This? This is just for fun tbh. I've got a notice on my profile about how I'm not in a good headspace to write Ad Verse related content, so I figured I'd do a partial (yeah, this is a partial) set in an unrelated, probably one-off universe. Pure self-indulgence, I say. I've got the form on my profile and there's a blogTM with info on the mentors of this chapter, and I'll be doing like two? three? chapters introducing my own characters before subs close.

This'll work on a similar concept to featured tributes, in that while everyone gets a POV, only one tribute from each District has a chance to win the Games. They'll be underlined on the dooblydoo on my profile.

Enjoy, I guess? Yeah, enjoy.

00 - Prologue

The two dozen people at the table cheered when Lazlow entered the room. Wine glasses rose, cutlery clinked against plates, and a chair was pulled out for him just as the main course was being served.

He hadn't paid much attention to what was being served for dinner tonight—even if he'd been the one to organise the damn get-together—so he was sure he was in for a surprise no matter what came out. The only free spot was between the Oritz twins, and Lazlow shuddered at the idea of being forced to play mediator between them if they started arguing. The dinner he'd organised last year had ended with the president wiping dessert from his suit following the twins' disagreement.

"You look like absolute shit," Bastian said in place of a greeting. Lazlow hummed as he sank into his seat. Barely even a second later he was accosted by a waiter demanding he choose his drink.

"I haven't slept in…" Lazlow counted the days in his head. He hadn't really been keeping track of how long he'd been awake, either. He just knew he'd been busy nonstop, regardless of how often the sun would rise before his eyes. "God. I just haven't slept."

"Polka might have something for that," Antigone mused. Bastian hummed in agreement.

"They have a lot of things for a lot of things."

"No offense to Polka," Lazlow said, casting a quick glance at the person in question, "but I'd trust Cordelia's tonics before I self-medicated."

Bastian smiled wryly. "Attaboy."

The waiter returned with his wine, and now Lazlow could officially relax. No more decisions to be made, especially if the menu was pre-selected. He looked up and down the table, at the faces he recognised and the ones he knew for a fact were new. No one ever sat in order of District at these dinners. Everyone always had something to say about their follow Victors, but this year seemed to be the most agreeable bunch.

Lazlow fiddled with a fork while Antigone sipped at her wine. Directly across from her was Capable King, the senior mentor for One; from the way Capable's brows waggled once Antigone lowered her wine, Lazlow could guess what kind of "hidden" messages the women were sending each other. He wasn't one to keep up with Victor gossip, but he was pretty sure they were engaged now? He couldn't say for sure.

Before he could even think of a question to ask, Bastian was talking to him again. "We're four short this year. Outer Districts are struggling at this point."

Lazlow wrinkled his nose. "They're always struggling. They're not Careers like the fortunate few."

Bastian shrugged. He probably agreed with Lazlow on that much, otherwise Lazlow would've been subject to a competition to prove who was right. And he really didn't have the energy for a competition right now. Or ever. Especially against an Oritz.

In a poor attempt to change the subject, Lazlow blurted out, "Thoughts on the other mentors?"

A snort came from Antigone. Bastian glared at her over Lazlow's head and cleared his throat.

"I," Bastian said, "think we have some interesting people. The tribute who paralyzed Elijah is with him this year."

Bastian gestured to one corner of the table, where a middle-aged man in a wheelchair was being blocked from the rest of the Victors by a young woman with bruised knuckles. Elijah Holloway was infamous for his tormenting of tributes—but Valencia Callaghan, the Victor of the 90th Games, was even more infamous for breaking her mentor's spine the moment she reunited with her team from the arena. Lazlow was both surprised and unsurprised to see her with the man. Elijah never gave up a chance to experience good old schadenfreude and Valencia lived to make sure Elijah never got the chance.

"Huh." Lazlow looked to Antigone. "And your thoughts?"

"Good company," Antigone said immediately. She was grinning across the table at Capable—who, at this point, was obviously listening in on the conversation. Capable King was always someone the others watched their words around, if only because of the reputation she'd garnered those first few years following her victory. Usurping a trained Career with zero training yourself and winning through sheer luck wasn't exactly approved of in One. "The fresh faces are interesting. Don't get too close to Bishop, though—Pan's bleeding heart has him acting like a papa bear."

