Jayce Dotter, 18

District 6 Female

It's a look of horror and nothing else on Jayce's face when she catches sight of the volunteer from District 12.

Ishtar Marmaduke, the girl she used to love, stands frozen on screen as Jayce hurriedly pauses it, praying to any deity who might be listening to say it isn't so. Her hand slowly trails down the T.V. screen, her eyes crinkling at the sight of her. A thousand happy kisses, whispers of love and bounds of laughter spring through her mind at the mere thought of Ishtar.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have foreseen this? Of course Ishtar was going to volunteer! She's Ishtar, for crying out loud! And Jayce had really convinced herself that even Ishtar isn't stupid enough to volunteer.

It's all just become such a big mess, hasn't it? Everything was ruined so quickly. With that one little slip of paper in the escort's hand, Jayce's entire life has been ruined.

See, that's a strange thought. That an entire life can be derailed so quickly, so thoughtlessly, with a single movement.

It's sort of like murder, Jayce muses as she stares disbelievingly at Ishtar's face, the face of the girl she used to love. Lives can be snuffed out just as quickly as they can be destroyed.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" comes a snide voice from across the room. Jayce looks up to see Kasumi staring at her with one eyebrow piqued and irritation written all over her face. "You're staring at that screen like it's the last man in Panem."

"Oh," Jayce says quietly. "It's…nothing."

"Ooh-kay," Kasumi says slowly and disbelievingly. "So, I'll be mentoring you, and Dixie's taking your district partner. Unless you'd like to do it as one with Larch…?"

"I'd prefer not to," Jayce says. Something about Larch just rubs her the wrong way. Maybe it's his gaunt face. Maybe it's his quiet demeanor. Maybe it's just the fact that they're both stuck in a death match together. Maybe it's just that Jayce has suddenly been thrown into a tornado, spinning around and around and around until her head pounds and her vision blurs. Maybe it's how little he talks.

"That's what I thought," Kasumi says. "So, are you going to tell me how you know District 12 girl-o or…?"

Jayce remains silent, still staring at Ishtar's frozen face on screen. God, she used to look at that girl like she held the world. "I used to live in District 12."

"Did you now," Kasumi deadpans, sounding about as bored as any human being ever could. "I take it someone in your family is smart, then?"

"My father," Jayce dutifully answers, her voice still low and mournful. "Ishtar and I were…together, until I moved to 6. We promised each other that when we turned eighteen, we'd both volunteer. Then we could be together again. It sounded like a great idea at the time, but now…it sounds like something only a crazy person would go through with." Was she ever that crazy? Did she ever really think she would volunteer to be reunited with someone?

…would she ever do it for Drew?

Well, maybe. She loves Drew. But love can only get you so far.

But…Ishtar loves her. And she used to love Ishtar. She fell out of love, but it's too late to change the past.

"It certainly does," agrees Kasumi as she flops down in one of the armchairs by the T.V. "I take it you weren't planning to go through with it."

"Of course not," Jayce says in a tone that suggests it would be suicide. In all fairness, it is. "But Ishtar clearly did."

"Must have a death wish," Kasumi says, turning her nose up to the girl on the screen.

"She's just lovesick," Jayce says miserably. "And once, I was too. But…things change." Her eyes dart toward the floor for a fraction of a second before she brings her gaze back up to Kasumi's face.

She always knew Ishtar was stubborn, but she just didn't know how much until now. Ishtar has always been obsessive, but Jayce didn't think she could stay in love for so long without even hearing from Jayce.

"Understandably," Kasumi agrees. "Let me tell you something, Jayce…I don't care if you love Ishtar or not. I don't care if you just hate her guts."

"Okay?" Jayce says uncertainly, wondering where exactly Kasumi is going with this.

"But that kind of story? Gosh, the Capitol will go mad for it. The star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet split up and still pining for each other to this day? You'll be the most popular tributes out of the entire crop," Kasumi says, triumphantly crossing her arms across her chest.

"Being popular doesn't equate to Victory," Jayce says, looking skeptically at her mentor.

"I mean, yeah, but it gets you halfway there," says Kasumi. "See, the Capitol doesn't want a boring Victor. They want someone with a story to tell, someone to root for. Do you have any idea how many people will root for you to if you play your cards right? Imagine it. The lovers from 12 and 6, the two districts with the least amount of Victors, have volunteered to be in each other's arms once more. It's a story! It's a narrative, Jayce! You'll have people begging to sponsor you."

"Sponsors change nothing," Jayce says seriously.

"Sponsors change everything," Kasumi replies. "Do you know how many tributes have won because of sponsors? And you know how you get sponsors?"

"By getting people to—"

"By getting people to like you!" Kasumi says loudly. "Romance sells. And the Capitolites have the most amount of money to spend."

