Chapter Twenty.

Training Day Two, Part One.

Roarke Lumally, 18 years old;
District Two Male.

For the first time in a long time, Roarke did not want to leave his bedroom.

Usually, especially back in Two, he was the first one up, pulling back the curtains and revelling in whatever the day would bring. Inject a little light into the world and it had a habit of returning the favour.

The train ride to the Capitol, the Chariot Rides, the first day of training – Roarke had embraced every wisp of happiness and joyous conversation he could have with his allies, especially Neviya. She was just as buoyant and vibrant as he was. Much more grounded in what she had to do, but Roarke knew that with an ally – no, a friend – like that, he could use her intelligence for his own sake.

But now it's all changed.

"Roarke?"

There was a light tap on the door and Roarke could hear Neviya's delicate voice through the wood. He was dressed head to toe in his training gear ready for day two. But he did not want to leave. He couldn't face it. His eyes were shot with tiredness, his stomach curdling with nerves, his mind a web of confusion and … fear. He didn't do well under pressure, never had done, never been able to face hard decisions and meet them with tact and rationality.

Neviya had been that foundation so far. Now he had to make a decision. A very hard decision.

"You can't hide away forever."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and opened the door, only an inch at first, before he sighed deeply and swung it fully to reveal Neviya ready for the day as well.

"Morning," she said. "We have to go."

"I know," Roarke replied. "I know."

What he liked about Neviya was the fact she hadn't jumped on him instantly after the complete upheaval of events at the end of yesterday's training session. Destan and Chancellor had discussed with him what had happened and he'd spent the evening listening to Neviya and his mentors debate about what Roarke should do. No one had asked him what he wanted to do because even Roarke didn't know the answer to that.

Everything had changed. Roarke despised it.

Tilda and Valerian, Two's mentors, were nowhere to be seen as he entered their dining area. Neviya handed him a glass of water and smiled over the rim of her own drink as he swallowed it down in one gulp. She was waiting for him to say something. He'd always wanted a friend like her in his life. It was a pity that after everything he'd been through, it was the Hunger Games that had shown him to someone that had made him feel so worthy of something.

She had to die. He knew that. They all knew that. Roarke had just tried to ignore it. Push it down and bury it underneath smiles and jovial chit-chat. But the time for that had ended. All because of Chancellor and Destan who Roarke had no idea could be capable of something like this.

"Please don't ask me," Roarke said as Neviya continued to stare at him.

She sighed and shook her head, her gentle ginger curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Roarke – it's time. I – we – have to know."

He wanted to cry, really. The fear was palpable inside of Roarke. He could masquerade the fact that he always felt like such a coward under layers upon layers of this confidence. Today he felt naked. Stripped of it all.

"I don't know, Neviya. I don't know. Why can't we just – just forget it's all happened?"

"Because Chancellor is too big a risk of an alliance we believe actually had potential. You watch the Games every year, right?"

Roarke nodded.

"And you've seen how mind-numbingly stupid tributes from Two can sometimes be? That a sword will get you to wherever you want? They believe that betrayal is an easy thing. It's like Linnea said – there are six of us. Eighteen of the rest. It's not a guarantee we will win," she paused, looking at Roarke who could barely meet her eye. "Chancellor could tear that strong foundation apart. We thought it best to get rid of him – as callous as it may be, it was for the good of all of us. Destan has ruined that. We – Linnea, myself and Britta – are sticking to our guns. The ball is now in your court."

Roarke looked at the clock and once again sighed. The weight of this decision felt heavy – impossible to carry. "We should go."

Neviya followed a deflated Roarke to the elevator. When they entered, he turned to her and smiled sadly. "You, Britta and Linnea, but especially you Neviya, are capable. You've said it yourself we can't really call each other friends but in another time, maybe we could have been." He pictured the boy from One throwing knives and shooting arrows with perfect timing and aim and felt a shiver down his spine. "Chancellor is a killer. I don't want him as my enemy so early on. He's gunning for you three. He will try to kill you at the beginning of the Games."

