Warnings for this chapter: Swearing, mentions of sex (super brief, don't worry), and encouraging underage gambling. Stanley, how dare you.

Also, thank you again everyone for helping the review count get to 300! You're all awesome!

Stanley Bevalli, 18, District 9

On the streets of 9, we always say you don't know a person until you've seen them stressed. As someone's who's watched boastful adults turn to cowards and crying little kids become murderous when threatened, I can attest to the truth of this statement. Which is why I was so eager to observe my fellow tributes when the time came for our private sessions.

I glance around the cafeteria from my spot in the corner, eyes lingering on each kid. Some are still picking half-heartedly at their food, but most barely touched anything during lunch. Safe to say nerves are affecting everyone, no matter how adamant they are that they don't care about the Capitol—even most of the rebels look anxious.

The doors swing open, and everyone jumps, heads swivelling around to face the newcomers. It's not a Capitol attendant like I expected, but a pair of Peacekeepers, their hands wrapped tightly around the arms of two tributes. Ah, right—Soren Tains and Vesper Prospero, the misbehavers from earlier.

The boys are tossed unceremoniously into the room before the doors are slammed shut once more. At first, no one moves save Soren, who's attempting to struggle to his feet amid muttering a slew of curses even I haven't heard before. Something's wrong, though—the kid's arms and legs keep twitching, sending him keeling back to the ground before he can regain his balance.

So the Peacekeepers were shocking them, then; at least, I assume so. It's rare for most places in 9 to get any kind of consistent electricity, so that's not exactly a common punishment, but hey, I saw all kinds of shit during the war.

Unfortunately, this means the boys will probably be fine by the time the Hunger Games start, providing the Peacekeepers didn't go overboard. Dammit, I was hoping for some broken bones at least. Would have made my job easier.

But those are such cold, heartless thoughts to have, Stanley! How could you think such a thing?

Wah, wah, wah. I'm a bad guy, and anyone who thinks differently is in for a rude awakening.

Then again, I'm not exactly the odd one out here.

My eyes narrow as the girl from 1 rushes to her district partner's side. Vesper doesn't even try to rise, just collapses against her and sobs quietly into her shoulder.

Tesla Sinclair—something tells me she's not the kind, caring district partner she's made herself out to be. She didn't step in during the earlier fight, and honestly, I'd bet my life's savings she's the one who started all those nasty rumours about Vesper in the first place. Her motives are beyond me, but what I do know is I can spot a manipulator a mile away. Takes one to know one.

Well, whatever she's doing, it's best I stay as far from the 1s as possible until I know what the hell I'm getting myself into. I make a mental note of that just as the doors open once more, this time revealing the Capitol attendant we've all been expecting.

"Vesper Prospero of District One," the woman says in a crisp, clear voice. "It is time for your private session. Please make you way to the gym."

Vesper gasps and tries to stand, but his legs are working about as well as Soren's. He winds up collapsing back to the ground in a heap, his hand wrapped tightly around Tesla's, sobbing and begging her to help him, to keep him safe.

Tesla "tries" in response, but the Capitol woman snaps her fingers, and two Peacekeepers appear in the doorway, easily separating the 1 pair. Vesper is dragged out the door despite Tesla's protests, though beyond the regret in her eyes, I can see things are going exactly according to her plan.

Yeah, not touching that business with a ten-foot pole. Some seriously twisted shit going on there. Girl from 5 seems to notice it too—she keeps shooting glares at Tesla whenever she believes no one's looking.

Whatever, not my problem. So long as it doesn't hurt me, the girls can tear each other to pieces, and take Vesper down in the process.

The nervous energy in the room is thrust into overdrive now that the private sessions have officially started. Boy from 11 is fidgeting like a madman in his corner of the room, while the boy from 8 seems to be rehearsing lines under his breath. As for Soren, he finally manages to rise and stumble his way to an empty seat, cursing all the way, but the aggression he's showing is a laughable overcompensation. Aw, does the little gang boy have butterflies in his tummy too?

I smirk and lean back in my seat, putting my feet up on the table in front of me. Seems I'm the only one not nervous here. Maybe I'll have a nice nap before my session.

I've just pulled my hat over my eyes and relaxed back in a more comfortable position when someone speaks right in my ear. "Stanley?"

There's a voice I know too well. I groan and flick my hat up, peering out from under the brim to see Jeanette and her little friends gathered around me.

"I'm sleeping."