Jayce glances at Kasumi before she un-pauses the T.V. and allows the recaps to continue. Alistair and Orion start blathering on about a volunteer from District 12, what a sight! "It's not going to work."

Kasumi shrugs again, getting to her feet and heading toward the minibar. "You'll never know until you give it a shot. What do you have to lose?"

A lot, Jayce thinks. After all, she stands to lose it all. Her future. Drew. Her entire life, because of one little slip that happened to be chosen out of thousands.

Kasumi starts to pour herself a drink. Jayce watches her move for a moment before she says, "Are you even legal to drink?"

"Don't see anyone telling me not to," Kasumi answers as she scrutinizes the amount of alcohol in her glass. "'Sides, a drink or two always helps me figure out how to mentor people better. Let me tell you about this one time—"

"I'm good," Jayce says, setting down the remote and making her way toward the door. "Let me know if that alcohol gives you any brilliant idea." She pulls open the door and starts down the hallway, only to be interrupted by a shout from Kasumi.

"Your room's that way!"

Jayce grumbles something unintelligible under her breath and turns around.

Shad Marcum, 18

District 1 Male

Shad has never been angrier.

Literally. Never once in his life has Shad wanted to stab something than he does now. Preferably a human being, but he's flexible. He'd settle for a wall, or a pillow, or maybe even his district partner.

He cannot fucking believe the nerve of Calista Abbey! She came seventh! Seventh! She's not even the reserve volunteer! She has no right, no reason, no fucking anything to do with the Hunger Games! She should have just gone home like everyone else and accepted that she doesn't get to be the famous one! She's not strong enough, skilled enough, talented enough to win the Hunger Games!

His entire Hunger Games experience is going to be ruined because that bitch decided to volunteer! Shad was prepared to deal with Silvera, or Nephrite, or even someone like Raediance, yet here Calista stands—or sits, rather—in a plush chintz chair on her way to the Capitol. She doesn't deserve it. Has she worked her ass off to be as amazing as Shad is? No! Has she spent ever day of her life making sure that no one forgets who the real Victor is? No! She's done absolutely nothing aside from ruin Shad's Hunger Games.

This is supposed to be one of the best days of Shad's life. It's the day he volunteers, the day he starts on his way to the Capitol, on his way to the future! He's about to a Victor! He's about to have his name emblazoned on a fountain for all of posterity to see! All Calista will have is a lifeless gravestone beside another hundred-thousand identical gravestones. That's where she belongs anyways.

And Calista Abbey has ruined all of that! His blood is practically boiling in his veins as he sits here, stewing angrily beside Calista and their mentors.

At least Calista agreed to take the crazy one.

Shad doubts he'll need much of a mentor, but it's nice to know that he won't have to spend any more time than necessary around both Calista and Divinity. One of them is awful. Both of them is enough to do his head in.

Besides, the first chance he gets, Calista will be dead. By his hand, of course. And if someone takes that kill from him…well, they'll be dead too. He'll kill anyone who gets in the way. He has to show Calista who the boss is. Who the real Victor is in this equation. Shad has never been the best at math—who needs number when he can kill quicker than anyone this side of Panem?—but this is one problem that he can solve in an instant.

Calista Abbey is one person who stands up to Shad. Shad is used to a certain way of living, and that way involves using anyone who stands in his way as a doormat. Calista Abbey does not bend to his will, much like her annoying friends and ditzy comrades. But, she'll be dead soon enough, and Shad will have his name on a fountain for all of eternity.

"So, shall we get started?" Neapolitan proposes, looking between Shad and Calista uncertainly. "…is there anything we should know about you two? The way you're looking at each other makes me think you'd like it if the other were dead."

"No," Calista says, not tearing her gaze away from Shad's. "We just don't like each other."

"Right," Neapolitan says, his tone indicating that this is anything but right. Slowly he looks up to meet Shad's eyes, carefully raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. "Great."

"So…alone, then?" Divinity asks, looking rather uncomfortable as well.

"Obviously," Shad says, rolling his eyes.

The silence that fills the room is beyond uncomfortable, the tension in the air so thick you could puncture it with a knife. However, the only person who doesn't manage to feel uncomfortable is Shad. He simply sits there in his chair, feeling intensely superior to just about everyone around him.

After a long few moments, Neapolitan starts drumming his hands on his legs and says, "So, Shad, shall we head to another car to discuss strategies?"

Shad nods sharply once and gets to his feet. He follows Neapolitan out of the car, making sure to throw a glare at Calista and Divinity before they disappear from his view.

"You were the chosen volunteer, yes?" Neapolitan asks as they make their way down the hallway.

"Of course I was," Shad says, affronted at the notion that Neapolitan may have thought he wasn't chosen for this.

"That always helps," Neapolitan replies. "What's your main weapon?"

"Spears," Shad says off-handedly. "But I'm good with anything you put in my hands."

Neapolitan nods, seeming pleased. He leads Shad into a separate room and takes a seat.

