"Atala Cragmyre?" the instructor asks, bored.

"Reporting for duty, sir," Atala barks, standing still and straight, her muscled back a perfect line. She resists the urge to look down the line at the rest of the Capitol Peacekeeper recruits.

"Seneca Crane?" the instructor booms after making eye contact with Atala. Atala and the instructor both look with unease upon the man next to Atala. He's 21, just like Atala, but while Atala is in perfect, chiseled shape, her muscles pressing against the elastic uniform they gave all recruits at the beginning, Seneca is drooping, his bulging stomach in danger of ripping the elastic. Atala recognizes him as the failed governor's boy. Now, with a dead mother and an exiled father, he probably has no where to go. Atala just scoffs. She's from the slums of the Capitol. The slums of the Capitol are better than the richest areas in places like 9, 10, 11, and 12, but they are still underfed and underprivileged compared to the true Capitol aristocrats. Atala has had to work, against prejudice for her caste and for her dark, nearly black skin. Seneca has had everything handed to him on a golden platter; acceptance into the Peacekeeping training program should be no different. She decides to hate him.

Seneca looks upon Atala with wandering eyes, marveling at her curved, muscled figure and her dark brown skin, which looks silky to the touch. He inds himself almost reaching out to touch her exposed arm as the instructor moves down the line, calling names like "Persephone Crumlis!" or "Fiefdom Cryletter!" The line of Capitol recruits stretches far and wide, numbering in the hundreds. Seneca is out of home and out of grace, and why not join the Peacekeepers for the heck of it? His ruined life is nothing, anyway. His standing in the Capitol has been dramatically lowered in recent months, and his once strong figure, quite like Atala's, has faded into a soft, full, lumpy figure. His once styled beard is now just uneven stubble, and his once sparkling eyes are empty and cold. Life has nothing to offer him; fun cannot be found any longer in the menial pleasures he used to enjoy, like drinking or partying. Atala has everything to live for, he realizes, and something inside him sours. She has goals, aspirations, a chance at joy and glory and wealth. He has his drudgery, and a chance at depression and notoriety and depravity. He decides to hate her.

The next weeks pass in a blur, and Atala and Seneca rarely see each other besides at the meals in the mess hall. The evaluations are rigorous, and only the fittest at the end of the two weeks of training will be selected to join the Peacekeeper task force. This crop will be primarily heading to Districts 1 and 2, the most loyal Districts, where the mostly lesser Capitol Peacekeepers can do their jobs easily. A "lucky" few will be chosen to head to District 9, one of the most raucous and rebellious Districts, just behind 8 and 11 in level of rebelliousness. Atala strives to be sent to District 9, rising to the top of the class like the cream of the crop does in the District she hopes to serve in. Seneca sinks, scraping the bottoms of the rankings, trying to place barely high enough to be accepted as a Peacekeeper in complacent District 2, but not trying hard enough to get anything better than some dismal job patrolling the ramparts of 2's great fortress, the Nut.

After two weeks of rigorous training, the recruits are given their rankings and assignments. Atala snatches her slip of paper and reads it over and over and over.

Atala Cragmyre, Female, 21, Born on February 8th, 54th Year PDD - Valedictorian, 1st in Class J of the 66th Year PDD (300 participants) - Assignment: Hunger Games Head Trainer

Atala stares, blank eyed. She's heard of very, very high ranking recruits sometimes becoming trainers in the Games. She's been recruited to be the HEAD Trainer, and immense honor, but Atala is disappointed. She wanted a quiet life, hidden in the golden grain of District 9, which is calm when it is untested by the Capitol and its quota is at an easy-to-meet number. Now she will not necessarily be in the spotlight, but she will be watched, supervised, and worst of all, still in the Capitol. No one can lead a quiet, simple life in the Capitol that is worth something. No one.

Seneca's entire body aches, and it even hurts to reach out his arm to take the slip of paper from the instructor who welcomed them on the first day. He spots a slack, tired looking Atala, and sees the large 1st printed on her slip, though he cannot read her assignment. He just growls and reads his slip.

