.

“So you remember the explosion?”

I blink twice again. Beep.

“Do you remember anything after that?”

I blink once. Beep.

“Emeri, you were really hurt.” The nurse’s tone is quiet. Beep. Something bad must’ve happened. “You had multiple contusions on your chest, you broke both of your wrists, and. . .” She hesitates. Beep. “And your legs were irreparable so we had to amputate them.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Emeri, calm down, you’re going to have a heart attack!” she squeals.

Beep. Beep. She pulls out a syringe with a long needle. Beep. Beep. Beep. I don’t see what she does with it. Beep. Beep. I feel a calming sensation in my body. Beep. Beep. My eyelids flutter for a second. Beep. I think my heart steadies. Beep.

“Don’t worry.” The nurse places a hand on my forearm. Beep. “We gave you prosthetics. You will still be able to walk.”

But I won’t be able to dance. Beep. Never again. Beep.

“And you’ll be able enough to go in the arena.”

I stare at her with wide eyes. Beep. For some reason, I’m not afraid. Beep. It’s because of the drugs. Beep. I can’t be afraid. Beep. I’m just confused. Beep.

She must be able to read my mind. Beep.

“I’m sorry, Emeri. You were reaped for the Hunger Games, so you must go in the arena.”

Final Chance (Training Day 3)
<p style="text-align:right;">SATURDAY, JULY 11th, 1663 P.A.

Jenikka Amias - District Five Female
It’s the final day of training. The morning session has been cut to three hours to accommodate for the private sessions. It gives the tributes one last chance to prepare for the arena, to learn a new skill, to practice with weapons. We’ll have spent a total of nineteen hours in training. Nineteen hours to become ruthless, bloodthirsty murderers. It’s a huge request to ask someone, especially teenagers.

I wonder how the Careers haven’t won every year.

Then again, as I look around the weapon stations, I can see why: the other tributes are just as threatening. The girl from Eight doesn’t break a sweat as she slices off dummies’ heads, the boy from Seven has impeccable accuracy with a spear, and his district partner is terrifying with axes. Even the pregnant girl from Eleven can shoot an arrow through the dummy’s heart from a distance.

Maybe it’s because we’re all related to a tribute. Maybe we’re just more determined than previous years. Because the competition can’t be this menacing every year, right?

“You look scared.” I turn around to see the girl from Six sitting against the wall. She has dried tears on her cheeks. “Don’t worry, so am I.”

“Well, you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans. “My best friend died three years ago today.”

“In the Hunger Games?”

The girl nods.

“Well, you’re not special,” I scoff. “We’ve all lost someone in the Games. That’s why we’re here. So stop crying and put yourself together.”

“And you?” She stands up hesitantly, wiping her cheeks with her palms. “Who did you lose?”

“My brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” I cross my arms. “His mentor was a piece of scum. Doesn’t know how to stay sober for more than a few hours.”

“Is he your mentor now?”

“Yeah,” I snort. “I haven’t even seen him since training started. I think he ran off or something.”

“Is it Flick?”

“Yeah.” I cock my eyebrow. “How do you know him?”

“He’s friends with my mentor, Coilee.” She blushes and combs runs a hand through her curly auburn hair. “I think he’s been staying with us. Him and Coilee are a thing.”

“Unbelievable,” I murmur. “He’s neglecting me for sex.”

The other girl’s blush deepens.

Farah Cybele - District Nine Female
<p style="text-align:center;">'''Trigger Warning: This POV contains an instance of sexual assault (kissing only). Reader discretion is advised.'''

“I just don’t see why we have to go into the Games,” Havan whines. “Why don’t they just kill us right now? They’re wasting everyone’s time putting us in the arena.”

I stare at him quizzically. He’s been acting strange lately, and it’s alarming. Well, he’s been acting strange since our conversation with the boy from Seven. (That night, I learned his name was Juniper. You know, just in case we meet again. And I hope we meet again.) But Havan. . . he’s like a different person now. Hell, he’s acting like me. And we can’t both be me. It ruins our whole dynamic.

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m just speaking the truth.” He rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows the Capitol is full of sadistic scumbags. They just love giving stupid people hope.”

I raise my eyebrow, but I don’t say anything.

“I mean, you were saying the same stuff earlier,” he continues. “The Capitol is stupid. We’re going to die. What’s the point?”

“Yeah, what’s the point?” I repeat amusedly. “We have to live life to the fullest while we still can.”

