"It's true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anticlimactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths."


fever point


part one: eight for the slaughter

Astoria Morel-Omari is no stranger to loss - neither that of others, nor that of herself. Each morning she wakes in the midst of a cold house to a cold bed, the aura of her room heavy with omnipresent melancholia.

It has been two days since she was called forth by the council assembly at the Academy, forced to prostrate herself before them and bow her head in submission. She has no doubt that their goal in forcing her to comply with their demands was humiliation - after all, Astoria is the girl who tarnished their image, whose actions alone left the Career system of District One in shambles. Not through willful intent, of course, but the Academy hadn't much cared to hear her reasoning; they looked at her and saw a girl so full of anger, so subsumed by her own sorrow and bitterness that even looking on her visage seemed shameful. So utterly unrepentant was she - so impudent, in her trainers' own words - that her presence in their ranks was a blight.

So, naturally, they'd chosen to cleanse themselves of her - to send her off to the Games forcibly, as if they truly believed that by killing her they'd be able to wash their hands of the blood staining their flesh. Astoria herself did not complain when her mentors made their ruling - she did not try to fight her punishment, nor deny their demands to make her One's volunteer. She'd killed their three most promising candidates in cold blood; fought them and prevailed despite the odds stacked against her. Perhaps she is a criminal (perhaps she's a pariah), but either way… she'd rather die in the arena with a blade in her hand than languish in a prison cell waiting for the end to come.

A dull end does not befit her.

On the morning of the Reapings, Astoria dresses herself in her lover's clothing; the many items that Isolde left in her possession over the last two years have sat untouched since her passing, tucked away in a large strongbox at the end of Astoria's bed. Inside the trunk, they have not collected dust; each item, each memory, each treasure of Isolde's personhood remains wholly intact, clean and unblemished, just as Isolde herself - she was a beautiful woman, even in death. Astoria can still remember the way she looked on that last night, crumpled in a heap at the landing of a grand staircase in the Academy, the blood painting a halo around her onyx head, her dark lashes like cobwebs on her ivory cheeks…

What I did that night, I did for my love.

What I do today, I do for her honor.

Astoria Morel-Omari is no stranger to loss, but that does not mean she has nothing left to lose. Isolde's legacy rests on her shoulders - she will preserve it, no matter the cost.

Fiore Fiander was born to pain.

In the slums of District Twelve, her family has toiled for fifty-nine years, left to the dirt by the very Capitol that claimed to serve them before the uprising even began. Since she entered the world, she has known nothing but the Seam and poverty, tattered clothing and dirty feet and a tiny shack perpetually blanketed in coal dust. Her father was a miner, and her mother too - Fiore suspects that one day she will be a miner as well, if she lives long enough.

She suspects she will not; urchin children do not last long in Twelve, and she cannot survive another winter, not after the last took everything from her. Her parents, her brothers, even her home were lost to blistering winds and snow piled so high you could scarcely smell the rot of bodies under it. When the blizzards return this year, Fiore's certain they shall claim her as well; those in the Seam are not meant to live long, and she's already escaped death once.

(Her survival has been a cruel thing.)

The woman who found her in that storm took pity on her: the skinny teenager surrounded by dirt, blood and the frozen bodies of her family, left cowering on the floor of their dilapidated forest cabin. She saved Fiore - took her home, fed her and clothed her for ten months straight, asking nothing of her even in repayment for her unimaginable kindness. For months now, Gwendoline has been a mother to her, a parent in all the ways that count, despite Fiore's sullen temperament and reclusiveness - a feat for which Fiore should be grateful. But she cannot bring herself to thank Gwendoline - cannot bring herself to love her, appreciate her, or even connect with her, for as much as she sometimes wishes she could. Because the fact of the matter is that Fiore did not want to be saved, and she did not ask to be saved, and why should she be pleased to have survive when so many others did not? The snow this year will take Gwendoline too, perhaps even the rest of the Seam, and when Twelve's slums lie in dessicated ruins scattered about the base of the Appalachia, nobody will exist to mourn them.

This is what Fiore reminds herself every day, as she brings water up from the well in the Seam's shoddy miner's square, doing her best not to pay attention to her shaking hands as she hauls the bucket up from tarlike depths, her nails bitten down to near stubs at the ends of her fingers. Her life means nothing. Her death means nothing. Last of the Fiander line, last survivor of a dead clan, and her name will not merit so much as a single word after her passing, for nobody will remember an impoverished Seam family or a starving Seam girl ten years from now, not even their neighbors.

She unhooks the bucket from the well-rope once it's reached the top and holds it close to her chest, doing her best to keep her back straight and her shoulders squared as she marches along the dirt path back to Gwendoline's hut, her only focus the road before her - a road that leads to nowhere.