Shad remains standing.

"How do I become the leader of the Careers?" Shad asks. It's really the only question he has been unsure of the answer to. It's rare that the District 1 male becomes the leader of the Careers. That usually falls to one of the District 2s. Shad, however, has never been one to cater to statistics. If he becomes the leader of the Career pack, it will just be one more thing they can stamp his name in the history books for. That way people will remember him, and he won't just be one of the volunteers that Court makes an example of. If he wins, no one will be able to laugh at him for making mistakes, and no one can learn from what he did if he wins. He has to win. He has to win. He has to win.

"Slow down," Neapolitan says. "Being the leader of the Careers isn't always a good thing, Shad. The Career pack, as of late, has a tendency to be rather volatile. Before you decide you want to take up the helm, at least take a look at what you're up against."

"Whatever," Shad says. As if he doesn't know that the Careers often hate each other! He's watched the last decade of Games so many times he practically has them memorized! So what if the Careers don't like each other? It's not like they're all going to be best friends and sing songs while holding hands and murdering children!

The Careers pack have been worse in the past few years; in the Quell, it was a seething hotbed of twelve-year-old angst. The year after they, there wasn't even a true Career pack. It was just two factions that wanted to kill each other at the earliest convenience. Last year, it was nothing but a pack of trained kids whose only goal in life was to kill Divinity Faust, and look how that turned out! Divinity is in the next room over, and the Careers are dead in the ground!

Shad can see where Neapolitan is coming from, but he also doesn't care. He's going to be the leader of the Careers no matter what. "I don't care who is a part of the Careers and who isn't. I just want to know how to ensure I am the leader."

Neapolitan sighs and says, "Look, Shad, sometimes leading the Career isn't the best course of action. Becoming the leader puts you in the spotlight, and sometimes staying unnoticed is the best option—"

"I don't want to be unnoticed!" Shad cries. The last thing Shad wants in this world is to be anything but the focus of everyone's attention. If he wanted to blend into the background, he would have done it already! "I'm going to be the leader of the Careers, because I'm the best choice for the job. I'm going to be the Victor, because it's all I've ever trained for!" He roars the last sentence right in Neapolitan's face, angry that anyone would ever tell him that his plan isn't the best plan.

"Shad, please," Neapolitan says. "You can still survive the Hunger Games without being the leader of the Careers."

"You don't understand," Shad says, dropping into a chair and leaning towards Neapolitan's face. "I can't just win the Hunger Games. I have to do something memorable while winning the Hunger Games. I don't want to just be another Victor from 1. I have to be the Victor from 1."

Neapolitan continues to look lost and little bit skeptical, so Shad plows on. "I have to be the Victor that they'll talk about a century down the road. I have to be the one who is remembered by everyone. I have to be memorable! If I'm just another Victor…" Shad trails off, unsure of where he was going with this. "I have to win!"

"And I understand that, Shad," Neapolitan amends. "But isn't surviving enough? Why go out of your way to do intensely risky things if you could just live?"

"If I just win, no one will care!" Shad all but shouts. "I don't want to just be another name on a fountain, another Career volunteer who no one cares about!"

Why doesn't Neapolitan get it? Being the winner is not enough. In order for Shad to prove himself, to prove how amazing he is to the world, he has to be memorable. He has to be the Victor in order to remind all of the other Victors where their place is. He's superior! He'll always be superior, but the only way to make everyone realize it is for him to win the Hunger Games!

"I think you'll realize quickly that surviving the Games doesn't solve all of your problems," Neapolitan says.

That makes Shad mad. That makes him really, really mad. Of course winning the Hunger Games will solve his problems! It's all he's wanted for so long! If he loses, what is he? But if he's a Victor, he'll be remembered forever! The Capitol will be singing his praises for decades to come, and future outliers will forever be reminded of their place. "Maybe it didn't for you. But it will for me."

"Suit yourself," Neapolitan says. "Now, what kind of survival skills do you know?"

Ottilie Blackwell, 15

District 4 Female

It feels good. It feels so, so good to be here. It feels like all of the pieces have finally fallen into place, and Ottilie is at last set on the track to greatness. Soon, her name will be stamped in the history books, on a fountain, and all over Panem. It will be glorious.

The train quickly leaves District 4 behind but Ottilie doesn't mind. She's been waiting for the day that she could finally leave that Panem-forsaken ocean behind. She's finally here, she's finally on the train, she's finally on her way to the history books.

"Uh, you okay?" Bayou asks from beside her, looking at her with raised eyebrows and an expression that insinuates he just watched her murder a small child. "You're starin' at that cupcake like it's the most amazin' thing in the world."

Ottilie just glares at him. "Oh, leave me alone, will you? I'm trying to revel in my Victory."

