ii. THE ROGUE

"This," Dagmara growled as she sat across Icara in the mentoring room on the train to the Capitol, "is why we have backup volunteers."

As soon as the Reapings had ended, Icara shaking hands with Alpha and his cruel smile; as soon as she'd been whisked through her quick goodbyes with her parents, Cyrus and Toni and Lucien, Lara half-sobbing an apology and pressing a cold bracelet into her hand; Dagmara had practically dragged Icara in here by the ear, shoving her into the chair and pinning her with a furious glare.

Icara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was a really comfortable seat, actually; everything on this train reeked of comfort in a way Icara's wildest dreams could never even measure up to. Everything about this almost felt like moving through a dreamscape so far, except—

"Explain yourself, Slate."

The Victor's tone made Icara want to shrink into her bones until only her skeleton remained, staring blankly at the woman for all eternity. How does she do that, Icara thought passively, and then, "I'm sorry," in a pathetic, child-like whisper, her fingers digging into the plush cushion beneath her.

She could practically feel Dagmara's frustration at her sudden apparent lack of a backbone, but Icara couldn't help it. She knew she'd done something forbidden; hell, the last time Two had a rogue volunteer, it had been Dagmara's fucking daughter, and that hadn't turned out well for anyone involved. The more Icara thought about it, the more she realized her actions must be reminding the Victor of that situation, and she felt another wave of guilt overtake her.

"I'm sorry," Icara said again, her words bleeding sincerity. "Lara just gave me this look, and I knew she wasn't going to—I couldn't just do nothing, she was my… She was my responsibility." Icara's thumb found the polished quartz embedded in the band on her wrist; she tugged anxiously at the bracelet, trying to ignore how the words only felt like a half-truth.

Dagmara sighed, half-exhale, half-hiss. "Axe or javelin."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's far too late to change anything about this, and know you trained Lara in both so pick one."

Releasing the breath she'd been holding, Icara forced her hands into stillness. "Does it have to be just one?" she asked, almost hesitant, and she thought she might've caught the hint of a smile on Dagmara's face.

Icara couldn't help but feel like they knew she wasn't supposed to be here. They probably do, Icara thought, trying not to trip over the skirt of her dress as she seated herself at the table between Dagmara and Alpha.

Her district partner made a visible effort not to move his chair and make things easier for her; Icara took that as a hint of what to expect from him from here on out.

Eight Careers, eight mentors; they made for quite the dinner party.

They arrived the night before the parade, as usual for Career districts (Three, though halfway across the country, held their Reapings early to get here on time). Dagmara had said this was typical, a specific privilege granted to the Capitol's favorites to meet their allies (and competition) early.

If this wasn't a sign that Icara had made a shit decision, she didn't know what was. An outlier among Careers, she felt like, wondering which of the trained killers in front of her would be the one to do her in. The girl from Three maybe, whose sharp eyes traced over both mentor and tribute alike? Or perhaps the boy from Four, whose friendly smile and quick laughter might be hiding a calculating cutthroat? Hell, it would probably be her own district partner; he'd already expressed the intent.

Get yourself together, Icara reprimanded internally, straightening her shoulders. I'm just as much competition as any of them, despite what Alpha says.

It didn't matter that she wasn't supposed to be here, because she was. When they went around the table introducing themselves, Icara stated her name with her chin up, voice steady. Fifteen year-old Icara Slate's aspirations lay just at the edge of her fingertips; she'd reach while she had the chance, or die trying.

(She caught the Four boy hiding a chuckle as Alpha spoke, and when he introduced himself as Murray Delta, Icara found herself doing the same.)

Perhaps she'd find an ally or two here after all.

Feather-soft clothing and dripping gold jewelry had never been Icara's forte.

That didn't mean she didn't enjoy it, given the chance.

And that was the kicker, wasn't it? Sure, she grew up in one of the richer districts of Panem, attended the most prominent Career academy in Two, but being the daughter of two quarry miners had never exactly sat her in the lap of luxury. Her birthplace was merely luck, her Academy attendance the product of scholarship and talent.