“Exactly,” he mutters. “Hey, can I have another cig?”

But when I hand him the cigarette, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he gives my forearm forcefully. I feel his fingernails digging into my skin.

“Havan, what—”

“We have to live life to the fullest while we still can.” He pulls me forward so that I’m on his lap. “And I’m not going to die a loser.”

“Havan, stop!” I push him away from me. “Get off of me!”

“I’m not on you!” He flips us over so that he’s over me. “Well, now I am.”

“What the—”

He cuts me off by shoving his tongue down my throat. It’s gross and slimy, and his breath tastes like smoke. (Is that how my mouth tastes?) His grip on my wrists tighten as he tries to deepen the kiss, but I bite down on his tongue. I taste the metallic blood in my mouth as he pulls away with cold eyes.

“You’re such a freakin’—”

“What’s going on here?”

Havan jumps off of me as Juniper appears in the hallway. My knight in shining armor knits his eyebrows, a strand of his black hair falling over his eye. I think he’s about to hit the younger boy, and I hope he does. Havan has completely lost his mind.

“Why do you care?” Havan snarls. “Why don’t you just mind your own business?”

“Are you okay?” Juniper looks at me.

I blush. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good.” He reaches down and helps me get on my feet. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

I nod. “Absolutely.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Havan yells as we walk away. “You’re my ally.”

“Not anymore.”

Fergus Tancredo - District Twelve Mentor (from District One)
''Coming Soon. . . ''

Mayuri Odelle - District Four Female
''Coming Soon. . . ''

Trivia

 * In an attempt to improve my writing style, the tributes have been equally divided into three separate categories. These categories affect the number of point of views they receive prior to Part III, and they are based entirely on the tribute's initial background, their influence on the plot, their potential character growth, and their reasons for winning. The tributes are divided as followed: ​​​​​​
 * Main characters: Veira Faustus (D1F), Honoria Brantlie (D2F), Tycho Searling (D4M), Mayuri Odelle (D4F), Zephyrin Greer (D5M), Bryony Linden (D7F), Taneli Masarie (D10M), and Laelia Lantbruk (D10F)
 * Supporting characters: Lorcan Estrelle (D1M), Xolani Satine (D2M), Eulalia Psy (D3F), Jenikka Amias (D5F), Lark Deveraux (D6M), Nadina Windlass (D8F), Makari Amazu (D11M), and Fresia Blodwyn (D11F)
 * Minor characters: Skagen Matisse (D3M), Kaia Palani (D6F), Juniper Anatole (D7M), Octavian Espen (D8M), Havan Thorpe (D9F), Farah Cybele (D9F), Isidore Crusoe (D12M), and Emeri Malloy (D12F)

Part I: The Tributes

 * Veira's introductory point of view is actually a heavily revised version of the District 1 Reaping in one of my previous unfinished Hunger Games, The 190th Hunger Games.
 * In the initial plotting, Taneli's mother was supposed to be a victim of marital abuse, thus leading her son to purchase a mace off the black market and train for the Hunger Games; as such, his reason for winning was to free his mother from her marriage. Hwoever, this was drastically altered to create more villaineous characters.
 * In the initial plotting, Honoria was supposed to be a member of the Careers and have a confrontation with Bryony about their father in the arena. However, this was changed for plot purposes.
 * In the initial plotting, Fresia was the one stealing from the plantations to save her dying grandmother. However, this was changed to Makari's backstory becuase it didn't align with hers.
 * In the initial outline, he was supposed to make it to the arena, survive a decent amount of time, and have a confrontation with Taneli about abusive parents. However, since the latter's backstory was altered, this storyline no longer fit.
 * As of July 20th, 2019, Part I is 27,107 words. It contained 29 point of views, all from different characters.

Part II: The Capitol

 * Mayuri was promoted to a main character during Part II: The Capitol. To accommodate this promotion, Xolani was demoted to a supporting character.
 * In the initial outline, Taneli was supposed to have a conversation with Xolani after practicing in the “Simulation Room.” This would have clarified the former’s feelings towards his district partner and an offer to join the Careers. However, I decided to postpone this revelation.
 * In the initial outline, Skagen was not supposed to have a point of view on the first day of training. However, since Taneli’s point of view cut off before lunch, I added it for a filler. It also serves to foreshadow Eulalia’s backstory revelation.
 * In the initial outline, Nadina was supposed to spar with Makari. However, I didn’t know how to proceed with it and who the winner would be, so I decided to change it.