Seneca Crane, Male, 21, Born on April 19th, 54th Year PDD - Failed, 152nd in Class J of the 66th Year PDD (300 participants) - Assignment: N/A

Seneca almost roars. Everyone 150th and up is accepted. He failed just a little bit too much. The chosen 150 are given their Peacekeeper whites as they beam with pride. Only Atala, his nemesis, at least in his convoluted, messy mind, is given a different uniform. She is given an outfit he's seen before; a Head Trainer's outfit for the Hunger Games.

He just chuckles softly to himself. How hilarious. The ace of Class J has been added to the Games' sickening pageantry. Seneca would never admit it, but the Games irk him sometimes. Watching the hapless outer District tributes, particularly the young ones, get slaughtered by the Careers is not an enjoyable experience for him. Yet, his uncle is a Gamemaker, and soon after leaving the Peacekeeper training facility near the slums, he called up Uncle Tib (actually Tiberius, as he always corrected Seneca. My name is Tiberius, not Tib. He was known for saying.) Tib makes some calls and realizes there were a few lowly Gamemaker positions, basic tech positions, open. By the time the 66th Games arrived, Seneca Crane had a job as a Gamemaker.

Atala slips into her baggy black trainer outfit. Her fingers trace the silvery seal of Panem over her heart, and she keeps biting her lip. Atala rarely gets nervous, but the Games make her nervous. The Careers remind her of the gang members, towering and muscled, in the slums. The gang members that had murdered her older brother Lopez, and that had brutalized her in so many ways that the thoughts of the acts made her break down. Psychologists could not help her, but ignorance was a cure fit enough. Not wanting to cry in front of the tributes, she reviews them in her head. Prosperity and Silver from 1 and Thaddea and Tarquinius from 2, all Careers and all ages 17 and 18, as well as all being handsome, strong, and able. Two weaklings from 3, Cordelle and Wireton, ages 13 and 15. Four had produced two volunteers this year, named Serena and Saipan, both age 16. From 5 came a 16 year old and a 17 year old, named Alyson and Boldt. From 6, two 14 year olds, the boy addicted to morphling, named Kia and Chevy. From 7, two 18 year olds, Elma and Oak. From 8, a 15 year old girl and a 14 year old boy, named Yarna and Thread. From 9, a 16 year old and a 18 year old, named Jeannie and Emmer. From 10, two 17 year olds, named Bertha and Bear. From 11, a 15 year old girl and a 12 year old boy, named Lemonie and Vyne. And from 12, two 15 year olds, named Sarah and Coleman. She isn't sure how they were going to do. The Careers would probably win. They'd won the 62nd-65th so far; she isn't sure if the Outer Districts will be able to stop the Careers.

She is shaken from her thoughts of the little 12 year old from 11 being slaughtered by the Careers when she walks into the basement of the Tribute Hotel, where the training center is. She strides in, and watches as her underlings organize their stations. They all collect in front of the 21 year old, all but one older than her, and they listen intently as she welcomes them and tells them to try extra hard; she wants the Outer Districts to put up a good fight against the Careers. She says that the past several years have been senseless slaughter and that it is "boring" to watch, so she needs some competitors from the Outer Districts. They all nod and a few salute mockingly before heading off. Atala just grunts. It is so hard to not reveal that she wants the Outer Districts to have a chance not because of the show, but because she dislikes the senseless slaughter.

Her eyes gradually travel up to the Loft, where the Gamemakers sit, as the tributes start to pour in. Her eyes lock with Seneca Crane's, and he is dressed in the bright red, no, blood red smock that the Gamemakers wear. Atala scowls before turning to the tributes amassed around her. She begins to tell them to train hard, nothing that really matters, nothing that really has any worth. The tributes leave, and Atala lets out a sigh.

Seneca watches as Tarquinius beheads the strong Emmer boy from District 9. District 9 has been so close to their 5th overall Victor, but Tarquinius had nipped that in the bud. The string of Career Victories has continued, and something about that puts Seneca off a little bit. He closes up his work station in the Control Center, powering off the controls. All he did is controlling the sun's setting and rising. It's boring and he often wants to just fling the virtual sun randomly across the virtual heavens of the arena with a single flick of his finger. But he controls himself. Maybe he could regain favor in the Capitol if he remains loyal and complacent.

