X: Training, Day Three.

Ilaria Landucci, 18
District Six Female

Ilaria feels as if she's right back where she started.

And not just from any starting point, either. It's as if she's stepped off from the train in Six all over again, all of her belongings in two tightly packed bags, about to walk willingly into the arms of a gang who would chew her up and spit it out.

It was just one bad decision after another.

You'd have thought she learned her lesson by now.

Everything had seemed so picturesque at first. Dark and gloomy Six managing to house a collection of kids her age who loved and protected each other had not only seemed like a miracle, but like it was meant to be. They all adored her like she was a celebrity, fawned over her like she was something oh so new and exciting. For a while, she would have wished for nothing else. That wish, it seems, was heard. As twisted as it was. As much as she didn't want it anymore.

Velcra just wouldn't go. She was at Cal's side, most of the time, but today she had been gravitating closer and closer to Ilaria, as if her proximity would cause one of them to officially cave. Without words, though, it felt like they already had.

Cal said it was worth waiting to see what sort of score she would garner first; while Ilaria was loathe to wait, and still doubted even that, he had a point. If she was capable, there was no point in ousting her.

Or was there?

Ilaria was good at watching people, at figuring out who they were—their secrets, their deepest fears, everything they didn't want people to know. But Velcra was unreadable, an open book that seemingly had no words on it. It worried her in ways that she didn't like; it reminded Ilaria too much of the Halflings and their ways.

While Cal doesn't seem content to deal with her, he's at least been managing it. Ilaria simply doesn't know how to. With Velcra so close now she's beginning to doubt every little thing she was so confident in before. God only knows those things weren't very large in the first place.

Perhaps she's not as astute as she believed. Maybe everyone is just playing along with the charade, letting Ilaria think she's more than just a pretty face and a nice body. Her stylists certainly acted that way, as well as the entire audience after them. It was an angle that Ilaria knew she had to work, but that didn't stop her from feeling sick.

She swings the sword in her hand around and buries it into the soft belly of the dummy's stomach, watching cotton spill out across the floor.

Velcra whistles. "Oh, aggressive. Penny for your thoughts?"

She's hardly even told Cal anything, and they've got some sort of half-hearted camaraderie going on. She's certainly not about to hand any of them over to Velcra.

Is Ilaria just being silly about all of this? There could be nothing wrong with Velcra at all.

Or there could be everything wrong with her.

Why can't Ilaria just decide?

Would Velcra one day grow tired and kill them both in their sleep, or would she watch their backs until the bitter end?

It all feels just the same. She didn't just volunteer to rid herself of her own fear and paranoia, but for Ceto too. The elderly woman didn't deserve anything Ilaria would inevitably bring down on her. Though they weren't nearly as close, Ilaria felt like her mistakes could bring Cal crashing to his knees as well. It wasn't an image that sat well in her brain.

Then again, did anything? All her brain could tell her was that she wasn't enough, that she needed to be better. Be something other than the giggling, half-witted girl who had stepped off the train in Six and thought that people might actually like her for her.

And she was trying. She was. But it was starting to feel more and more often like she was waking up from a dream, the memory of it slipping away with every blink.

The girl that she was before is melting through her fingers as if made of wax.

"The two of them seem to be getting along well," Velcra comments, nodding to an adjacent training station. Ilaria passes the sword to her other hand, keeping it well away from Velcra for no real reason at all. Cal is where he's been nearly the whole time, at least when he hasn't been sparring with her. The only real difference is that the girl from Twelve is with him and they're… talking?

She doesn't think she's seen Cal talk to anyone other than her and Velcra these past few days.

Then again, he did mention her once. It was a random comment, words Ilaria can't even bring herself to remember. Clearly it must have been important.

And of course she couldn't have remembered it.

Velcra turns back to her, hands on her hips. "What do you think about it?"

She's looking for a reaction. Of course she is. Because Velcra is not a good person, she's convinced, and she can't allow her brain to twist it into anything else.

"What do you think?" she fires back. "She's twelve. Capable, surely, but still at a disadvantage."

"Is she, though?"