The mentors from Seven were an odd pair, Lazlow thought. He knew Pan Mazur well enough. The man was basically Seven's own version of bigfoot, and Lazlow was pretty sure he only ever came out of the woods for mentoring. A lot of other Victors from Seven related Pan to more of a concept than a person with how distant he was. And Bishop…

Lazlow couldn't bring himself to even stare at Bishop Cruz for more than a few seconds. He knew Bishop wasn't in the best of situations, his family taking advantage of his allowance and lifestyle to benefit his other siblings, but this was horrific to see in person. He was thinner than he should've been, bruised wherever his suit couldn't hide skin, and he was shaking like a leaf every time he made eye contact with the other mentors.

Even odder than Pan and Bishop being present, however, was their latest Victor talking in hushed whispers with Pan. Gilgamesh Aksoy had abandoned his fellow Careers in favour of the man from Seven, and Lazlow couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Everything he knew about Gil suggested he'd never be caught dead with such a scraggly man, and his need for luxury would've demanded he stay by Capable's side so he wouldn't suffer the common withdrawals of One citizens among the little people. Lazlow knew he'd only just won last year, but he was popular enough that even Lazlow wasn't allowed to miss any developments of Gil's post-Games journey.

He squinted as he sipped his wine. The wine tasted foul.

"Don't worry about Gil," Capable told him. Lazlow set down his glass and turned his full attention to her. They never spoke much to begin with, but Capable was much like Gil—all attention had to be on her when she addressed you. "He's just anxious about his beau. They made plans to meet after the Games this year."

Lazlow raised a brow. "That's a while away," he said.

"Yes, but the longer they wait, the most intense the media gets." Capable took a sip of her wine, finishing off her first glass. "Tragic when your only gimmick was a ripoff of the Twelve duo."

Gil clearly heard her, because his voice danced down the table like he was glad for the chance to throw insults. "Even more tragic when your only gimmick was being a thief."

"A thief who helped you win," Capable called back.

"A thief whose greatest talent is being stupid lucky."

"Are we arguing?" Elijah gleefully jumped into the conversation. "Who's arguing?"

The doors to the kitchen opened, and Lazlow's stomach sank. It was like the staff were arming the Victors now that the Careers were at each other's throats. No matter how playful they were, they always found a way to escalate their banter into something violent. At least this time the president had opted out of dinner, avoiding any chances of being covered in clam chowder a second time.

Lazlow stared down at the beef wellington in front of him. Yeah, this was something he would've chosen ahead of time. He'd definitely made the right call with that.

There was silence for all of ten seconds, only cutlery scraping on porcelain plates, before a calmer conversation started up again. The Careers, at the very least, always had tributes to compare ahead of time.

Cordelia Montague, now more well known for being a holistic doctor than a Victor, proposed the question: "Will Two's drought end this year?"

Both Oritz twins groaned, Bastian lolling his head back over his chair and Antigone holding her face in her hands.

That was a no, if Lazlow ever heard one.

"We've reached the cause of it," Bastian reasoned. Antigone shook her head, but let him speak regardless. "Every year we fizzled out in the bloodbath, the same student turned down the opportunity and handed volunteering to the runner up."

"Bastian thinks it's superstition," Antigone groaned. Claire Blake, one of the Victors from Nine, perked up at the mention of superstition. "He thinks that because she won't go into the arena, Two's karma is all jacked up. I think they're just shit students."

"The tributes from Two were pretty shit last year," Gil agreed.

"Well what about Four's volunteers? They can't be all that better than ours."

Caspian Reid, the other mentor for Four, tensed at the jab. He downed all his wine in one gulp, a clear sign that Cordelia would be alone in dealing with the other Careers.

"That's a secret," she decided. "We don't have the luxury of playing our full hand before they officially volunteer."

Well, she had a point. Four may have been just as much a Career District as the others, but they weren't exactly as successful as One and Two. Except, Lazlow thought with a grin, in recent years. He liked some of the Victors from Two, but God it was too ironic seeing them have a drought—seeing them lose both tributes during the bloodbath, of all times.

Lorre Hart, just a conniving as Capable, chose that moment to drop a bombshell: "I heard Ten has a tribute picked out already, too."

All eyes jumped from Lorre, all the way down the other end of the table to Roy Willard. He was one of the solo mentors, the pressure twice as heavy on his shoulders. Judging by the annoyed glare he sent to Lorre, Lazlow could very easily guess that this was news Roy wanted to stay secret.

The man ran a hand through his hair and let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a complicated story," he said slowly. A few chins rested on pairs of hands. Using the excuse of complications always got the Victors eager for more. "I would prefer if I discussed this with Lazlow in private later so he can pass the information onto the president."

Polka Lowenthal, who Lazlow had begun the night joking about, made their own joke at his expense. "Well now we know who to bother after dinner!"

