"Get the fuck up, Ten. In the arena, there isn't gonna be time for laying on your ass. Train seriously or get out of my sight."

I glare up at the man in front of me. Dressed in smart whites. Perfectly chiseled jawline. Pompous air that made me want to kick his shit in. If I'd had the ability, anyways. Marcus Hunt, victor from Two. He was known for his dislike of the outer districts, specifically Ten and Eight. He'd cooled off a bit after their other victor, Juno or whatever, got through to him, but he was still a prick. And, unfortunately, our weapons instructor. At the behest of his tribute, Marcus had made a public appeal. A training period for the tributes to show off. Something he'd been cooking up ever since his own games, apparently, and now had been the perfect opportunity to show it. To lord their superiority over us. It was no secret that Marcus had trained his tributes. Hell, it was last year's big story. Now officially illegal after complaints of inequality from some Capitolites, it was still exceedingly obvious that both of the Twos this year had been his pet projects. Big and mean, just like he'd taught them. Fear breeds weakness. Instill fear, and you're already a step ahead. Fucking disgusting.

I rise up, meeting his eyes despite the difference in size. His cool blue eyes meet my own, as if daring me to speak back to him.

I happily accept his challenge.

"What, afraid of a ten with weapons? I would be too, if I was on the receiving end of what happened in the Second. Your pretty little partner, gutted by our boy. Maybe we'll get a repeat this year so I can shut you up."

Shit.

I knew I'd gone too far as soon as I'd brought up Afra. The Two female's death to Ten's male that year, Nia. Now, staring at the darkening face of the second victor of the Hunger Games, I knew I was in for it.

"Five seconds. You have five seconds to find a new station, or I'll kick your ass back to your little hut in whatever backwater village you crawled out of. You'd do well to heed my warnings."

Despite all my bravado, I knew when to fold. One of my best qualities, actually. Saves me from a lot of trouble. So I dropped by shortsword and hurried away to the plant identification station, far away from Marcus. On a glance back, he had pulled both of his tributes in close and was pointing in my direction.

Bad move, I guess.

The rest of this pre games period is a blur. My mouth gets me in trouble with my shoddy excuse for a mentor, but what do I care? All he's taught me is the eloquent art of shotgunning beers and passing out drunk on the sofa. I think I'll be better off without his 'advice.'

The next few days are just honing my skills. Marcus finally takes a break from the weapons station, leaving me to train with the much less annoying Junius. A monster in his own right who'd murdered little Manuel Vargas, but he wasn't actively antagonizing me. Pros and cons, I suppose.

"Fix your stance, young man." The deep voice commands. A large hand corrects my grip on the blade with surprising grace. There really was a strange duality between the two victors from the Masonry District. "Wouldn't want you losing a battle just because you couldn't hold the weapon right, now would we?"

"Aren't you literally mentoring the people who want me dead?"

A wry smile crossed Junius's dark features. "I suppose I am. Doesn't mean I want you dead either, Ten. That's not my job anymore, and I'm eternally thankful for it. Now. Your stance. If fighting with a shortsword like you currently have, your range will be diminished in favor of speed and maneuverability. To compensate for this, you must.."

I admit, I sort of tune out of Junius drones on about all this life saving advice. I'm sure I take it in somewhat, as our next fight lasts for a whopping thirty seconds as opposed to the 5 it took him to disarm me in our first bout. I'm totally fucked.

Finally, the third day arrives. Our private training. Judged by a panel of Victors and Gamemakers, we'll each receive a 'score' that will help bettors pick a tribute to dump all of their money into. Don't know what else they'd use it for, though. Not like they can really support anyone they like besides cheering them on from the comfort of their homes.

Walking into my assessment, I feel confident. I wasn't the best, but I think I could pull a respectable score out. It went up to a Twelve. Maybe a seven, then. Slightly above average, but nothing crazy. I put on an interesting display that's a mix of Junius's teachings and plant identification. I feel I did pretty well. The Gamemakers all seem to agree, giving me anywhere from 6 to 8.

And then I see the victors.