Fiore Fiander was born to pain, and she shall die the same way. Unmourned, unloved… and forgotten.

Roewe Bedford is a cursed child, and while calling himself cursed is certainly dramatic, in no way is it an exaggeration. Sometimes he wishes it were, to be honest - because exaggerations, at least, are half-fictional, and therefore much easier to accept in the long run. Not that he has much room to complain, though! At least he's alive - alive, even if by all rights he shouldn't be, even if by all rights he doesn't deserve to be…

Sometimes he wonders if dying wouldn't be better.

(Does that make him insensitive? It shouldn't; Roewe never asked to be beset by misfortune, never asked for his life to be defined by accidents, illnesses and death, so much death he doesn't even know what to do with it. He never asked to be cursed, but he is… he is, and sometimes it's just so much to handle, so much to deal with.)

… it's in times like these that he misses his family. His mother and father, his dog… did he have friends? If he did, he can't really remember much of them - can't remember much of anything some days, his mind's so fog-addled. And it's only made worse by concentration, because when he concentrates he sees…needles in his veins and stark white hospital beds, cold cement cellars with cracks in the floor and vines climbing the walls and blood, so much blood…

Roewe curls his fingers into the fabric lining the inside of his pants pockets. Not remembering's not so bad, to be honest; the seizures can be, and the confusion can be, but forgetting's more of a blessing in disguise. One of the few perks of having his mind go, actually - even if some people look at him and see crazy, Roewe doesn't look at other people and see him.

(Still, it would be nice to not be cursed. It would be nice to not feel worried.)

(It would be nice to have friends again, too, people to care for and commiserate with and cling to through all the shit that life seems to enjoy flinging in his direction. Sure, he has the nurses - well, a couple of them, which is a surplus as far as Roewe's concerned - and they're great, brilliant actually, he doesn't have a bad word to say about them, but…

It's not the same. It's just not.)

But that's enough sulking for today! If I'm actually gonna volunteer, I gotta keep my confidence up. Think less, smile more, and everything'll work out the way it should. One more kid with a life to live kept safe from the reapings for another year, one less empty head for Eight to keep track of. It's a good thing, I'm doing. So what if I'm a little nervous, I mean, come on, who wouldn't be? Everything's gonna work out.

For me, for Eight's gravekeepers, for the worms in the ground. That's who I'll be coming back to, in the end; gravekeepers and worms, and they aren't much but I'm sure they'll be happy to see me once I'm home. Maybe I'll even get a funeral!

Roewe adjusts his worn jacket around his shoulders, plastering a happy grin upon his face as he spins about on his heel and walks off toward the door of his hospital room.

He may be a cursed child, but he's not about to let misery swallow him up.

Caissa Keagan considers herself to be, above all else, a pragmatist.

Oh, there are those who would disagree, she's sure; her usual facade of the affable, charming girl-next-door doesn't exactly scream intelligence. But that's the thing about facades, especially the asinine ones; they're fiction and falsehood, identities crafted to serve a purpose for those who dare to use them. Caissa's put time and effort into her portrayal of the well-meaning Three girl, effort enough that not even her own family seems to realize that the Caissa Keagan they see is nothing more than a figment of their (pathetic) malleable imaginations. They know nothing of the serpent that hides inside her skin, or the cunning of the chessmaster that exists within her mind, always playing games with them and plying their strings to keep them ignorant. They know nothing of her malice or of her darkness, and to be honest, it's better that way; Caissa's not fool enough to believe she'd be lauded for her vitriol or loved for her spite. She wears a mask because it's best for everyone; best for her "friends," best for her parents, best for her brother and best for Panem.

It isn't best for herself, but she's done her best to come to terms with it; she is only fifteen, after all, and fifteen-year-olds have no place in politics, no power in society. One day, all of her brilliant stratagems and careful contrivances will come to fruition; if she has to wait awhile for that day to arrive, then so be it. She has more important things to do than mope - today, for example, she must attend the reapings, must make herself look as innocent and unassuming as ever so that she appears as nothing more than an obscure face in Three's crowd. She's done nothing to merit getting reaped, but even so, it's best to stay on the peacekeepers' good side, keep her head down, pretend she's not a threat.

(She isn't, really - not to the peacekeepers. To her peers and her rivals and anyone who might think to cross her, yes, but not the peacekeepers, not her District's officials, and certainly not the Capitol. Caissa's more inclined to make friends in high places than enemies - the battlefield of Panemian politics can be messy, and she knows the value of a good alliance.)