"I don' think you're the Victor quite yet," Bayou replies, still looking at her like she's gone completely insane. He starts to drum his fingers on the tabletop, making the silverware bounce and rattle. The sound grates on Ottilie's ears, only making her feel more unhappy with her district partner. Why couldn't she have gotten Lir Solomon? Hell, she'd take Crockett Montgomery over this Backwater idiot. After all, she'd like a district partner that comes with a brain attached.

"Something wrong with your ears?" Ottilie asks snidely. "I already knew Backwater kids couldn't read; I didn't know that you couldn't hear."

"Yeah—yeah, well, who'd ya have to fuck to get chosen as the, em, volunteer?" Bayou stammers, his eyes widening the moment the words leave his mouth. Ottilie can tell he regrets it, but she decides then and there that he doesn't get to regret it.

"Oh, please!" she shouts angrily, surging to her feet so quickly that her chair goes flying backwards and slams into the train-car wall. Bayou shrinks away from her, pushing his own chair back to more distance between them. "Like you have any room to talk! You're just some Backwater bitch! As if someone like you could ever get legitimately chosen as the volunteer!"

For a split-second Bayou's eyes dart toward Ottilie's hands, his face betraying fear before anger conquers his emotions once more. "I, well, I—"

Before Bayou can say another word, the train car door opens and in walks Chance Rovaeny and Arthur Singlewave.

"Woah, woah, woah! What the hell is going on in here?" Chance yells, rushing forward and pushing both Bayou and Ottilie back. "Hey, hey, hey, put down the knife before someone gets stabbed." Once he seems satisfied that no murder is about to be committed, he takes a few steps back and returns to Arthur's side.

It's in this moment that Ottilie realizes that somewhere in her argument with Bayou, she picked up a steak knife. "You're a bit late to the party," Ottilie growls. "If you'd been a minute later, we'd have to Reap a new tribute."

"Wow, okay," Chance says, putting an arm around Arthur's shoulder. "That's a new one."

"I don't care," Ottilie snaps.

Chance extricates his arm from around Arthur's shoulders and makes his way around the table. "Okay, so, how about we don't commit any unprecedented murders today?"

In response, Ottilie slams the steak knife into the table, sending the utensils laid out rattling around again.

"She ain't got a weapon, so at least there's that," Bayou says, getting out of his chair and walking around the table.

"So, Ottilie, how about you go somewhere else to cool down—" Chance starts, but Ottilie cuts over top of him.

"Oh, got fuck yourself," she snarls as she stalks over to the train car door. She rips it open and disappears down the hall, leaving her mentors and her district partner baffled behind her.

She honestly doesn't know where she's going, but she keeps going anyway. If anything, she's too stubborn to turn back around and have to admit that she went the wrong way.

Her feet carry her all the way to the back of the train. She sits on the curved benches, watching the world fly past outside the windows. She wonders how it will feel to sit here and watch Panem disappear from the perspective of a Victor. That's something she'll be soon. She's sure of it. If Backwater Bayou is anything to go off of…

Some small part of her tells her to stop being cocky. That winning the Hunger Games is not as easy as it sounds.

And maybe that part of her is right. Maybe that part of her is wrong. She'll never know until she's in the arena, and Orion Garnet is announcing her as the Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games.

Ottilie gets to her feet and turns on the T.V. that sits in the corner. If she's going to figure out how easy this game is going to be to win, she needs to start now.

District 1, she decides, may pose her some difficulty. Careers are different, though. Careers are always going to pose problems.

Only the girl from 2 seems like a threat, she concludes. Honestly, if anyone doesn't deem that boy to be a bloodbath, they're kidding themselves.

She skips District 3 after taking one look at the tributes; both obvious bloodbaths, of course. She fast forwards through District 4, not wanting to look at Bayou's face again. District 5 seems worthy of little note as well, but she does mentally flag the girl as a possible threat. Both eighteen-year-olds from 6, despite neither of them seeming to be much of anything. The first volunteer from an outer district happens to be a thirteen-year-old girl, which nearly makes Ottilie burst out laughing.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this is going to be a clean sweep through to Victory.

District 8 yields two twelve-year-olds, but something about the boy seems off to Ottilie. She isn't sure what it is about him, but she flags him as a potential threat as well. The District 9 male also makes her feel slightly nervous; she mentally notes him as a possible issue if his score is high enough. She finds herself questioning the boy from 10, but the girl from 10 looks practically hungover. If there is anyone I need to look out for, it's the boy from 11, Ottilie decides, mentally placing the largest red flag over his head. A volunteer for 12 can never be overlooked, but, at the same time, she looks like nothing to be worried around.

"So."

Ottilie's head snaps up as she launches to her feet in a second, whirling around to find herself staring at Arthur Singlewave. "The hell do you want?"

"I'm your mentor, I guess," Arthur says, staring very pointedly out of the windows.

"I know."