As he walks out of the Control Center, located in the basement of the Tribute Hotel, he hears a loud whacking noise and grunting coming from the training center in the other half of the basement. He eases open the door into the training center, and he is surprised by the sight before him.

Atala, in a black sports bra and charcoal yoga pants, is holding a dull iron sword. She growls as she smacks a dummy on the head, on the back, bruising it and eventually smashing it into pieces on the floor. She brings the pommel down on the splintered head of the dummy, and then she stands, spotting Seneca by the doors.

Neither speaks, but Seneca picks up a sword of his own and immediately sets to work destroying a dummy with vigor. His muscled, lean physique has returned after a month's work in the gym before the Games began, and his anger seeps out as he destroys dummy after dummy. Atala just watches, dumbfounded. This is not the man she had seen in line at the Peacekeeper training center, slouched and pot bellied. This is a real man, oozing anger and loneliness and hatred and disdain. He cripples and decimates dummies, and before he knows it he is just smashing the practice sword against the cement ground over and over until it cracks and breaks into hundreds of shattered pieces. He begins to sob a bit as he sits down on the gym mat of the cold sword station.

Suddenly he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, and he turns to meet the smoldering gaze of a sweating Atala. Her mouth changes from a small smile to a grimace to a frown to a flat line; she isn't sure how to portray herself to his man she is just truly discovering. Seneca meets her eyes and understanding passes between them.

"I hate them, too," Atala murmurs. "The Careers. The Games. Your friends, especially Proteus, the Head. I hate this all. All of it."

Seneca answers with silence, but his eyes convey all Atala needs to know. He reaches up and squeezes the hand on his shoulder, and before they know it their lips are touching and they're kissing deeper and deeper and deeper until it's just them tangled together on the cement floor. When they break, they're both panting. Seneca looks into Atala's eyes, and he sees the eye of the storm, the smoldering, burgeoning storm clouds clearing to reveal something buried beneath the hatred of the Games. Seneca's eyes do the same thing, though that is unbeknownst to him at the time.

"I don't hate you, though," Atala whispers in his ear. "I might just like you well enough."

A year and three days later, Atala watches with tears in her eyes as Augustus Braun from District 1 cheers, standing over the slain bodies of the males from 10 and 2 and the female from his own District. He killed the male from 10 and the female from his own District. Already, the Capitol is declaring the charismatic, bloodthirsty Career with six kills to his name "Panem's Favorite Son." Atala would rather name him "Panem's Goddamn Awful Manwhore 6th Career Victor In A Row Favorite Son." Atala finds herself smashing the crystal flute of champagne in her hand against the dark brown leather ottoman in front of her. Shards of glass imbed themselves in the heel of her hand, slicing across her fingers, digging into her knuckles. The blood drizzles from her clenched hands like miniature waterfalls, splattering onto the snow white carpet, staining it.

The door opens and Seneca staggers in, and his eyes lock on Atala, curled on the carpet, the ground and her white dress covered in blood stains. Seneca picks up his girlfriend and carries her to the couch. He kisses her forehead as he cleans and bandages her pulpy, bloody hands. She sobs into his shoulder, wetting his blood red Gamemaker smock. He now controls all of the mutts; he's moved up in his position, only because his Uncle Tib insisted on it. He notices some blood gets on his smock, but he doesn't care; it'll blend in nicely enough. He lifts her tear stained face with his hands, pressing his lips to hers. She kisses weakly back, and her tears fade away. Seneca starts to go further, but Atala just shakes her head, pulling away.

"I just want to go to bed," she whispers. She stands and shuffles away into their bedroom, and Seneca follows her into their bedroom. He doesn't know why everything in their apartment is white or glass or metal; it's all pure and empty and superficial, almost. He slides under the mounds of covers, closing his arms around Atala's quivering figure, pressing his lips against her ear and whispering sweet nothings over and over to her. She doesn't respond. She just continues to tremble in Seneca's grip as he twirls her silky black hair around his fingers, letting it fall from his grasp after a while. Suddenly Atala turns to him, her eyes stormy and smoldering, and Seneca becomes immediately serious, dropping the intimacy. He knows that look well enough to know to not fool around any longer.