Neviya nodded. She seemed resolute. Despite staring at Roarke with pity and longing, Roarke admired her for her commitment to her decision. He wished he could feel that way. "And he will die."

"You can't be sure of that," Roarke said as the elevator dinged to mark their descension into the Training Hall. "He's the strongest of us all."

"Apart, maybe not. Together, we can."

They walked out and already they could see that Linnea and Chancellor were here. Linnea waved at Neviya half-heartedly, pointing at Chancellor who was already busy fighting a trainer with his bare hands. Roarke watched with a tremble in his lip. This was not a boy he didn't want targeting him.

"I'll think about it," Roarke said, glumly staring at Neviya and feeling as if their connection was being cut apart already. The reality of the Games was beginning to weigh heavy on Roarke. No longer could he pretend otherwise. "I'll see you later."

He waved at Linnea and tried to smile but it was a feeble attempt. Before long, Destan and Britta arrived and he made a beeline straight for Roarke, putting his arm around him and pulling him towards Chancellor. Roarke didn't fight it. He watched the boy pretty much pulverise the trainer into the ground save for actually drawing blood and he whipped around, grinning at Destan and Roarke.

Destan – the catalyst of this split, beamed at him. Roarke just looked away, over his shoulder, at the three girls who were watching him.

"Made up your mind?" Chancellor said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"It's them or us. I think it's a pretty easy decision," Destan said with confidence in himself.

He was right, really. Roarke looked over at Neviya who met his gaze and his eyes fell. His friendship with her had been an anchor so far. A way to actually forget that Roarke, despite being a volunteer, was scared. Scared of killing, scared of falling apart, scared of making tough choices, and scared of the boy in front of him.

There seemed only one smart decision and that decision went against every positive bone in his body that longed for someone like Neviya to be around. But maybe, with the Games nearing, he had to start thinking in a different sort of way.

"I'm in," Roarke said, quietly.

I don't want to die.

Chancellor was the biggest threat. As an ally, at least he had enough time to think of the next step in his strategy. As an enemy, he would be a target within seconds. Maybe four against two would have been a boon in the bloodbath, but maybe not. Roarke didn't like his chances against Chancellor and it was too big a risk to take.

"Excellent," Destan said, clapping him on the back.

All he could see as his two allies returned to training was the stare that Neviya gave him, the curt nod, and then the fact she turned her back on him and walked away with the girls.

What have I done?

It was too late. He'd made his choice.

He just hoped it was the right one.

Albie Mathison, 18 years old;
District Three Female.

Albie was hoping she'd made the right decision.

There wasn't anything remarkable about Armina but a good, strong head on your shoulders could go an awfully long way. Plus, she seemed kind. Albie wasn't used to being around that.

"So you're telling me that if I attach this wire to this, I'll get-"

Armina's voice was cut off by a small spark that erupted from the metal poking out from the wires in her hand. She gasped and smiled at Albie.

"I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you're pretty smart."

Albie had heard it a lot, back in Three, but not in the nice sort of way Armina said it. Usually it was – you're smart, but could be smarter. Albie was learning to let loose in the Capitol. Only a little bit. It felt nice to be able to breathe finally.

"Say what you want about tributes from Three, but we know our stuff."

"Is that common for you lot?" Armina questioned, placing the wires down. "Like – I don't want to just assume anything about where you come from."

There were times when Albie found it difficult being faced with the questions that Armina liked to ask her. Ever since meeting her, Armina had just wanted to get to know Albie, and whilst Albie knew that was important in an ally, that sort of in-depth connection felt strange. Foreign, almost. She was doing her best to strip it all back a little and just be in the moment with Armina. The girl was smart and she respected that. She needed that if she wanted a chance in winning.

"I suppose if you keep your head down and work hard, anyone can be smart," Albie said. "I did my very best back at home to be – well to be the perfect girl in Three. Sometimes it got a bit boring, if I'm honest."

Armina laughed. "How does it feel to say that?"

"What do you mean?" Albie asked, confused.

"You don't strike me as the sort of person who finds it easy to confess that being smart isn't everything."