"You had like, ten coffees this morning. You're not sleeping." Jeanette grins. "Have I ever introduced you to Milo and Chance?"

"Nope. So why're you doing it now?"

"Well, we were just talking about the sessions, and Chance and Milo are a little nervous—"

"Chance is nervous," Milo says quickly. "Not me. I'm cool—cool as a cucumber."

"Sure you are," Jeanette says, throwing a knowing smile in my direction. "Well, I was just thinking—I was nervous about this whole thing last night as well, but you made me feel a lot better with your pep talk. Could you help them out?"

Oh, no. No, we are not going there. I don't know what misguided perception of last night Jeanette has in her head, but I most definitely was not helping her. Not my style.

"I didn't give you a pep talk," I mutter, yanking the brim of my hat back down over my eyes. "I just said some random bullshit to make you leave. Like I'm doing now."

"But it was helpful bullshit!"

"Don't swear, you're too young."

Instantly, I want to slap myself. What are you doing, idiot? For fuck's sake, you're acting like a mother hen. When the hell did I start caring at all about Jeanette and her innocence?

"Anyways," Jeanette says, trying and failing to keep from beaming. She's somehow deluded herself into thinking that, beneath the cold-hearted, smooth-talking con artist exterior, I'm a genuinely nice guy, and whenever I do anything to reinforce this idea, she gets all giddy. It's ridiculous; I'm only manipulating her, after all. "Whether you meant it or not, it really helped me out. If you're not going to talk to the boys, then I'll tell them what you would have said."

I roll my eyes and pull my hat back over my head. "Fine, but can you do it somewhere else—"

Too late, she's already talking. So much for my nap.

"Yesterday, Stanley said not to worry because these scores don't matter. Who cares what some Capitolites think of us?"

"I don't know," Chance murmurs. "I mean, I haven't been to school in three years, but I thought tests were a pretty big part of it. And I . . . I don't remember how to take them properly."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Milo says. "You saying this is like a school test? There's not going to be an essay, is there?"

Jeanette sighs. "No, guys, it's not like that. They said it's testing your physical skills, remember? They're looking for, I don't know, weapons demonstrations and stuff."

"W-Weapons?" Chance stammers. "But I didn't visit any of the weapons stations! I didn't know that's what they were testing!"

The anxiety in the kid's voice is palpable, and Jeanette, for all her kind-hearted attempts, is getting nowhere with these boys.

"All right, look," I say, flicking my hat back up and glancing at each of the three kids. "This isn't a test like school, okay?" Not that I'd know, but whatever. "What's going to happen is you're going to walk in there, do whatever you want in the time they give you, and then they're going to assign you a score. But the score doesn't matter, so there's no need to freak out."

Chance doesn't look convinced. "Why would they do all this if the score's didn't matter?"

"Fine, they matter to some stuffy old Capitolites. But to you? Since when have you determined your self-worth based on the opinions of some multicoloured freaks?"

That gets a smile out of the kids. Before I know it, my lips are quirking up too.

All part of my manipulation tactic, of course. I just, you know, want these kids gone so I can nap.

"Here." I stick my hand in my pocket and pull out one of the many decks of cards I've accumulated during my stay in the Capitol. Jeanette smiles as I toss them to her and continue, "You remember how to play blackjack, right?"

"How could I forget?"

"Good. It'll keep the nerves away. Don't be too hard on your friends."

Based on the smile I get from Jeanette in response, it's a very good thing Chance and Milo don't have actual money to gamble away. The girl's a natural; I'll admit, I suffered a few humiliating defeats at her hand after teaching her how to play.

The kids go off to another table, and from the cheers and groans that arise shortly after, it sounds like they're getting the hang of it just fine. Even when the time comes for Chance's session, he leaves the cafeteria looking substantially more confident than he was earlier. Good for him.

Not that I care or anything.

As time goes on, more and more kids trickle out of the cafeteria. The girl from 3 walks with a cruel, mischievous glint in her eyes, middle fingers already up as she stalks past the Peacekeepers. Boy from 4 nervously edges out of his seat and stumbles towards the door, hands trembling. Girl from 5 strides out confidently. None of them ever come back, which only serves to make the remaining tributes more nervous.

Honestly, I don't know what everyone is so worried about. These scores are bullshit, and even if they do matter, there's nothing we can do about it. They're as fixed as one of my scams, trust me. No way the rebel kids are getting good scores, no matter how amazing their demonstrations are.