There's an unnerving twinkle in Velcra's eyes. A few days ago, Ilaria would have thought the same thing about her. Surely some people think that about Ilaria, too. A lot of them are nothing impressive. They're just stupid, reckless kids in too deep to get themselves out. Some of them are already underwater.

Ilaria takes a deep breath. "I guess we'll see."

Just because Cal is talking to her doesn't mean anything is coming of it. Then again, that's what she thought about Velcra, too, and now they're essentially allies. There's a snake in the grass directly at her feet and she can't, for some reason, bring herself to cut off it's head while she's still one step ahead.

With the sword still in her other hand she stabs the dummy again, lopping off it's arm. Just as good with the left as she is the right, and she knows Velcra is watching.

Let her watch. It's for the best.

Velcra isn't the only one who knows how to play a game or two.

Casimira Ruiz, 17
District Eleven Female

It's about time they made this shit official.

Casi has known what she's wanted for days, now. She wanted the best. To be it, but also to be with people who were on the same playing field as her.

Sure, it had at first come at the unfortunate cost of someone having to step in and give her some advice, but at the end of the day Casi was human, the same as the rest of them. It didn't matter how much she loathed admitting it because it was the truth.

The Two's were an unexpected gift, as if the universe had finally rewarded her for working so hard and had chosen, rightfully so, to give her what she wanted—that is, people who were finally on the same level as herself. They were capable. They more than knew what they were doing. And, most of all, they hadn't belittled her or challenged the things she knew or did.

She was sure Milo had said something behind her back, but he deserved a good punch or two anyway.

Seeing other people work hard after the drab, lethargic energy of Eleven was refreshing. These people were unlike her father—they worked for what they wanted, and they worked hard.

Just like Casi did.

It felt like a done deal. All she had to do, really, was get Hale on-board.

Deep down she suspected he already knew what he wanted, but felt too bad leaving Three behind. Mazzen had spent the better part of the last two days trying to get Hale on-side; clearly he had identified the weaker link between the two of them and was determined to keep it close. That's why she dragged him away early this morning and forced the three of them together while she kept a watchful eye, ready to pounce if anyone even tried to intervene.

Though she didn't doubt that Milo was doing most of the talking, they seemed to be getting along well enough. They were working together, exchanging conversation, and considering no shouting had broken out, Casi was considering it a success.

The one surprise came in the form of Armina drifting closer to her a few minutes later, quiet as she usually was but looking thoughtful nonetheless. "If we don't watch the two of them, it could be a disaster," she observes.

"Why?"

"They both have… issues. Similar issues."

"Regarding what?"

"Fire," Armina says plainly.

"Well, he's a firefighter, so…"

That's not all of it, but Casimira doesn't know the full story. She both needs to and wants to; she's not an idiot, alright? She knows something more is going on there. Casi doesn't like issues, and certainly won't enjoy them if they get in the way.

"You don't have a bunch of hidden issues, do you Armina?" she asks, but the other girl is watching Milo and Hale again. Talking still, even if they've been left to their own devices.

"Armina," she tries again, nudging her in the side.

"We should all talk," Armina suggests, and leaves Casi in the dust she heads back to them so fast. Ignorance, or avoidance?

Casi can't tell.

Still, she heads over to them feeling like she's on top of the world—looking at the three of them, she just knows she's made it. This is the cream of the crop right here, the people everyone else wants to be. Casimira finally feels like she's in a place where she was meant to be all along.

Hale looks down at her, curious. "This is what you want?"

"Of course," she replies. "I wanted the best."

And this is it.

Milo fakes quite the massive swoon, stumbling into Hale he does such a convincing job of it. "Oh, we're the best? Armina, how will we ever recover from such a compliment?"

She looks worried again, a pensive look to her eyes, at least until Casimira looks at her once again. Then she gets a smile—just a little thing, and there's something else tucked behind it, but it's still kind. It's been so long since Casi saw such a nice smile from someone who was actually worth it; her chest feels warm just from a few seconds of it.

It's gone quickly enough. Armina turns it on Milo, on Hale, and that's it.

It wasn't just for her.

Milo throws an arm over Armina's shoulders and then her own, drawing them both in close. She swats at him, pushing hard at his side to get away, but predictably can't. There's no way, not with his strength. She needs to work at that some more with every single second of time she has left here.