As Caissa walks down the street alongside her younger brother, she keeps her chin high and her hands at her sides, the long, grey sleeves of her cardigan pleasantly soft against her almond skin. There are a dozen places that she'd rather be this morning, but she doesn't bother putting a voice to her frustration; once the reapings are over, she'll be able to move on with her day, and deal with all of the work that she'd had piling up after term's end last week; there are articles to write, competitions to schedule, events to plan through the summer season… so much investment for such little payoff that sometimes she wonders why she even bothers. Perhaps when she's moved on to 'bigger and better' she'll be able to appreciate the little things for what they are. One step at a time makes for a slow walk, but it ensures that eventually she'll reach her destination.

(Caissa Keagan is a pragmatist, but she is also so much more. She is Panem's future. And one day, she will be Three's sovereign.)

Rhodes Hoppe has always been able to find solace in solitude.

Call it a byproduct of growing up in District Nine, where the grainfields stretch as far as the eye can see, and rural communities are so often fractured, the people separated by miles of vast landscape. The countryside has been home to Rhodes since even before his birth. His father was a farmer, and his father's father was a farmer, and since his great-grandfather first tilled the Hoppe farm back before the Uprising, it's fair to say that the entire Hoppe clan was simply meant for the golden plains of Nine - meant for a simple, solitary life, away from the city, away from the people. Just the farm, his parents, and all that open space around them. No siblings, no real friends to speak of as there were no people to befriend, regardless of how much Rhodes might wish otherwise.

He'd gotten accustomed to being on his own, running amok through the acres of farmland during harvest season, carving pumpkins and hollowing 'em out for the farmer's festival in autumn, going for a dip in the creek when summer's heat was too scalding to bear. Nobody to please, nobody to mind… he had freedom enough to do what he liked, and freedom enough to enjoy it as long as he minded himself 'round his mum and dad.

Rhodes enjoys it, certainly - wouldn't think to claim otherwise, wouldn't think to complain - but it does get a bit lonely at times. And despite how much his parents love him, despite how much he loves the farm, he's always craved something a little more… novel, perhaps. Some excitement, like they get in the city, where it's all hustle and bustle, and people everywhere you turn. Which is why, reaping day or not, he can't help but feel a little jubilant about finally getting to wander about main street before the ceremony starts. It's a little bit of a culture shock, seeing all those busy merchant's stalls, the town square swarmed with people as kids gather in the reaping pens out front of the justice building.

The crowd's like a tide, ebbing and flowing about him as people run through the streets, some of them crying, some hugging, some looking so utterly distraught that Rhodes can't help but find it sad. Perhaps it's wrong of him to feel so carefree when there's a very good chance his name could get picked out of the reaping ball this year - perhaps it's wrong, because even if it isn't him, some boy from Nine's gonna get sent away to the Hunger Games and marked for death, and it's not fair, not really, no matter how the Capitol paints it.

Rhodes' smile slips a little as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants, assimilating into the long line of kids waiting to get their names checked off by the Peacekeepers. He does his best to stifle the yawn threatening to overtake him as the person ahead shuffles forward, his own feet dragging a bit on the cobblestone beneath them. Tired, he thinks, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. Need a nap when I get back. Or a smoke. Guess we'll see - but I got a few hours here anyhow, so… I'll have to make the most of it while I can. Maybe I'll have a chance to go through the shops before we leave.

(Rhodes Hoppe has always been able to find solace in solitude, but he's a little tired of being alone.)

Chanson Telle longs to escape.

She's sure such an admission wouldn't surprise her sisters - in part because she suspects that both Hedy and Erna feel much the same, even if they won't admit it. Chanson's sisters tend to be a bit more rational than she is, but they also take things harder than she does; worse still, they compartmentalize their feelings, tamp them down and let them fester. (Not a surprise; her sisters have reason to compartmentalize, reasons to stuff away their memories and keep them out of mind. Chanson's got reasons too, she just…)

(... she wishes it could be different, sometimes.)

She's tried to encourage her kin to talk, even tried to coax them away from the habit of repressing, because repressing doesn't help anyone, but talking's just a futile effort. Erna's stubborn as a mule, always has been, and Hedy still thinks of her as a child. (And she is, of course - Chanson's never claimed otherwise, and she knows she doesn't have the same understanding of things as Hedy does - but she still wishes that her sister would listen to her sometimes. Yes, she's the adult, but that doesn't mean she's always self-aware, even if she wants to believe otherwise!)

… not that Chanson would tell her that. Not that Chanson would criticize her; she's done everything she possibly can to hold their family together, even with so many things stacked against her. Hedy fought tooth and nail to regain custody after she and Erna got taken by the Freis, because she loved her sisters and would do anything she could to protect them. So if she doesn't want to talk about what happened, Chanson isn't going to push her; her sister has a right to be angry, and defensive too, if it helps. This - everything. The Freis, the reapings, the loss of their parents, the tifs as a whole - it's not right.

(It's not right that she might be reaped this year because of the Freis' greed, not right that her name's in the bowl twelve times because a pair of adults decided to settle their debts by making bank off orphans. It's not right and it's not fair and why do I have to reap the consequences of their suffering, why do I have to live with fear because of the losses they endured?)