"Promise me…" Atala trails off. "Promise me that you won't be caught up by ambition, Seneca. Promise me."

"I will try," he murmurs into her ear.

"No 'I will try' bullshit, Seneca," she snaps, sitting up, staring at him. The storm in her eyes is escalating, and her tears have been replaced by simmering anger. "Don't be cowardly with me. Please don't be that man I met in training."

"Atala-"

"SENECA MAXIMUS CRANE!" Atala screams. He whimpers and starts to shake, and Atala feels strangely satisfied to see him quaking beneath her.

"Atala, please-"

"I know you're starting to get caught up in it, Seneca," she whispers as the tears return, the once broiling storm dropping its load. "You're starting to enjoy it, aren't you?" She stares at him, her head cocked to the side, her eyes clearing as tears drip from them. "You're enjoying the death. You're enjoying the bloodshed. And I thought you were different, Seneca Crane. I thought you were different."

"Atala." That's all he says. He knows it isn't enough.

"Let's just be greedy, lustful humans, shall we, Seneca? Make me forget. Never remind me of this night again. Let's just forget everything but each other underneath the sheets."

Seneca complies, and their relationship moves into a smoother area for the next couple of months. For a bit they're both convinced everything will work out splendidly.

Then Atala meets Plutarch Heavensbee, and everything goes downhill.

The 68th. Seneca watches from his mutt station as the new Head, Plutarch Heavensbee, shouts over the din of chattering Gamemakers, silencing all of them with a few loud booms of his voice.

"Seneca and Otho, direct four shark mutts behind each of the three remaining tributes to herd them to the Cornucopia island. Zeus, make the waters choppier for the first half of the swim and then calmer for the second half. Lucretia, make the skies clear! Damion, pull the sun to the crest of the sky!"

Seneca's hands flash across the controls, easily conjuring up two quartets of shark mutts to chase the male from 4, Wade, and the female from 6, Steela. His partner and apprentice, Otho, creates a quartet of his own and sends them after the male from 10, Prongson. The Outer Districts got quite lucky this year, and that should make Atala happy. A tsunami wiped out most of them, along with three others, a couple of days prior. The previous day the male from 12 died from infection sustained from a fight with Prongson, and now the final 3 are being herded to the center of the arena for the finale.

Seneca hates delighting in the fact that the weakling girl from 6, Steela, is torn into pulpy shreds by his muttations as she struggles to swim. Both Wade and Prongson scissor through the salty water towards the center island, avoiding snapping sharks. Plutarch commands Otho and Seneca to back the mutts off and for Danica to start spinning the island around. They do so, and soon Prongson and Wade are pulling themselves onto the whirling island. Wade staggers and falls, and Prongson crawls towards Wade and tackles him. The island stops spinning, and Wade knees Prongson in the gut just as he is about to stab him in the heart with a long, wickedly serrated dagger. Seneca holds his breath as blood is spilt and Wade and Prongson wrestle for control, for the upper hand. It is the thrilling type of finale that the Games lovers will rejoice in watching. After a half hour of pure struggle, Prongson lets out a roar of defiance. With his last surge of energy, he plants the dagger, hilt deep, in Wade's neck. The boy's eyes glaze over in moments and his cannon booms. The trumpets sound, and Prongson Ellis of District 10 is declared the Victor of the 68th Annual Hunger Games by a cheery Claudius Templesmith. Seneca finds himself smiling to himself as he closes down his work station. He glances wistfully up at the Weather Station, the next step up the ladder. He's applied to be moved their next year. His corrupt father and his disgrace have been forgotten and he's slowly emerging as a well liked young man.

When he returns home to his apartment, he shouts Atala's name, grinning. She rushes from her bedroom with a grin on her face, and he hugs her and they kiss like two people truly in love, in a way they haven't in months. Seneca pulls her close to his chest and they don't even need to say the words; they just smile and breathe rapidly, holding each other.

"Finally. The drought broken," Atala murmurs. "I thought I might go crazy if Wade Dedka was proclaimed Victor."