Good point. Albie had been told to believe it was everything so it was difficult to believe otherwise. Even now, looking at Armina who was another girl, younger than Albie with a bit of a shallowness to her, but a lovely smile, Albie couldn't help but see her in terms of what she could do for Albie in the Games. It was a horrid way of looking at a human being but she couldn't get past where they were.

That she has to die.

Albie shrugged and stepped back from the workbench. "Maybe there's more to being a person from where I come from than what's between the ears."

"I was told that being pretty helps."

Albie laughed. "You are pretty, Armina. If that's what you were looking for."

"I don't need to fish for compliments, Albie," Armina giggled. "But thank you. In this horrid place, being pretty seems to be all they care about."

"Until we have to kill," Albie mused, her voice lowering. "Then it's about how easy we can deal with that."

The way Armina's face went still and the smile dropped told Albie two things. Armina wasn't able to put herself in that frame of mind, something that Albie knew made sense but could be a hindrance, and that she was actually, underneath a layer of superficiality, a good person. Albie hadn't decided if that was something she valued in an ally in the Hunger Games.

As the girls moved away from the station they were at, a loud bang echoed around the room followed by a voice that reached a volume harsher than anything else around them. Albie paid it no mind, preferring to ignore silly distraction, but the swear word that followed belonged to a voice she'd tried to block out from the beginning. It was frustrating how impossible that was.

"Don't you fucking touch me!"

She heard it again and this time couldn't ignore it. She turned on the spot and saw Armina point to where Nikos was stood, huffing and puffing in the face of the girl from Ten – Carys something – holding a knife in his hand.

"Put it down fuckface," Carys spat. "Before you do something stupid."

"Is that-?" Armina looked at Albie and her mouth formed an 'o.'

Don't do anything… Albie thought to herself. Walk away. He's not worth it.

Part of her willed her legs to carry her to another corner of the room. But her mind was ticking, watching the way the trainers gathered nearby, whispering amongst themselves. Capitolites that maybe knew people. Might feed back that someone from Three was problematic. Once again, Albie felt as if Nikos was ruining the important image she was trying to uphold. That he was a burden to have here with her.

"For god's sake," Albie said quietly, marching towards her District partner as he took a step towards Carys.

When he saw Albie get closer, his anger twisted onto her and he pointed the knife outwardly. Albie stopped in her tracks, took a deep breath to hide her annoyance, and gestured to the furious girl from Ten.

"Are you actually trying to kill another tribute before the Games?" Albie did her best to keep her voice level and composed, holding her hands in front of her to stop them shaking. "Do you know what that might mean for your chances? For Three's? For mine?"

"I already had the knife in my hand when this bitch-"

"What the hell did you say?" Carys interjected, stepping forwards.

Albie raised a hand and directed her attention to the feisty younger girl. She noticed Armina trying to hide a grin. Of course the girl relished the drama. Most would. I don't.

"Think about this logically, Carys." She tried to ignore Nikos' heavy panting and the hole he was burning into the side of her face with his glare. I'm so used to it by now it's practically nothing. "Is it worth getting into a fight with a silly neanderthal like Nikos, or do you think it's worth just this once walking away – which I'm sure is hard, don't get me wrong – and saving it for later?"

Two voices overlapped each other and Albie did her best to hear them both.

"Neanderthal?!" Nikos shouted.

"I didn't even do anything," Carys yelled. "I just wanted to have a go myself."

Albie felt a hand on her shoulder and realised Armina was now forgoing watching the drama to actually say something to her ally. "Maybe we should…?" she whispered. Albie nodded and pointed at the knife in Nikos' hand.

"And save that for the Games. Whether you already had it in your hands or not, don't be an idiot. Think before you act."

It wasn't like Albie to not be so contained. She'd never actually directed her anger so outwardly at someone – her voice beginning to rise above its usual composure and stability. But it was hard to be forced into such a situation, with a million and one different ideas on how to survive rushing through her mind, when the only other person from home was someone like Nikos.

She hated being distracted from what was important. This was not. He was not. Carys was not.

Not even Armina, really. No-one was except Albie.