"Look at us all, best friends already," he announces.

"That might be a stretch," Hale points out, though no one seems perturbed by the comment in the slightest. Casi doesn't need friends, not really, but it will be nice not to totally despise the people that are going to help her get to the victory. Considering that's how things typically go in Eleven, it's like getting a breath of fresh air after years of being stuck in smog.

There is still something off about it all, but there's too much going on. It could be Hale's wariness, the still nervous look in Armina's eyes, the near-crushing grip of Milo's arm around her shoulders.

It could be the fact that deep down inside, Casi knows she's not as good as any of them.

"So, what's our game plan?" Hale questions. "I'd prefer that we had one." She shakes the thought away as quickly as it appears. That doesn't matter anymore, not when Casi has already snatched up exactly what she wanted.

"We'll have one," she confirms. And she'll, almost predictably, be the one to come up with it. Casi has had her head immersed in the game for months now—every day she's been out training by herself, putting in the work, ignoring each and every one of her father's cruel, unwarranted jibes. This scenario has been running through her head since the day she handed in that application.

All she had to do was come all this way to get exactly what she wanted. Only twenty-three people stand in-between her and the living, breathing proof that she's always been where so many people long to be: the top.

It'll be like climbing a ladder. One foot after the other, focusing carefully on each run into she can go no further.

Casi is going to see the other side of this. She's going to go home and remember, in detail, the look on everyone's faces who thought her incapable.

She's going to do this. And even if she can't… well.

There's no choice. She has to.

And she's going to.

Ren Mantau, 16
District Nine Male

Looking back on it, Ren thinks he made, somewhere, some sort of grave error.

He must have, for even Rex to not have stuck around.

He's odd, the boy from Five, but Ren would have taken odd over being alone right now. They had laughed at each other's jokes, laughed about how people still called him Ramen, and laughed until inevitably, Rex had disappeared.

There's no telling what had gone wrong, but it was definitely something. Now all Ren could do was shrug it off. With all of the conversations he's had in the past few days, Ren feels filled with enough light to last him a few more. He doesn't, objectively speaking, need anyone. He can survive just fine on his own two feet.

So what is the feeling inside him now, then? Envy? He's not a jealous person.

Even a little bit of the feeling inside him is enough to make him sick.

For a while he steadies the feeling by talking to the boy from One. Ambrose is the same age as him, and Ren ought to be sued for thinking they would have anything at all in common. Truth be told the only thing the only thing they share is the current state of lonesomeness, and he thinks Ambrose is just biding his time. Someone is going to want him, someone good. He's certainly talked to enough people.

Another massive difference is that nobody really seems to want Ren. Not even Marigold. It doesn't help that the girls she's with are so nice either—Ren has witnessed it first-hand.

He doesn't even realize Ambrose is gone until he's left alone at the climbing wall, and he sits down against it with a thud. Who knows where he went—it's not like it matters much.

Ren lowers his head onto his knees, ignoring the trainer's pointed look that clearly means get out of the way, kid.

No one else is here. It's a nice spot. And now Ren is sitting in it.

They'll learn to deal the same way he is.

He knows there are people here worth trusting, though his body crumbles in and caves at the thought of allowing it. Surface interactions are so easy. People have flocked to him left and right, taking in the sight of an easy smile and friendly eyes and gravitating towards it like they were orbiting him. It was as if everyone here was a falling star—there for a brief wink and then fading out once again. Gone before he could really take it in.

At least that way it was easy to take in the beauty of everyone else and recognize that they weren't all bad, ugly people with even uglier intentions.

Ren knew that if he waltzed up to Marigold right now with a sunny smile the girls would take him in, but their abrupt closeness makes him wonder if he would only be intruding.

He knows precisely why he's here, but the one reason may just have to be thrown out the window. There may not be a genuine connection for him here after all.

"You too, man?"

Ren looks up, eyes fuzzy around the edges from how long they've spent lingering in darkness. It's difficult at first to make out who is looming over him, but it's clearly not that of a trainer. Ren can recognize an at least vaguely friendly face when he has to, and the trainers here, for the most part, do not have such a thing. The person above him now is one of the few he hasn't spoken to if only because he's seem so otherwise preoccupied. Mazzen, District Three, who certainly hasn't paid any attention to Ren before this exact moment.