"Let's not this year. He's got enough on his plate as it is."

His saviour was Quincey Hyde—mayor of District Eleven, as much as the man loathed the job. He was one of the few who was just as overworked as Lazlow around this time of year, so it made sense that he'd step in before the hyenas got a whiff of his scent. Much like Roy, he was mentoring solo this year. Unlike Roy, mentoring was a sort of mini vacation for Quincey where the most he had to worry about were two children instead of hundreds.

Another victor, older than Quincey, agreed with leaving Lazlow be. Hal Hanover was a pushover, but he still cared about others' wellbeings above all else. He was most comfortable with other Victors, anyway, so as long as one shared the same views as him he'd be able to speak his mind. Hal had never mentored before this year, though; whatever opinions he did have were cheap in the eyes of more experienced mentors, even if he'd scored a win for Three thirty years ago.

"I don't mind discussing it," Lazlow said. A few grins were aimed at him. "However, I do think it should wait until after the reapings conclude. Any further discussion outside of Mr. Willard and myself would just be gossip."

"Prude," Lorre muttered into her glass.

After being silent the whole time, Alice Gardner—Hal's partner in mentoring Three's tributes—finally said something half of the room was already thinking: "Does it matter who the kid is? They're still gonna get the shit kicked out of them by a Career."

"Shit kicked or not," Elijah mused, "a little drama always makes for the best appetiser."

Valencia reached across the table for a salt shaker. She unscrewed the lid and dumped all the contents onto Elijah's meal without so much as looking at him. All the while, Elijah smiled sweetly at her like she'd just done something overly endearing.

He was a weird man. Lazlow was glad he never had to sit next to him any time they held these dinners.

Lazlow tried to change the subject again. He was much more successful than his first attempt. "So, Mr. Somers," he said, looking for the face of one of Six's mentors, "any new songs?"

Jonathan Somers shrugged. Had anyone else asked, he would've at least said something; but Lazlow tended to forget at these dinners that he wasn't in the same circle as the Victors. For one, Jonathan wasn't at risk of being flogged if he admitted out loud that his nonsense lyrics were anti-Games statements in Pig Latin to other Victors. Lazlow was very well aware how easy it was to translate those lyrics, but the man was still cautious about it.

He stabbed a piece of salad with his fork and glared at it. "It rhymes no matter what I put in there," Jonathan amended. "So I'm not stuck in a rut or anything."

It didn't answer Lazlow's question, but it was an answer. He'd take what he could get.

And then Jonathan's face changed, his expression perking up as he looked across the table at Thea Arlovskaya. She was beloved in Nine for the festival she'd founded, and even the other Districts had begun to show adoration for her efforts.

"Say, Thea, did you still want music at this year's…?"

Thea nodded. "It'd be lovely, Jon. I don't know if we can get permission for you to travel, but I can try convince the president to allow a live broadcast from your home."

"Groovy. I'll get my brother to make sure we're ready for practice once the Games end."

The hand of a younger Victor raised slowly up in the air. "Thea, do you want any flowers?"

Thea looked at Twelve's only remaining Victor, D'Eon Miller, with a smile so warm that it could melt ice. "I looked into the ones you're fond of," Thea said. "They're the perfect kind of flower for the event, D'Eon. I'll ask for a shipment to be delivered the night before."

D'Eon looked as though she'd just been given a birthday gift early. She tucked into the rest of her dinner as fast as she could, all of a sudden excited to get the Games over and done with so she could send Thea her flowers.

Lazlow didn't even have the energy to be offended at how differently the outer District Victors treated him compared to each other. Not only was he used to it by now, but more than anything it gave him a few less people to worry about. The more he got to know the Victors, he'd found, the more distracted he got from work with news of their daily lives. And with everything going on for the 95th Games, Lazlow really didn't want to miss any work over trivial news.

Still, sometimes being let in on the trivial news felt nice.

Bastian nudged him with his elbow. Lazlow looked up from his food with wide eyes.

"Since you haven't slept in so long," Bastian declared loudly, demanding the attention of everyone at the table, "why don't you give us veterans a hint for what's to come? Surely the Head Gamemaker can do that much if he's been run this ragged."

Lazlow couldn't help it. He coughed up a laugh, shaking his head with a smile.

"Sorry, Mr. Oritz," he said, "but I think I'll follow District Four's example and refrain from showing my full hand."

No close date for subs, I'm just winging it and picking tributes I really wanna use for the spots they're subbed to. No clue who I'll introduce in the next chapter, but look forward to two (or three) of the little shits listed on my profile appearing ASAP.