Though I must admit, my stomach does clench slightly when the girl from 8 is called. It's not nerves, it's just . . . apprehension at the unknown. Truth be told, I have no idea what I'm gonna do when I walk into that gym.

But my whole life has been nothing but improvising and making shit up as I go along. It's all going to be okay.

"Stanley Bevalli of District Nine. It is time for your private session. Please make your way to the gym."

"Riveting speech as always, sweetheart," I say, hopping up from my chair and striding towards the door. "Really, what would we all do without you?"

The Capitolite woman doesn't deign me with a response, simply staring at me with dreary eyes through her blue-tinted spectacles. Seriously, does anyone in the Capitol even need glasses? I've heard they have surgeries for that. The spectacles are probably just for show, then, 'cause you know, that's not a waste of money.

Man, I wish I'd been born here. So many stupid people so easily scammed out of their every penny.

I head towards the door, uncomfortably aware of the deep breaths I'm taking in an attempt to calm myself down. Relax, idiot. Don't be a wimp.

With this in mind, I reach for the doorknob, but I'm stopped as someone slams into my back, arms wrapping around my waist. The fuck?

I glance over my shoulder just as Jeanette takes a step back. She smiles at the sight of my puzzled expression.

"It's a good luck hug. I know you said the scores don't matter, but, you know, just in case."

For the first time in my life, I'm speechless. I mean, what do . . . what do you say to something like that? My first thought is to thank her, my second thought is under no fucking circumstance am I thanking her, and my third thought is back to the what the fuck do I do? mentality.

I open my mouth to speak, but thankfully the Peacekeepers intervene before I can likely make a fool of myself. They drag me away and out of the cafeteria, giving me one last glimpse of Jeanette smiling and waving before the door slams shut behind them.

The Peacekeepers continue to escort me down the hall, and even though I want to shake them off (never exactly been a fan of the law enforcement), I don't have the focus to do so. My brain is miles away, playing and replaying that moment with Jeanette. That . . . hug.

Funny enough, I don't think I've ever hugged before. Hey, I'm no prude; I've kissed, groped, squeezed, had sex—you name it, I've done it. Usually with Adriana, my partner in crime.

But we've never hugged. I guess, I don't know, we saw it as a weak gesture? It's something people do to show affection, not because they're horny as fuck. Adriana and I, we're not affectionate people. Well, I'm not. Maybe she is.

I wonder if she is.

I wonder if she's ever wanted to hug.

Nope, don't go there. Do not go down that path.

I shake my head—figure now's a pretty good time to get rid of these stupid thoughts and focus on the present.

And just in time too—right as I'm pulling myself out of my own head, the Peacekeepers come to a stop outside the gym. One opens the doors; another gives me a none-too-gentle shove inside. I stumble forward as the disturbingly final sound of doors slamming echoes through the cavernous room.

Okay. Here we go.

I stride towards the middle of the room, taking in everything around me. The stations are here as per usual, but the trainers are all gone. There are, however, a few men and women standing by the racks of weapons and the sparring ring—in case a tribute wants an opponent to fight, I suppose.

My gaze shifts to the balcony above the gym where the oh-so-important Gamemakers are present. There's about twenty of them, all dolled up in their deep purple robes, and all with their eyes on their various Capitol computer devices.

One guy, however, has his full attention on me. Octavian August's gaze never wavers from my face, though I can't tell for the life of me what he's thinking. We watch each other in silence for a moment, each sizing the other up, until I decide I can't take the quiet anymore.

"Guys, gals. 'Sup?"

Some of the Gamemakers look up at that. One lady's lips pucker like she just swallowed a whole lemon.

"Watch how you address us, young man. We are your Gamemakers, and this is your private session. It would not be wise to take this lightly."

"My apologies." I sweep off my hat and drop into a low bow. "Fine ladies, great gentlemen, I am truly honoured to be in your presence. If I may be so forward, might I interrogatively request specific information pertaining to a direction directly opposite that of down?"

"Sarcasm won't get you anywhere either," grumbles a Gamemaker wider than he is tall. "We've had more than enough of that today, believe me. So, are you going to show us something, or what?"

"Of course, my good sir." I reach into my pocket, pull out another deck of cards, and start to shuffle. "But first, can I get a volunteer from the audience?"

Sour Lemon Lady's frowns. "We are not here to see card tricks, young man."

"Then perhaps a good round of 'guess which cup the item is under'?" I slide my ring off my finger and smile. "You guess right, you can keep it."