"So, do you have something against Bayou or…"

"No," Ottilie snaps. "I just don't believe that a Backwater trainee could feasibly get chosen as the volunteer."

"You're, like, fifteen-years-old."

"Uh-huh, and more skilled than Backwater Bayou will ever be," Ottilie answers.

"Have you ever seen him fight?"

"No," Ottilie growls.

"Then how can you accurately say that you're better than him?" Arthur asks innocently. "And, trust me when I say this, you don't want to go into the arena with grudges against people, especially if they're for no reason."

"Like you would know."

"I'd say I know more than you do," Arthur says, shrugging. "After all, which one of us here has won the Hunger Games? You?"

"Not yet," Ottilie snaps testily. "God, why can't you just leave me alone? I'm trying to work on my strategy for getting there."

"That's what your mentor is for."

"Go to hell." Ottilie throws a sharp glare over her shoulder before she sits down once more, turning back to the T.V. She quickly rewinds the recaps.

"It's your funeral," Arthur says off-handedly as he disappears down the hallway, leaving Ottilie to do nothing but flip him off as he goes.

Quinn Bayers, 17

District 11 Male

"Are you okay with being mentored together?" Ashe asks him as they wait for Meadow and Brice. "I don't want to face this alone."

Quinn is slightly taken aback by her question. "Yeah. That's fine with me."

"Cool," Ashe says, sounding relieved.

Silence quickly stretches between them. Ashe starts tapping her hands on the table. "Have you met either of them? Meadow and Brice, I mean?"

"Oh," Quinn says. "No. Have you?"

Ashe shakes her head. "Never face-to-face."

This silence is only broken by the arrival of Meadow and Brice. "So, Quinn and Ashe, correct?" Meadow asks as she and Brice take a seat across from their tributes.

"Yes," Quinn says.

"So, Ashe, I'll be mentoring you, and Brice will be taking—" Meadow begins, but Ashe cuts over top of her.

"Actually, we'd like to be mentored together," she says confidently. "If that's alright with you."

"That's fine with us," Meadow says, sounding surprised. "Do you two know each other or…?"

"Oh, no," Ashe says immediately, taking the words right from Quinn's mouth. "I just…I don't want to face this alone."

Meadow nods before turning to Quinn. "So, Quinn, care to tell us why you volunteered?"

"Money," Quinn says with no plans to elaborate. Meadow doesn't need to know Quinn's life story, especially with how big of a sympathy line it is. He doesn't need the Capitol to think he's noble or brave or selfless. He isn't. He's just doing what anyone else would do to keep their family alive, even if it means he loses his life in the process. That's just the way it has to happen and Quinn knows that.

"What about money?" Brice suddenly blurts out. "Like, just the idea of Caps? Or do you need money to help feed your family? Is someone in your family deathly ill and you need money to get treatment? To get yourself out of debt? Oh! Are you a gambler? Or is someone in your family a gambler? Are you the breadwinner in your family or is it someone else? Do you even have a family, or are you an orphan? If you're an orphan, is that why you need money, so that you can get out of poverty? Or do you really want fame? Trust me, the fame isn't all that good—like, it actually kind of sucks and the mental scarring is probably worse. I just can't imagine why someone would volunteer, even for a noble reason like getting money for his starving family!"

"I just need money," Quinn repeats, not really having followed anything Brice said. Ashe, on the other hand, is staring at him like an alien come down to Panem. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"We can work with that," Meadow says amiably. "It might be easier to spin you some sponsors if you tell us why you need money."

"My dad screwed me over," Quinn says. "I need money."

"Okay," Meadow says carefully. "What about you, Ashe? Got anything to help us spin you a story?"

"Well…no, not really," Ashe says, staring down at her lap. "My family is normal. We have enough money." After a moment, she looks up. "I'm smart, though."

"Intelligence is a good quality to have in the Games," Meadow agrees. "Quinn will already have sponsors on his side. An outlying volunteer never gets ignored, no matter what the reason they volunteered for. You're capable, you look strong, and I can imagine the ladies will be all over you."

Quinn purses his lips at the last one. It's not that he doesn't like being popular with the ladies. He'd just rather not be popular with the crazy Capitol ladies. Besides, the ones back home are prettier and more normal. "I suppose so."

"People sponsor the ones they think are attractive," Brice adds. "It's especially because they like to look at the ones who are hot for a longer time and will sponsor them lifesaving equipment so that they can look at the hot ones for longer because the Capitol values appearance over personality because if you're attractive you're going to make the higher-ups more money."

"And you, Ashe—intelligence is an important card to play, but it's not something you want to flaunt," Meadow says. "It's a hard choice between standing out and being ignored. On one hand, standing out gets you more sponsors and a bigger following. Having fans is especially useful—the Gamemakers will be less likely to kill you for being boring if you're popular with the crowds. On the other, being unnoticed during the pre-Games can lend you a hand in a different way. You won't be a target. If you're average, no one will go out of their way to kill you. But, we'll leave the decision up to you."