Either it's a trick or there's something worth exploring.

Ren knows how people work, though, or at least he likes to believe it. Mazzen could only be approaching him now because there's nothing else left.

"Mind if I sit?" Mazzen asks, and he pats the space next to him regardless. There's no point in being rude in the long run. Even if they're not going to be friends or allies, a few kind words can likely go a long way in getting someone to not kill you.

"I thought you were trying to ally with Hale," Ren says. "What happened?"

"I could say the same thing about you and One, or you and virtually anyone in this room."

He knows Mazzen doesn't mean to rub it in—Ren does it best not to take it personally. Mazzen is in the same situation as him. They're both hurting, just not in the exact same way. Both alone, in the very least, in a room full of people.

Except they're not so alone anymore.

"I sort of get it with my situation, but you seem like a nice guy," Mazzen observes. "I'm surprised that you haven't found anyone to stick with."

"What's your situation?" he asks, avoiding the latter part of the sentence entirely. No use thinking about it now; not like it's going to get him anywhere.

"It's complicated. Rather not talk about it—can't get anywhere with it, anyway."

Ren shoves the desire down as soon as it appears. He doesn't owe Mazzen anything, and doesn't have to be with him and like him just because he's one of the only ones left. What are his options, then? Let himself be ostracized, go into the arena alone and look over his shoulder constantly? No, he can stand up and do what needs to be done.

"I'm sorry," Ren says, not that an apology is his thing to hand out. "That's difficult."

"I know. That's why I just wanted to talk to a friendly face for a bit."

Ren smiles. He knows that he's crumbling, and not even slowly. As his resolve is chipped away, he can't help but wonder if Mazzen was the person he was meant to be with all along. What if he's the person Ren has been looking for all this time, the one that will actually care about him?

"You might be the only one that thinks that, anymore." Ren shrugs. A pretty face isn't everything. A smile won't save him.

"Everyone else isn't worth it, then."

"If they don't like me, I guess I'll just kill them?" he jokes, relieved when Mazzen laughs.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

And Ren caves.

"A plan that we could use… together?" he asks, trying to force the hesitation out of his voice. He casts aside the doubt, the worry. For once in his life, since all of the drama with Elodie, Ren needs to put his faith into something. He wants to.

Mazzen looks over with a smile. "Together it is."

Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male

There's biding your time, and there's hesitating.

Ambrose is no longer sure which one he's invested more time in, and now it may be too late to fix either.

Call him idiotic—he knows his father would, most certainly—but Ambrose thought more people would be coming to him with something, anything at all. He has more than proved his worth; he works hard, gets things done, and doesn't waste time with the little things. He knows exactly what he wants and has his goals.

It's not as if he's blind to the fact that there are other people here just as capable of him. Ambrose isn't the only one who knows how to wield a weapon, though he doubts anyone else learned from their overly capable fencer of a brother. They just had the fortune of learning in other ways.

He thinks back to the chariots, how people had been cheering for him and screaming his name, eyes on him like he was the only one there. It was just a taste of what he would soon have in the future so long as he could get there.

The future was his for the taking. Ambrose just had to step up and make it happen.

He'll get the sponsors. He knows that. But how is he supposed to take on a three person alliance, or four? Sword in hand or not, it doesn't matter. Ambrose could get as angry as he liked but that wouldn't change a damn thing.

He wonders if Jasper would be better at this. He hadn't realized just how popular his brother was until he spent the last few months in such close proximity to him all hours of the day. Jasper has dozens of friends—people seem to know his name even better than they know Ambrose's, and he spends every waking hour of the day getting it out there.

It doesn't matter if everyone knows it or not, he's realized. If Ambrose doesn't uphold it, it means nothing.

At least one person thinks somewhat highly of him, he knows. Oksana's footfalls are recognizable, quiet though they may be, as they approach him from behind. He knows the second set must be her ally from Eight, and for the two of them to be approaching him now, so close to the end of the day…

Ambrose knows exactly what's coming.

"Hey, Ambrose," Oksana starts. "How's the day been?"