"Finally, yes," Seneca replies, and before he knows what he's saying, he continues. "It should shake things up for the next year; it will give the Outer Districts hope to be easily crushed."

Atala stares, mouth wide open, at Seneca. He realizes what he's said, and he opens his mouth to reply.

"Sen...Seneca?" she whispers, and he can see tears collecting in her eyes.

"It was just the Gamemaker talk!" he quickly shouts. "You...you have to say stuff like that around them…"

"I think I'm going to go out," Atala mutters. She reluctantly, almost wistfully, kisses him on the cheek and then shuffles out of the apartment.

They won't see each other for another seven months.

Atala grins at Plutarch as they enter the dining room. She cannot believe she's in the presence of a couple of important Victors; recently minted Johanna Mason from the previous year's Games, the 71st, Beetee Latier, a whiz from 3 whose Games went out with an electrifying bang, and Cecelia Turczan, the stunning, motherly beauty from the 58th. They all sit at the dining table along with some other important Capitol insiders like herself; a videographer named Cressida Gripplos, two stylists named Lavinia Onuros and Elysia Rippleleaf, a young man, barely out of his teenage years, named Cinna Appis, and Plutarch's assistant, Fulvia Cardew. All of them, important figures in Panem.

And all of them rebels.

Atala met Plutarch after trying to find out how her ex Seneca Crane was coping without her. A few Gamemakers directed her to his address, and Atala met Mr. Heavensbee. He could understand her, after a cup of tea, understand her hatred for the Games, her dislike for the Capitol and its ways. He feasted on her enthusiasm for keeping Outer District tributes alive, gorged on her multitude of ideas about how and when to strike against the Capitol. In months the entire plan was revealed to her, and she became an inner mechanism in the great, giant factory that was the solidifying rebellion. Atala had even shared a private phone call with President Alma Coin of District 13 herself, for goodness sakes! Plutarch was delighted to have an insider on the Games. Sometimes she caught him staring at her, drinking up her young, attractive features, but Atala felt nothing but amiability and camaraderie to the 50-something.

She sits down in between Fulvia and Cecelia, her hands shaking a bit as she picks up her silverware and begins to slice into some soft mounds of pork that are seasoned with generous amounts of pepper. Everyone is relatively quiet; Plutarch only organized dinners like this with his closest partners in crime to make important announcements. Johanna banters with her designer, Elysia; they pretend to hate each other quite often, although they're actually close. Beetee and Cinna chatter quietly, and Cecelia and Cressida whisper a bit between bites of food. Fulvia is taking notes on some trivial matter Plutarch is relaying to her. Only the designer Lavinia and Atala are silent, and they are on opposite sides of the table.

After everyone is halfway through their dinners, Plutarch clinks his shiny silver spoon against his glass chalice, full of dark red wine. Everyone quiets down immediately, and Plutarch stands, clearing his throat before he begins to relay his announcement to his friends.

"So I have gathered all of you here to declare that I am stepping away from the position of Head Gamemaker so I can focus better on helping with the rebellion," Plutarch booms. "Soon, President Coin has told me, we will be making the big move, initiating the rebellion. We're just waiting for the right moment to spark the fire of rebellion that will consume Panem in due time."

Atala finds herself smiling. The rebellion will come in due time. Soon enough, she will not have to watch the senseless slaughter, like the slaughter that occurred this year, only weeks ago, when the male from 1, Gemton, claimed seven innocent lives and won the 72nd Games. Soon it will all be over.

Atala isn't afraid to give her life for this fire, to act as tinder for the flames. Soon it will all be over, and it will be worth it.

"Atala," Plutarch murmurs. She turns to look him in the eyes.

"Yes?"

"You wanted to know my replacement, yes?"

Atala is about to say that she didn't, but he tells her anyway with a morose look in his eyes.

"Seneca Crane will be my replacement. He's the new Head Gamemaker."

Atala's inner flame putters out in moments as she imagines the man she once loved, still loves, becoming a monster directing the slaughter of 23 teens.

That's when she realizes it's already too late to save him; he's been a monster all along.

Seneca watches with tears in his eyes as Peeta Mellark declares "Because...because...she came here with me."