Carys stormed off and Nikos put the knife down, haphazardly in its position on the rack. He turned to Albie and for once she actually saw him blush a little. Then something went through his mind and his face twisted into one of resolved anger.

"Go back to your stupid little wires, Albie. Weapons aren't for you."

"They aren't for you either," Albie said, turning to walk away. "Don't pretend any of us know what we're really doing because we don't."

With that and a smile from Armina, they left the scene and headed towards the centre of the room, ready to scope out another place to train. Albie felt her heart pounding in her chest and something akin to adrenaline scorching through her body. It felt good. It felt terrifying.

Armina grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Maybe we don't know what we're doing, but we can at least do our best to learn something that will help us."

Albie nodded, trying to ignore everything that was going through her body. "You're right. Let's go."

If Albie was honest with herself, she was scared. Naturally so.

But that didn't mean she could afford such distractions.

She had to play this the right way. Perhaps being the quiet, resilient little figure her mother had wanted would do her some good. Perhaps breaking free, letting loose, and being more spirited like Armina was actually a route towards self-destruction.

Albie didn't know the answer.

And that just frustrated her even more.

Iva Giorgi, 17 years old;
District Nine Female.

Iva was starting to enjoy herself.

Not in the sense that she couldn't wait to get to the Games and show off what she was learning, but attempting to have a go at weaponry, piece together shelter and sort through what was edible and what wasn't, made her feel like perhaps she actually had a shot.

It was dumb, really. There are trained tributes here, she thought to herself, ready to kill. The little insertion of self-confidence made her feel remarkably at ease for the first time in a long time. In her own little bubble away from the hubbub of Nine and all its noise, she was content to just sit back and do her best with what she already knew and could pick up on.

Spelt had joined her for the first day and sat near her for the time being. I don't mind him, either. It surprised Iva, that she had it in her to feel content and patient around someone else. She wasn't against talking to people, but it had always just been her and her mother against the world. She'd never felt the need.

What drew Iva to Spelt was probably what drew Spelt to Iva. They weren't allies. Not even friends. And something about that made it easier than anything else.

"Could you pass me that little bit?" Spelt asked, pointing to a short piece of twine that Iva was fiddling with. "I think it goes here."

Spelt was looking over a book, flicking through pages and smiling as he made little knots and tweaks to whatever it was he was trying to perfect. Iva watched him with fascination as he quietly cheered himself on, not beating himself up when he made a mistake, and persevering through everything they'd faced so far.

"That looks tricky," Iva commented.

He shrugged his shoulders without looking up at her. "Is what it is. Think it may help me catch some food if I make it that far."

"What?" Iva said, shocked. Iva knew exactly where they were and what she had to do, but she hadn't wanted to talk about dying as an actual possibility. Spelt's nonchalance had startled her. "What do you mean not making it far?"

Again, Spelt didn't look at her, but she heard him laugh slightly. "I'm just being realistic, Iva. Don't worry. I'm still going to do my best."

Iva couldn't think like that. The thought of not winning made her feel physically nauseous. It was hard for her mind not to immediately jump to what was most likely going to happen to her but in this Games situation she just couldn't afford to not feel hopeful. It was why she wasn't with Spelt. She liked him. As weird as that felt to inwardly confess, it was the exact reason why they couldn't be together in the Arena.

"There!" He clapped and gestured to what he'd made. "I think I've got it."

"Well done," Iva said with a smile.

Spelt spent another second or so reading through the page he was on and closed the book shut, getting to his feet. He looked down at Iva and she glanced up at him.

"Going somewhere?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Thought maybe I'll go and see what else there is for me to learn. They've got a pool – could maybe try that? I've never swam before."

"Cool," Iva said. "I'll see you later then."

"Bye!"

He ran off leaving Iva alone. She didn't mind. They weren't tethered together – another reason why she liked Spelt. It didn't feel like she had to adhere to whatever he felt was the right path in the build up to the Games. It was surprisingly peaceful.

Five or so minutes passed with Iva minding her own business, attempting the snare that Spelt had made with little satisfaction, until Iva heard footsteps behind her. She didn't feel like checking who it was and part of her was silently hoping they'd move on.