It had been with near child-like fascination that Icara had allowed the colorful swarm of Capitolites to drape her in the silk-like toga she wore now, the slightly shimmering fabric plunging artfully down her front. They clamped gold bands around her wrists and stone-set pendants around her neck, bringing out the stars in Icara's midnight eyes. Over her shoulders, one of the Capitolites carefully arranged a train of deep, royal purple; another fixed a simplistic but elegant golden circlet to her forehead, a brilliant accent to her dark waves of hair and richly tan skin, and sighed in admiration.

Icara caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror; a girl, both goddess and conqueror, stared back with an imperious half-smile.

Back when she used to dream, it was this part of the Games that encompassed her mind, rather than the blood and guts and glory. The eyes of the nation, fixed on her for just a night, every inch of her primed to perfection by Capitol standards — the highest.

Call it pride, but Icara didn't care, not when she outshone Alpha and his too-obvious scowl, her district partner's wandering eyes far beneath her notice.

They hadn't even bothered putting him in a shirt, and still people were looking at her.

The chariot rolled out and the crowd was hers, their fickle attention lapping the presentation up like an alcoholic with a bottle of fine wine. Icara's name passed around their lips in a frenzied reverence, and how silly was she to think they'd even care that she wasn't supposed to be on their plate, let alone know?

Sure, everyone in Two knew it should be Lara up there at Alpha's side, but that didn't matter in the light of the admiration — and roses — being thrown at Icara's feet.

They weren't the only ones, of course; all around, the stylists had pulled out the stops for their tributes. Icara found herself mesmerized by the costumes of her competitors rather than envious: the Ones and their glittering bedazzled jumpsuits, the twinkling lights dotting the Threes like stars, Fours' shimmering scales paired with Murray's bright smile. Even down the line, the outer districts sported glitz and glamour to the Capitol's tastes, though not all seemed pleased about it.

No need for Icara to be envious when she was already one of the show-stoppers.

She barely listened as the president made her welcoming speech, eyes drawn to the display presented by her fellow tributes. Everything felt right like this, Icara draped in her finery like a war goddess of her dreams; for the first time since she'd volunteered, she felt welcomed, like she was meant to be here.

"You sure know how to make them look at you," the Three girl said when their chariots finally rolled back into the training center, giving Icara an appreciative once-over.

Icara returned the favor, her eyes tracing over the crown of fairy lights dotting the girl's pin-straight strawberry blonde hair left to cascade freely down her back, her keen expression. Henrietta Flash; Icara would be hard-pressed to forget a name like that. "Thanks," she said, deciding to take the girl's words as a compliment.

"Did you guys see Thirteen?" Murray's voice came from behind as he appeared, taking Alpha's place as her district partner shed her company for that of the Ones. "Looks like someone dipped them in radioactive acid."

"The lime green definitely makes them stand out," Icara said generously.

Henrietta snorted, her thin lips curled in cruel mirth. "I've always wanted to kill a Thirteen," she mused, lowering her voice as if telling an inside joke. "Should make the Victory Tour more interesting."

With that, she stalked off towards her mentor, leaving Icara and Murray to exchange a raised eyebrow and a shrug.

Icara didn't bother biting back the involuntary smile that rose to her face when Murray followed her to the javelin-throwing station after they broke for training. They'd quickly found each other easy company, as easy as death-match competitors can get, at least. But there was no need to focus on that bit, not yet.

While Alpha and the others preened at each other in not-so-subtle efforts to show off, Icara and Murray were content with focusing on themselves, warming up at their own pace.

"I mean, it's a strategy," Icara said with a shrug in response to Murray's snort, the two of them keeping a side-eye on their allies, though it was impossible not to be aware of Alpha's destructive cacophony. "Intimidate the outliers, and maybe even your allies, depending on our fortitude."

Murray cracked a smile, hurling a javelin into a faraway dummy's eye. "Oh yes, he reeks of cleverness and wit."

"I think that's just BO," Henrietta drawled, appearing behind them with a sleeve of throwing knives.

Icara jumped at the sound of her sudden voice, though she stuffed down a chuckle at the girl's words. Murray didn't bother, loosing a bubbling guffaw that made Icara's grin widen and Alpha glance over his shoulder. Taking the opportunity of her district partner's brief attention, Icara flung a javelin right into the heart of the nearest dummy, vindication curling in her stomach when he turned up his nose and looked away.