Fat Man groans. "Can't you do anything besides these silly games?"

"I've also mastered the art of napping, if you'd care to see my skills in action."

All I receive are sighs in response. The Gamemakers shake their heads, many of them returning to their brightly-lit screens and refusing to pay me anymore mind. Fine by me.

Except Octavian's gaze has barely budged, save to flicker down to his computer, but he looks back up just as I settle comfortably on the ground.

"Stanley Bevalli, correct?"

"Why, forgotten me already? You wound me, Mr. Head Gamemaker."

"How did you come by this name?"

"Huh?"

"As a boy in your situation, I have very little information on you, but what I do know is you've been on the streets for as long as you can remember, correct?"

"What's it to you?"

"Who gave you your name? Who raised you in the beginning? You couldn't have survived at such a young age by yourself."

"No one raised me." When Octavian continues to stare, I shrug, not liking how hot my face is getting. "Some old lady. I dunno. Why does it matter?"

"Did she pass away?"

"She was old and on the streets. What do you think?" I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I don't think it entirely works out. Damn it. How many times have I told myself I don't get attached to anyone? People leave you all too easily on the streets.

"How old were you when you were first on your own, then?"

Tempted though I am to respond with go fuck yourself, that'll make it evident their questions are getting to me, which is the last thing I want. So I grit my teeth and answer, "Seven."

"Mm." Octavian glances back down at his computer. "Seven. It seems to me a boy who's survived on the streets for eleven years by himself would have picked up a few more skills to show us than simple card tricks."

"Oh, and you'd know, would you?"

For a second, are eyes meet, my irritated glare versus his impassive stare. But behind those dull eyes lies something . . . different. I almost feel like he's going to say yes.

But I don't wind up getting a response. All Octavian does is raise his hand in some sort of signal, causing me to frown in confusion. What is this, some kind of Gamemaker code?

I hear the footsteps behind me a moment later. Quiet, but not silent.

On instinct, I roll to my side and leap to my feet. A trainer stands before me, the knife in his hand thrust forward, right where I was sitting a second ago.

"Oh, come on," I call up to the Gamemakers as the man turns to face me, readjusting his grip on his weapon. "What are you trying to do, coax me into fighting? I know these weapons aren't real."

Despite the conviction in my voice, I can't stop myself from ducking as the man swings the knife towards me. Blunt or not, I'd rather avoid being hit altogether. Besides, I can't stop my reflexes. Too many times I've been here before: a dark alley, a desperate man, a knife shining in the darkness.

The next time the man attacks, I'm ready.

I throw my arms up to meet his, stopping his blow in its tracks. Before he has time to blink, I've swung his arm around to my other side and gripped it tight in my hands. He tries to struggle, but it's no use; I've had to do this too many times to mess up now.

Keeping one hand firmly on his arm, I let go with the other and slam my knuckles down hard on the tender, fleshy spot between the tendons of his hand. The man grunts, his grip loosens, and he drops the knife. Good. With that gone, I flip the man's arm back the other way, forcing him to fall to the ground or risk dislocating his elbow, at the least.

He clearly wasn't expecting that—the way he falls, the dazed look in his eyes, clear signs he's not used to being taken down. Which means I'll have no trouble scooping up the knife and—

Too late, I hear the heavy breathing behind me. Too late, I hear the whoosh of displaced air as something is swung over my head, past my face, and down to my neck. A lead pipe, held at both ends, the middle digging uncomfortably into my throat. My hands flail out to defend myself, but the pipe is pulled tighter, cutting off my air supply and banishing all thoughts of escape from my mind. For a moment, I'm not in the gym, but in one of 9's alleys, finally overpowered like I'd always feared I would be. I wonder if this is the day I die.

But then the bar at my throat disappears and I'm pushed away, stumbling to my knees and taking in air through choked gasps. My attacker, the trainer with the pipe, tosses his weapon to the floor and helps his comrade with the knife to his feet.

Octavian August stares down at me from on high. "You didn't watch your back. I figured that would have been the first thing the streets taught you."

"F-Fuck you too," I manage to cough out, but deep down, I know he's right, and I hate it. Watching my back is the first thing I learned on the streets, but then I met Adriana. Then I started trusting her to help me out. Then I got soft.

That's why you don't get attached to anyone, not in my world. It makes you weak. I'd imagine the Hunger Games will be very similar. The arena will be no place for hugs.