When they didn't and sat down right next to her, she continued to try to avert making eye contact. Growing up the way she had, she was remarkably talented at making people leave her alone.

Although this time it didn't seem to be working.

"Whatcha making?"

It was a male voice. Light, a bit too peppy for Iva's liking. This time she couldn't pretend as if he weren't there, and not one to be obviously rude, Iva turned to acknowledge him. It was Damon, District Twelve, with a broad grin on his face.

"It'll help me catch food," Iva said, turning back to continue her work.

Leave, please. She silently reprimanded herself for being so rude, especially when he was well within his right to train here, but his smile was a bit unnerving. It wasn't that she didn't smile. Or that Spelt didn't. But she could feel his eyes burning into the back of her neck. Unrelenting.

"Can I help you?" she found herself asking, a twinge of harshness to her tone.

"Oh, it's nothing, thought maybe you needed a hand." Damon sidled in closer to her, sitting down and picking up a twig, snapping it in two. "I'm quite the expert at … wood … piling … stuff …"

Iva couldn't help but laugh. "You spent most of your time back home catching small mammals to eat. Living it up rough, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Damon said. "All the time."

"Something tells me you're full of it," Iva said, taking the bit of rope that Damon had proceeded to pick up from his hands and placing it back down in front of her. "Is there actually anything I can do for you? I'm happy for you to train here, but you're sort of ruining what I'm doing."

"Oh…" Damon's smile fell and he slid sideways ever so slightly, face crumpling. "I didn't mean to – I – I can't seem to get the hang of this thing –"

Iva knew she shouldn't really engage. The best way of getting rid of someone like Damon was to pretend they weren't around. But that wasn't in Iva's nature. She wished she could pretend otherwise, but she just couldn't.

"What can't you get the hang of?"

Damon sighed. "I'm scared, Eve. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"It's Iva."

He continued. "My District partner hates my guts and to be honest I don't blame her. But I don't want to go in the Arena alone." He looked at her. "Do you know what I mean, Eve?"

"It's Iva," she repeated.

"Oh, sorry," he laughed. "Iva. District Nine?"

She nodded.

Iva felt something akin to understanding. She didn't want Spelt with her in the Games not because she was one-hundred percent against allies, but because the connection there, a connection created simply because they came from the same place, meant that seeing him go would be too much. If something became too much, Iva was scared she'd crumble. And if she wanted to win, that could not happen.

That didn't mean she wanted to be alone, though. Being alone had always made more sense to Iva back home. Being alone here, as easier as it might be short-term, could perhaps mean death if the wrong situation presented itself.

An ally could go a long way. Temporarily.

"Honestly, I really have no idea about any of this. I look around and people are picking things up – slowly, mind. Most of you guys don't seem to be able to do much but it's a damn right more than I can," Damon pointed at a book in front of him. "I don't even know what that word says. I just feel really out of my depth."

Iva didn't want to feel sorry for him but she did. It wasn't so much that he was trying to make her pity him; it was just the harsh truth of how they all felt. Damon was simply more honest about it. A bit like Spelt earlier. It just wasn't the mindset she could have for herself.

"You need to change that way of thinking if you want a shot," Iva said. "Maybe you don't know much about how to survive and kill and fight but at least try to pretend you do. Go into this defeated and you're dead, Damon. Simple as."

He winced. "I don't want to die."

"Me neither."

There was a pause and Damon's face started to brighten up once more with a smile. He turned to Iva and pointed at the book again.

"Could I maybe stay here with you? You could tell me what that word means as a start and then maybe I could learn from you. And then I could practice at actually trying to be good at something, rather than just moping about the place."

Iva paled. "I-"

"I won't push it. I pushed it with Altia my District partner and I don't want to do that again. If you say no, I'll walk away. No pressure."

Looking at his smile, Iva felt something. She wasn't sure what it really was. Damon seemed useless. He believed he was useless. He was not the sort of ally that would help Iva in the Arena in any sort of fight. But having him perhaps wasn't the worst decision she could make.