As if she hasn't been watching his almost every move. He knows the both of them have; likely they're wondering what the hell Ambrose is going on about, wandering alone in circles swinging a rapier.

He's not used to not having a clear direction, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"You don't have to ask," he responds. "I don't need the pity."

"That's not—"

"You were going to offer, were you not?" he asks. "I appreciate it, don't get me wrong, but it's not necessary."

Oksana has faltered some since her initial approach; clearly she didn't expect such a quick, decisive reaction. "I know you don't want to go into this alone."

"You don't know that. And who said I was going into this alone?"

The read of the room may say he's going into this alone, but Ambrose isn't so convinced. And even if he is he'll figure out how to handle it. Hasn't he always? Nothing has ever stood in his way that he couldn't get through. Ambrose can break down any wall that stands in his way.

"Are you sure?" Micah asks. "We don't mind."

It's best for them all, he thinks, if they don't have to stand in the way of what he needs to achieve. Better for him, he knows, if he doesn't have to watch them be in pain and struggle. It's almost inevitable for the two of them. The world always goes after the ones who deserve it the least.

"I'm sure," he decides, distancing himself from another possibility just like he did earlier with Ren. "Thank-you."

He tightens his hand around the rapier's hilt, their quiet conversation drifting further and further away as they depart. Dimara has told him countless things about what he should do, and perhaps Ambrose should have listened to them sooner. It's difficult when he's spent so long blocking out other's opinions, letting the criticisms float in one ear and out the other. Sure, Dimara isn't against him, but the mindset is troubling to escape.

Ambrose hears the footsteps again—different, but at such a quick return that it shouldn't have been anyone other than Oksana and Micah, refusing to accept no for an answer.

But he turns, and it's not either of them.

"Ambrose, right?" the boy from Seven asks. "I'm Veles Altobelli."

And he knew that. While the name may not mean much to anyone else, Ambrose knows it well. "Altobelli," he says. "As in Verbena Altobelli?"

"You know my sister." Veles smiles. "Can't say I'm surprised. She's quite a big name around the country at the moment."

A big name is perhaps an understatement. They've plucked her straight out of Seven and let her perform in the Capitol because of her singing abilities. Everyone always said it was because of the family name, but Ambrose wasn't so sure about that. Your family name didn't matter if you couldn't sing, and Verbena Altobelli definitely could.

It made it all the more a mystery why her brother was here now, though that wasn't Ambrose's business.

"Are you a fan of hers?" Veles asks. "In the business as well?"

"Trying to be," he admits. With just a little bit more attention, the right amount of publicity... he'll be there. It won't be anything like Verbena's story, but it will be his own. That's all he's ever wanted. His father could call it a pipe dream all he liked, but Ambrose knew it was possible. After all, he had worked day in and day out to afford his first guitar before the family business took off. He had stood so long on street corners singing for nothing that his feet had blistered.

Ambrose knew well what a journey looked like, but the truth was they could all differ in such magnificent ways.

Imagine the story he would have if he won—if he could take off after all of this the way they wanted.

Veles' presence suddenly becomes all the more real, him and his three other allies across the room. Though Ambrose knows little about them all, he's spent enough time observing to know that they're better right now than what he has.

That is, to say, nothing.

Veles follows his gaze and a smirk plays at his lips. "Interested?"

"Possibly."

He takes a step closer—in fact they both do at the same time, as if something is finally about to transpire. "Well," Veles says slowly. "If you are, then I have a proposition for you."

Happy less than one month until the bloodbath!

At this point I am heavily considering updating twice a week once we hit the Games, as per the consensus on Discord, but if you're not there/I haven't talked to you regarding that, feel free to chime in via PM, DM, whatever you want. I'm taking everything into consideration.

Next chapter is a bit different to the usual, being a 'Private Sessions' chapter from the POV of our Gamemakers. I've never written one before and it was, in fact, a gigantic pain in the ass, but I definitely think it will help to explain some of the more... unusual scores that are about to pop up. Plus, you get to see the Capitol side of things again, and it's about double the length of the other pre-Games chapters so that's something to enjoy, I guess? At least I hope you do.

Until next time.