"Average," Ashe says.

"Stand out," Quinn says. "Even if I had a choice, I feel like it's a little late to try and be average."

"I agree," Meadow says. "So, Quinn, you're going to want to go for a high training score. That will put you even larger on the Capitolites' maps. Ashe, you're going to want to be in the four-to-six range. A score that's good, but not so good that you become a target."

It makes sense to Quinn; although training scores seem rather arbitrary to him, it makes sense that the Capitolites would want someone with a higher training score as their bet.

"Now, how do you two feel about allies?" Meadow asks.

"I want a big alliance," Ashe says. "Anyone else who is younger, if it's possible."

"And you, Quinn?"

Quinn considers it for a moment. On one hand, having trustworthy allies could save his life. There is strength in numbers as well. But Quinn knows that his fatal flaw is his loyalty to others. It's hard fought, but it's sorely won. He knows it's not easy for others to get to close to him, but once they do…well, he can't chance finding some to be loyal to and giving up his life for them. "No," he decides. "I'm happy going solo."

"Alright, then," Meadow says, nodding. "So, Ashe—what are you looking for in an ally?"

"Well, I guess I want someone younger," Ashe says. "Someone around my age or below."

"Shall we head to another room and look at the Recap?" Meadow proposes.

Ashe agrees, and they quickly vacate the train car, leaving Quinn sitting alone with Brice. "So…" Quinn says, shifting in his seat. "Do you have any advice for me?"

For a short moment, Brice seems to consider his words before he launches into a long tirade. "Well, if you're not going for allies, then keep to yourself during training because if someone asks for to ally and you say no that just makes you an enemy and having those in the Games is never helpful. Also avoid showing off any special skills you might have until you go into the Private sessions because you don't want everyone else to know you're good with a certain weapon until you have it in your hands and you're about to kill them in the Games. Oh! Keep your distance from your district partner because it's so much harder to kill someone when you know and they're from home but I know there's a taboo on killing your district partner but if that's what standing between you and Victory I don't think anyone cares about a taboo."

"Well…um, alright, then. Thanks, I guess," Quinn says, trying to decipher everything Brice said. He talked a lot, and really fast, and Quinn doesn't quite want to admit that he didn't pick up most of it. "Well, I'm going to go watch the recap in my room and see if I want to reconsider my decision to have no allies. I'll see you for dinner."

Brice starts rambling some long goodbye, but Quinn leaves the room before he hears most of it.

Lyndie Franklin, 12

District 8 Female

Tick, tock.

The clock on the wall of Lyndie's room is driving her mad. Every little second that ticks away is one less that she has to spend in Panem. She watches the little red hand make its way around and around and around the clock face, over and over and over again as it ticks away the moments left in Lyndie's short little life.

Tick, tock.

No matter how much Lyndie wills it to do so, the clock doesn't stop moving. The hands don't freeze in place and the little ticks don't stop coming.

Tick, tock.

Every moment that Lyndie spends staring at the clock, willing it to stop, is one less moment she has to live.

Tick, tock.

But she has the grace of God on her side. She hasn't quite decided if that puts her at a disadvantage or not. Con: the Capitol views religion as a danger to their carefully cultivated society. Pro: she's not sure what's in God's will, but she knows that it will turn out okay. Whether it be that she dies or not remains to be seen, but whatever happens, Lyndie knows it will turn okay. She's been good. For the most part. She doubts she's done anything that will stop her from reaching God's arms when she does indeed pass on.

Tick, tock.

Lyndie gets off her bed and starts to pace the floor. She doesn't want to sit still, but she doesn't want to leave the relative safety of her supposed bedroom. So she paces. She stalks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth from end of the room to the other like a caged animal.

Tick, tock.

In some ways, she is a caged animal. She's like a sheep being led to the slaughterhouse, slowly being dragged away against her will. It's only a matter of time…

Tick, tock.

Lyndie sits crisscross on the floor and does something she hasn't done for a long, long time: she starts to sing. Her voice is quiet at first, a soft warbling sound that to any passerby would sound like nothing but humming. No one has ever accused Lyndie of being good at singing, but the sound of her own song is comforting. It reminds her of home; when her mother would sing lullabies to her and her brothers. But her voice is not her mother's, and it doesn't feel like home.

Tick, tock.

She continues to hum to herself, on the floor of her "bedroom" as her heart aches for home, for the soft voice of her mother, for the silly jokes of her father, for the squabbles and laughter and life of her brothers. She wants to go home, desperately aches for it, but she knows that she'll never see home again.

Tick, tock.

It's the only sound in the room. The incessant little ticking of the clock, as the hands make their endless journey around and around, never stopping, never ceasing to move. It quickly becomes the only sound to be heard in the room as Lyndie's humming slowly peters out. It just ticks and it ticks and it ticks.