It meant she didn't have to be alone in a place that was designed to rip her apart.

"We need someone else," Iva said. "It can't just be us two."

They had to have someone with some kind of skill. Something to bring to the table. Damon seemed to shake with excitement at Iva's acceptance and for a second she thought maybe she'd made the wrong decision, but when he gave her a quick hug, thanking her and passing the book into her hands, she felt a twinge of happiness.

People were tricky, difficult beings. But people could also be good and true.

Maybe it would do her some good in the Arena to try to remember that.

For however long it could last.

Ponche Garland, 17 years old;
District Eleven Male.

"Try that." Castor moved Ponche's fingers round the handle of the sword and smiled at him. "Better?"

Not at all, Ponche thought. Because I'm holding a sword.

It felt very strange to be learning how to kill other people. Not just people, but other teenagers. Being seventeen it put him on the older end of the spectrum – there were some that were younger than him. All here to do one thing: outlive the rest.

It was the worst place he'd ever been.

"I think so," Ponche said to Castor, waving the sword slowly in front of him. "How do you know so much?"

If there was one thing to come out of this, however, it was Castor. Ponche had been surprised he'd even said yes to the offer of an alliance. This entire situation felt like something he wanted to do alone because he was afraid of letting absolutely anybody in. Sheridan had her own walls up as well, something which Ponche completely understood.

Castor had begun to bring him out of his shell just a little and he appreciated it. He was also scared of it.

"I don't really. Not with weapons. But I guess all you gotta do is find the right one for you and things start to click."

Castor picked up his own weapon and turned to face Ponche. He gulped at the sight of his ally pointing a sword at him but Castor always had that smile on his face, an air of nonchalance paired with a genuine fondness that made Ponche feel strange that someone like him had welcomed a boy that preferred relative loneliness.

Ponche looked at the trainer who offered a warm thumbs-up. "You got this," she said. "Just try not to overthink it."

Ponche gritted his teeth together and swung his sword at Castor. His ally brought his up and a vibration rattled down the length of Ponche's weapon and into his shoulder, juddering his teeth. Whilst he stood there with sweat on his brow, hating this weapon in his hands, Castor seemed to be enjoying himself, bringing his round to bounce off Ponche's and on and on it went.

Ponche knew this was all necessary for his own survival. Breaking out of his comfort zone. Allowing himself to be seen. Believing that someone actually wanted him around. That I have a chance. It all felt so odd, though. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the trainer more fixated on Castor, a smile on her lips, and Ponche's heart was in his throat.

He's better than me. He has a shot.

Part of Ponche was scared at that, but part of Ponche was grateful he had him on his side. This whole thing was confusing.

Their swords met once more, a metallic ringing reverberating out into the room, and Castor made a 't' with his hands. He was panting through a wide grin. "You're getting better, pinky promise."

"Doesn't feel like it," Ponche said. "But thanks," he quickly added. "You're a big help."

As Castor took Ponche's sword from his hands and placed them on the rack, Ponche heard something behind him. It was a whistle of wood against the wind followed by a loud shriek from somewhere in the distance.

"Watch out!"

Ponche's stomach somersaulted and he immediately was plunged into what the hell do I do? He turned on the spot and saw an arrow careen off the wall and spiral to his feet. It was nowhere near to hitting him but still, he felt his heart pumping, fear shaking his arms and legs, and Ponche wanted to be sick.

I'm useless. Utterly useless.

He felt Castor's firm hand clap him on the back as he laughed joyously. "Don't be so jumpy, mate. It's all good."

The two boys watched a little girl hurry after her arrow, huffing and puffing, cheeks bright red. She picked up the arrow and awkwardly stared at the two of them. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know my aim was that bad."

Ponche looked at the targets where the archery station was. They pointed the complete opposite way. She'd literally have to be facing the wrong way to be able to do that… Castor didn't seem to register though, or piece it together, because he laughed again and gestured to the bow in her hands.

"District Six not teach you how to shoot?"

She smiled. "How do you know I'm from Six?"