Marcus gives me a zero. Magellan, his best buddy, is holding up a two. The skeleton from Six look worriedly to his right and then holds up another 2. Only Junius, standing strong, holds up a 7, giving me an apologetic nod as he sees my jaw drop. I score a 5 in total.

Six hours later, I'm dolled up and ready for an interview with Rhea Vance. It goes well, all things considered. Everyone's lucky that private assessments are meant to be strictly private, otherwise that would have been my topic of choice. Alas, I stick to topics such as home life and family, which always do well. Near the end, I get a little too big for my britches and promise that I'll show up both of the Twos this year. Bad move, I know, but the look on Marcus's face almost made it worth it. Almost. I still don't think he's forgiven me for the remark I made about his partner.

Fortunately for my future health, I don't actually take down the Two female. She gets attacked by some giant mutant lizard and dies via poison. Her partner dies to the pretty boy from One, who's subsequently ambushed by a scrappy pair of tributes from Eight and Six. I've heard the games can be unpredictable, but to see someone who'd taken down the top contender die to malnourished children was almost funny, in a twisted sense. I think the Games mess with my sense of humor.

I do, however, have the pleasure of taking down the male from Four. Now I'm not someone who enjoys taking life. Actually, I throw up and proceed to start bawling right after his cannon sounds. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't imagining Magellan's smug face from the assessment as I struck the final blow.

By the time that actually happens, it's down to me and the boy from Eight. One of the kids who'd jumped the boy from One. Not what I expected. I mean, I hadn't even expected to live this long. Now my last opponent wasn't some massive, foreboding threat. It was some untrained little kid. A knot of guilt ties tight in my stomach. Do I really want to go home this badly? The male from Four was one thing. He was dangerous. Magellan, like Marcus, 'helped out' his tributes in games related manners when it was technically not allowed. But some little kid from Eight..? I don't know if I have the heart.

But I don't get to make that decision anymore. He leaps out at me from behind the big metal center of the arena. The Corny-Copier, or whatever they'd called it at the start. He doesn't even have a weapon, but the look in his eyes scares me more than any armed tribute. It's been just shy of a day, but he's lost it. The left side of his face is colored a deep purple. He's basically feral, like a wild dog back in Ten.

I have to cut him down, and I cry while doing so. I shout. I scream. And I still do it, because it was my life or his. As the trumpets ring out, I know I'll never be able to truly make peace with that.

It's pushed to the back of my mind soon after the games, however. President Marrow had requested a meeting with me.

"Brahman Rojas. A pleasure. Congratulations on your victory. A well fought win, especially for an outlying district."

"Gee, thanks for the compliment. No double meaning on that one, right?" ...Is what I would have said, if I didn't know who I was talking to.

"Thank you, sir. I.. appreciate it."

"Tell me, Brahman. May I call you Brahman, now? How did someone with such a middling score - a five, if I remember, - manage to upset some of the most dangerous fighters we've ever seen?"

I tell him about my actual scores. And about Marcus and Magellan and Carter. He nods. The smile on his face is pleasant, and yet the look in his eyes reminds me of the reptilian creatures in the arena. Cold, dead, and calculating.

"I see. Rest assured, Mr. Rojas, these... complications... will be seen to. You have my word. As will they." President Marrow dialed some numbers into a machine I'd never seen before and then spoke.

"Yes? Hello. Marrow. Send Magellen Blough, Marcus Hunt, and Carter Novak to my office. Yes, right now. I don't care if you don't know. Find them. That is an order. Goodbye." The President set the machine down, regarding me coolly.

"Finish your drink, and then that will be all. I thank you for your cooperation."

As I walk out of the room, I see Marcus stalking in.

Maybe this'll have its perks after all, hm?


Heyo! Sorry for the long bit of silence. Life has been really busy and the only reason I was able to write this was because I'm currently on a spring break. I have the next chapter basically planned already so it should come a little quicker! Thanks to all my readers and special thanks to Justice for the review on my last chapter and BamItsTyler for the kind words via PM! Much appreciation to you both, it means a lot that you enjoy this! As always, feel free to leave a review! Constructive criticism is always welcome! Until next time!