During lunch, Icara kept quiet for the most part, letting her district partner dominate the conversation without butting in. Best to minimize the target he's already placed on my back, she figured; the others seemed to think the same. At least she wasn't going as far as to laugh at his idiotic jokes, like Starla of One. Icara wanted so badly to dismiss the girl as a stereotypical airhead — eleventh to sixth place at best, her initial thoughts itched to say — but she knew better than that.

Everything was a strategy; Icara had drilled that into Lara's head just as much as the physical training. Starla, like herself, probably wanted nothing more than to stick a sharp bit of metal down Alpha's throat, but until the moment allowed, she forced herself to giggle when he mimed popping the eyeballs out of someone's imaginary skull.

When they returned to their weapons, Icara kept an eye on how well Starla shot a bow; all inner rings on the targets, like herself and Murray with their javelins.

Subtly, Icara timed her return to the apartments to lag behind Alpha, allowing him to shove through the outliers into the first car while she hopped in the following one with Murray, the Threes, and a couple of outliers. The easy chatter between her and the Four boy lasted only until her stop at the floor labeled '2'; she marched on straight through the common area, throwing the escort a brief greeting as she headed to the private mentoring room, her district partner nowhere in sight.

The door had been cracked open slightly; an unexpected voice — much deeper, perturbed, and definitely not belonging to her mentor — made Icara halt just outside, fingers hovering over the handle.

"Those are the rules, Dag, we have them for a reason."

"And you want me to, what, not mentor my tribute?" Dagmara; Icara's eyes widened. "Let me remind you that it was your brilliant idea to green-light a fucking fifteen year-old volunteer in the first place!"

Uneasiness washed over her as she listened — eavesdropped — on the conversation between Dagmara and… "We can't make a habit of having rogue volunteers, it doesn't work." Her husband; that was Oberon Pyke's voice. That must be him she saw through the crack in the door, back facing her, hair dark and grey-tinged.

Dagmara's tone was unforgiving. "Don't pretend like you didn't do everything in your power to help Bell when she went in."

"That was different, she was our daughter."

"And just because Icara's not doesn't mean she doesn't deserve the same from me."

Icara bit her lip. I should go in. I'm not supposed to be listening to this. But her feet were rooted to the spot; Icara was doing everything she wasn't supposed to now, wasn't she?

A sigh of frustration. "We need to set an example. That's what we did with Serena Mason."

An example. Icara's blood ran cold. Are they going to abandon me in there? Dagmara said she wouldn't but—

"You did it with Serena Mason," Dagmara said, her tone accusing.

Oberon's scoff was muted from behind the door. "So now I'm a bad mentor for looking at the bigger picture?"

"Do you really want to do this now?"

The following pause said enough.

"That's what I thought. You know what? Just stay at the house this year, you're not even mentoring, and thank the 'Makers for that."

"Dag—"

"Unless you are going to support me, I don't want you here."

Even Icara knew there was no arguing with her here. Oberon's voice sounded defeated. "Of course I support you." A flash of colored clothing through the crack in the door as Oberon moved out of her view. "I'm sorry."

Unfortunately, his movement put Icara right in line with her mentor's stare; Icara froze as she locked eyes with the woman. "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

Taking that as her cue, Icara pushed open the door, noticing how Oberon's shoulders stiffened as he turned around to face her. The expression on his face said he didn't want to apologize for anything anytime soon, but the time for Icara to back down had long since passed. "Lara wasn't going to volunteer. Better me than no one, right?"

"Flavia Kettering?" the older Victor challenged, an eyebrow raised.

Icara's lip curled at the mention of the backup volunteer. "You'd rather have me. Trust me."

Oberon gave a dry huff. "Your funeral, kid." Icara couldn't tell whether that was more warning or threat; at Dagmara's expectant cough, he cleared his throat and tried again. "Apologies for any comments you may have overheard," he said as he exchanged places with Icara for the door, his tone suspiciously genuine. "I'll leave you and my wife to mentoring."

This time, he shut the door fully, sealing Icara and Dagmara into the privacy of the mentoring room. A table sat between them, something that looked like Icara's Academy files resting near Dagmara's hand.

"So…" Icara trailed off, taking the seat across from her mentor. "Trouble in paradise?"

Dagmara chuckled tiredly, shaking her head. "Ignore him. He's my problem; I'll deal with it later. You on the other hand," she said, folding her hands neatly on the table, "let's talk about training today…"