Tick, tock.

No matter what she thinks, it always comes back to this. To the clock. To the ticking. To the little number of seconds Lyndie has left in this plain of existence. She has so little left to hold here her, barely any time to keep her grounded and alive.

Tick, tock.

At last Lyndie can take it no more and she springs up from the floor. She snatches the clock off the wall and claws at the screws. Finally they start to come out, and each time she successfully pulls one from the plastic, she chucks it across the room, hoping to never see it again.

Tick, tock.

Before long the clock lays in pieces and the second hands stops its incessant ticking. Lyndie lays back against her bedframe, satisfied, but the sound doesn't stop.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock—

Lyndie aggressively starts singing, just belting out lyrics to whatever song comes to her head first, trying to carry her voice loud enough to override the screaming of the clock in her head. Why won't it stop? When will the world stop reminding her of death? She knows she's going to die, for Heaven's sake!

Tick.

Lyndie gets to her feet and shuffles out of the room. She starts the hall, going in the direction that she can hear voices coming from.

Tock.

Lyndie pauses in the hallway, staring out the windows at the slowly setting set. It rests on the horizon, bathing Panem in golden light. It's odd to see something so beautiful in light of so many awful things. If the fields of wheat that are blazing by her eyes are anything to go off of, they're likely passing through District 9. It's the first time Lyndie has ever seen anything but rows upon rows of gray buildings and muggy skies.

It's beautiful.

Tick.

Lyndie turns and goes on her way.

Tock.

She walks fast, but her steps are unsure. She doesn't know where she's going, but she has to get there eventually. She turns a blind-eye to the sunset, ignoring the blazing colors and the fields of District 9 as she quickly paces up the train. After a while, when the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon and the sky has turned purple, Lyndie comes upon a pantry. She ducks inside and grabs a box of cookies off one of the shelves. With her prize held securely to her chest, Lyndie heads back down the train.

Tick.

By the time she reaches the room marked "female tribute", the sky is dark and the stars are out. She crunches on a couple of cookies before tossing the box onto the bed and leaving the room again. For once in her life, she feels like she can't sit still. The world is moving too fast and Lyndie doesn't know how to keep up with it.

Tock.

Eventually, she finds herself at the back of the train. She spots a ladder leading up to the roof and finds herself climbing it without even realizing she's doing it.

Tick.

Stars are beautiful, Lyndie decides as she stands on the roof of the train. Wind whips around her head, making her hair blow across her face, but Lyndie doesn't really mind. She lays back against the sleek metal of the roof and stares up at the sky. She likes to think that each of those stars represents a person. Perhaps all of the stars are the souls of the people of the districts who have died for no good reason. Perhaps they are the fallen tributes from the Hunger Games.

Tock.

Lyndie wonders if she'll become a star when she dies.

It doesn't sound like much of a way to spend eternity.

Tick.

She gazes at the stars for so long that her eyes start to burn. Stars aren't a thing in District 8. If you really squint, you might see them on a clear night. Most of the time they are virtually invisible. It's strange to see them to clearly for so long.

Lyndie slowly gets up and crawls back down the ladder, but she doesn't return to "Female Tribute"'s bedroom. She isn't sure if she wishes the door had her name on it or not. She's not "female tribute". She's Lyndie. Just Lyndie.

She wanders up and down the train, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floors. She passes by the rooms of her mentors, of her district partner, of the escort, and it seems as if none of them are awake. She doesn't mind being alone, but right now, she would give anything to have one more moment with her family.

Wonder Hammerfort, 12

District 2 Male

(TW for mention of suicide attempts)

They can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, Wonder tells himself as he paces up and down the train with the rain of a summer storm lashing the windows. The words repeat over and over like a mantra, a broken record that refuses to stop playing. He knows that it's true, that unless he commits an act of high treason there's nothing the Capitol can do about him.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

"I just have to win, and everything will be okay," Wonder says aloud, not even realizing that he started speaking. "I just have to win, and everything will be okay. I just have to—"

"The hell are you doing? It's five a.m."

Wonder's head snaps up, suddenly finding himself staring at his district partner, who is semi-casually leaning against the doorway to her bedroom. For whatever reason, despite it being the middle of the night, she is dressed as if she's about to work out. "I—I, uh…"

Scoria stares expectantly at him for a moment as if waiting for him to continue.

"I…just…nothing," Wonder mumbles, his voice barely audible over the pouring rain.

"Who are you, exactly?" Scoria asks.

The question takes Wonder by surprise. "What…what do you mean?"

"I remember Wake Hammerfort," Scoria says.

"Don't say her name," Wonder growls.

"I remember Wake Hammerfort," Scoria repeats, her voice lower and more annoyed. "What's the story there?"

Wonder collects his words for a moment. "It's nothing you should be concerned with."

"So are you a Career?"