"The giant Six on your arm gives it away," he said. "Plus it's been long enough now for me to memorise everyone in this room. I like to know the names attached to all the faces I'm seeing."

Ponche watched the girl giggle again and her name flashed before his eyes. Maisley Corvac. Her reaping had stood out only because the man he presumed was her father leapt from the Mayor's chair and decked the escort in the face. It was amusing but this situation didn't make Ponche smile the same way that Castor was.

Her eyes had barely registered Ponche, her attention solely on Castor, and something about that made Ponche dislike the girl. Not because he cared all that much about the attention others gave him, but because … well that arrow should not have come this way?!

"I think it's quite smart to know your competition," Maisley said, her sprightly attitude on par with Castor's. "I suppose my brain is going to have to help me a lot more in the Games than my skill with a bow."

"Keep practicing. Ponche here can now use a sword. He couldn't yesterday."

Maisley now looked at Ponche, finally, and smiled at him. "That's excellent. You couldn't show me, could you? I suppose you saw my Reaping – I … well coming from where I come from, my Father was more inclined to teach me how to speak properly, not how to do anything useful."

"You think we swung swords for a living just because we weren't living it up fancy?" Ponche said, snapping in a way that surprised even him.

Castor looked at him shocked. Maisley just smiled. "I didn't mean it that way. There is something I could offer, something I think that maybe, and I don't mean this to be harsh, you don't have. All I ask is some help with these stations. I'm kidding no one. I'm the youngest here – that puts me at a disadvantage already."

Ponche wanted to say no. Castor beat him to the punch. Only his answer was the complete opposite to what Ponche wanted to say.

"How about we do you one better. Join us permanently? We could always use a third pair of eyes, right Ponche?"

The two looked at Ponche and he just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't want Maisley, but he didn't want to let Castor down. He'd only just started to find his place here, he didn't want to have that taken from him.

"I suppose so," Ponche said.

"So what can you offer us, apart from your fantastic archery skill?"

Maisley was quick to answer. Almost too quick. Ponche didn't trust her but her youthful energy seemed genuine. It made Ponche feel uneasy at how quick he was to grow suspicious. He couldn't get that arrow out of his mind, though.

"My Father is the Mayor of Six. He comes from a place of money and from that he knows people in the Capitol. One thing he told me before I left," Maisley said, smiling at the two of them, "was that you and any friends you make will not have to fight for scraps in that Arena, you'll be well looked after. It was hard to really process what he was saying at the time, but now I think about it, it means that despite my age, despite coming from Six and not being a favourite, he has money that can be used for me and anyone that I have with me in the Arena. It could help us."

Castor was sold immediately.

Ponche – not so much.

It seemed too perfect, too rehearsed, too much like she would say anything to join them. She was the youngest here, probably the most overlooked, and someone that no one would bet on at all. Mayor's daughter or not, Ponche had seen enough re-runs of the Games to know there was no one that made it far like Maisley.

Castor extended his hand the exact same way he had with Ponche and he realised he had no choice but to run with it. "You're in!" he exclaimed, beaming at his little team.

Ponche half-heartedly smiled back. Maisley looked at him and grinned broadly. "It's nice to meet you Ponche. Can you show me how to use a sword?"

He nodded his head.

He would just have to run with it.

At the end of the day, if she was lying, was she really that much of a threat?

Probably not. And for that, Ponche felt guilty. Because regardless of everything he felt, she was just a little girl. Not an enemy. Not someone deserving of death.

A little girl.

And she has to die.

For the first time since literally District Five's chapter… it has been three days! I stuck to what I said I would do! How exciting… honestly it was so difficult not posting yesterday… but I held back for y'all. Love u guyz!

Okay so questions!

Updated chart of opinions now that everyone has been seen twice?

Anyone you get 'Victor vibes' from?

Ok so confirmed alliances continue:

Chancellor + Roarke + Destan
Linnea + Neviya + Britta
Iva + Damon
Maisley + Castor + Ponche
More to come!

This chapter marks the halfway point of the Capitol. Every tribute has now had two POVs in this story – they get one more before the Gamesssss. Let's get it.