Seneca runs from the Gamemaker box, pushing through the velvet ropes and Peacekeepers that preside over the entrance into the Gamemaker's secluded viewing box in the interview theater. He runs and runs and runs, and eventually finds the box all the trainers sit in, close to the ground. He is about to run through the velvet rope, about the break through and reconcile with her, when he spots Atala curled in the hands of the muscled, ruggedly handsome swords trainer. He steps back, and the Peacekeepers ask him what's wrong. He says nothing; everything's fine. In reality, his world is being consumed by ash and flames as his healed heart breaks all over again.

Seneca shoots awake when his Head Assistant, Romulus Packard, flicks him on the cheek. Seneca growls as he sits up. He spots the cannon firer and mutt apprentice, Lucia, flick on a cannon. The virtual, 3-D arena reverberates from the simulated noise. Now only 3 are left.

He looks up at the wall of TVs and sees the replay of the girl from 5, Finch, dying. She eats the nightlock berries Peeta has accidentally collected. Her eyes flick up to the cameras, and he catches a look most would miss; a simmer of defiance. He almost chuckles to himself as the girl commits suicide. He knows it's suicide, or at least suicide caused by desperation. He watched her in training; he remembers her marking the nightlock berries at the edible plants station as inedible clearly. He just chuckles throatily once more.

Day 17 arrives soon enough, and Seneca just watches as Cato hunts relentlessly for the Star Crossed Lovers, Katniss and Peeta. He dozes off for a couple of hours, and wakes up in the late hours of Day 17. Katniss and Peeta are hunting for Cato, and Cato is being hunted by dog mutts as well. He watches with delight as they climb atop the Cornucopia and they fight and Peeta bleeds and Cato falls into the gnashing jaws of the mutant dogs. Day 18 rolls around, and Katniss manages to end Cato. Then it's just the Star Crossed Lovers left.

They think they've won. Claudius is already saying that the previous rule change has be revoked, but something inside Seneca breaks. He watches Katniss, and sees Atala. He watches Peeta, and sees himself. And as they lift the berries to their mouths, Seneca uses a voice modulator to sound like Claudius, and he speaks into the arena, declaring both Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark the Victors of the 74th Games.

He runs from the Control Center without another word, and he hides in his apartment. Half an hour later, the doorbell rings. He eases open the door to see Atala standing there, her silky black hair ruffled from a run, dressed in black sweatpants and a loose gray tank top. She grabs him and kisses him, forgiving him with a touch of her lips to his.

Three days later, Atala is accidentally discovered as a rebel by some Peacekeepers. They don't get out any valuable information, and they have her executed. Atala opens the door, and on the other end of the room, a door opens, and Seneca steps in. The two lovers meet eyes and realize that they, now, are the Star Crossed Lovers. They both cry silently as they each take a fistful of berries. They kiss passionately, whispering forgiveness and murmuring about how much they've missed each other over the past years. Then they lift the berries to their mouths and swallow, sacrificing themselves in the name of the cause.

Lucia Crababpple

Atala Cragmyre

Seneca Crane

Tiberius Crane

Little Laelia Mirrorsmoke stares up at the marble obelisk in the Capitol that commemorates those Capitol citizens who fell during the Second Rebellion. Her eager fingers trace the names before her. Lucia. Atala. Seneca. Tiberius. Little does she know that all those that rest, carved in the marble, know each other. Tiberius, uncle to Seneca. Lucia, underling to Seneca. And Seneca, lover to Atala. Laelia moves on, reading further, focusing on names like Finnick Odair, Cinna Appis, Primrose Everdeen, and Kenton Boggs, which are placed prominently at the top of the obelisk. Laelia Mirrorsmoke will never again look or remember the names Atala Cragmyre or Seneca Crane. They are no Romeo and Juliet. They are forgotten, and that is all there is for them.

A/N: So yes. I hope you enjoyed this a lot. Atala has always fascinated me, and this idea just came to me. I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and decided to post it now because I felt like it. Still on vacation, but I'll be back very soon, on the 23rd! My first completed fic! :) If you liked this, I can do more like it, about obscure rebels and the such. :) Thanks for reading, and please review!