"No," Wonder says. He's never been to the Academy. It always enticed Wake, but Wonder sees enough carnage at home.

"Then why did you volunteer?"

"Escape," Wonder says. "I'm probably going to die either way, but at least here I have a chance to earn a pardon and fix things." He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

"The hell are you talking about?" Scoria demands, sounding rather done with this conversation.

"It's nothing you should be concerned with," Wonder repeats, crossing his arms across his chest. "You can go back to sleep now, or whatever you were doing at five a.m."

Scoria glares at him, seeming to be considering slamming the door in his face and going back to doing whatever she was doing. After a moment of silence, her glare deepens and she says, "Just stay out of my way. I don't need you; you don't need me. Let's just agree to keep our distance."

"Sounds good to me," Wonder says, shrugging. It's not like she's wrong. They don't need each other. Wonder isn't sure who was supposed to be the male volunteer this year, but he can bet that Scoria would have kept her distance from him as well. Neither of them need any distractions from their goal.

"Great," Scoria says, the word half cutoff by her slamming the door of her bedroom.

Wonder starts to pace up again. He walks until the sun starts to peek through the crowds and the mountains surrounding the Capitol are sitting on the horizon. He wonders what is waiting for him beyond those mountains. Will the Capitol like him? Or will they hate him, for being a so-called "criminal" and volunteering to escape his fate?

Wonder has never liked to feel unsure. He likes to have certainty in his life, but there never is. For the longest time, the only thing in his life that was constant and stagnant was Wake, and look where she ended up. Then the constant became Yoldan, and look where he ended up. Another constant was Rupert, and look where he ended up. Who's next to die in his life? Jilda? Him?

Maybe it is him who will die next. After all, he is on a train headed for the Hunger Games.

Fate has never been kind to Wonder, has it? It has rung him out like a wet towel, again and again and again, before throwing him in the trash and pulling him out again. Wonder likes to think he's a fighter, but after so many attempts to take his own life…what kind of fighter does that?

What kind of fighter runs from a fight?

Wonder is no fighter; he's well-aware that he has only been masquerading as one.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

Wonder heads down to the dining car, finding Will already seated inside. There's no food on the table, instead it being Will seated atop it. When he sees Wonder enter, he gives a half-hearted wave and says, "Hey. I get the feeling that you didn't sleep much last night. And did I hear you talking to Scoria a few hours ago?"

Wonder shrugs and glances over to the windows, finding the clouds have dissipated and sunlight is pouring down from the heavens. "I guess, yeah."

"You don't make much sense to me, Wonder," Will says, sliding off the table and making his way towards Wonder. He shies away from Will, taking a few steps backwards. "I get that you volunteered to escape execution. I get that. But I just don't see what else you have to gain from this."

"Everything," Wonder says. "At least, this way, I have a chance to survive."

"I get that," Will says, his voice slightly more serious and less tired. "But if I were in your situation…I think being dead might be better. If you win, all you're going to be is more traumatized."

Wonder stares at him for a long moment. "Whatever. I'll be fine."

"If you're certain," Will says, shrugging.

"I'm going to be mentored separately," Wonder says suddenly.

"Okay? Great?" Will says, seeming uncertain what Wonder is talking about. "Why? You hate Scoria or something?"

"No. We just don't need to associate with each other," Wonder says simply.

"Alright then," Will says, raising his eyebrows. "What about allies? What's your opinions on those?"

"Absolutely not," Wonder says immediately. The last thing he needs is allies. More people who can hurt him. More people who can turn out to be bad. More people who can betray him and his hard-earned trust. He doesn't need anyone after all. If he needed people, he wouldn't have agreed to keep his distance from Scoria. "I don't need help. I work best alone."

"Okay," Will says. "So, no allies, then. What else you got?"

"My sister," Wonder says. "I know she was extremely popular when she was in the Games. That will get me extra popularity points, right?"

"You make an excellent point," says Will, nodding. He sticks out his head to shake Wonder's and says, "I think you've got a fair chance at it, Wonder. You're young, which doesn't lend you any favors, but you'll be popular, and you've clearly got fight to you."

Wonder looks at Will's hand like it's a dead rat. After a moment, Will seems to realize that Wonder isn't going to shake it and he pulls it back.

Will has no idea how wrong he is, Wonder thinks. He's no fighter, but maybe he can become one.

A/N: Welcome to arc-town, population Wonder, Quinn, Ottilie, Jayce, Lyndie and Shad!

1. Which one of these POV tributes is your favorite?

2. Which of one of the mentors showcased is your favorite?

3. Which one of these POV tributes do you think is most likely to win?

Random Question: what did you eat for breakfast today?

My answer: we're going to back to actually random questions! And I didn't actually eat breakfast today. I don't have breakfast most of the time, especially on school days.

Next up is the Chariot Rides with Arthur!

-Amanda