Chanson… is sympathetic. She gets why they did it - gets why all tifs do it, and at least the Freis were kind enough to her and Erna not to just neglect them after bringing them into their home, like most of their sort would. But it doesn't mean she's okay with the tesserae they made her take, or that she forgives them for ripping apart her family.

(And it doesn't mean she's not a little angry, too. Maybe her ire's not as great as Hedy's or Erna's, but it's still there, potent enough to make her nauseous when coupled with her raging nerves. She's angry, and she's scared. She just wants to move on with her family, work toward a better future - here in Five, the place she's lived her whole life! She doesn't want to go to the Hunger Games, but the possibility is there, it's real, and it's only getting stronger with every second she stands in the reaping square.)

The escort's dipping her hand into the ball that holds the girls' slips for the year, her bright blue curls reminding Chanson of the sky in summer. There was one day, before her parents died, where they'd taken the girls to the park, and Hedy had snuck her sour candies on the way over, enough that when Erna decided to push her around on the swing she'd almost puked. It hadn't been funny at the time, but…

I wish they were here.

Chanson Telle longs to escape the present, but she has little interest in the future. She misses the past: misses her parents, misses the warmth and happiness of her rose-tinged memories. She longs to escape because she longs for a better world; one where she and her sisters are still happy, not bitter and jaded.

Chanson Telle longs to escape, but she can't - and that's the worst part.

Elona Cascade has always been seen as her parents' child.

She is the daughter of a legacy, born to Noir and Nera Cascade of Cascade's Cottages (long may their house prosper). Her parents are wealthy, and therefore revered, though at times Elona must admit she cannot fathom why - because no matter the achievements of her mother and father, they are not worthy of reverence. They are not scions or captains in their field, as she's often heard them praised by the ignorant populace of Two. Elona was born to the Cascades, yes, but their name is her curse more than her pride. Her parents lost their honor long ago - provided they ever had any to begin with.

Still, Elona cannot complain about the sins of her parents, when the demons that now plague her are ones partially of her own design. She should never have gotten mixed up with the Blades - should never have believed the lies that slipped from Sylva's lips when she invited Elona into their ranks, promising her riches and vengeance and meaning in a life long devoid of sense. There's no honor among thieves, and far less among assassins; she can deride her parents as much as she likes for their transgressions (there are far too many skeletons in the Cascades' closet for Elona to deny), but she understands their motivations. She has closure when it comes to their ills. That counts for… something.

(Even if being a Cascade means being bereft of honor, and comes with the implication of beguiling, blackmailing and betraying your own allies, Elona's no stranger to the politicking of the wealthy. The Cascades are tied to their industry, and therefore tied to their ties: business connections, social standing, abundance of income and whatever else Two's elite prize. While her parents may be too perfidious for her liking, she knows they come by it naturally.)

(Elona does not. She was never cut out for the life of a bureaucrat. Neither was Jai, for that matter.)

Our parents should have known better than to make deals with devils, when they realized we would be left to pay the price.

Elona Cascade has always been seen as her parents' child, as the daughter of a legacy, but she has never felt the part. She is a Cascade only in name. And though Noir and Nera would surely take offense to that, the point stands: what have her parents ever done for her benefit, rather than their own?

(Career training, they might say, though that too is a lie. Elona never wanted to be a Career, never wanted to enter the Hunger Games. She trained out of necessity, not choice; Nera wanted her sent to the Academy, and so she was. By the time she was twelve years old she'd already undergone hours of grueling spars and intense drilling under her father's command, her mind hardened and her body honed into a fine-tuned weapon, perfectly engineered to kill. It did not matter that Elona had no love for the Games, did not matter if she loathed the very thought of them. Her parents wanted her to bring them status, and as a child of legacy, she had no other choice.)

In the end, they'd be just as inclined to call her a pawn as they would a daughter; their perfect little victor, born and bred for battle. It's the way of Two, the way of lineage. Like the very stone that most of Two's people work, heritage is etched into its citizens' bones, engraved in their skin and meant to be eternal. Elona Cascade is her parents' child, and their lives have defined the course of her own: she has carried their mistakes for her whole life, from the cold and desolate hallways of Cascade Manor, to the bloodied sparring mats of the Academy, to the lowlit alleys of Two's Gangland.

(Jai carries their mistakes too, and they linger in his aura with the weight of iron shackles, always demanding and always damning. It is their errors that he's been bound to correct, the sins of his forebears that have doomed him to death. And it's not right, it's not fair, Elona would just as soon die as see him suffer, but she has no say in the matter, no say in his fate.)

(He will die unless she wins.)

When her feet carry her from the shroud of Two's crowd onto the reaping stage, Elona does not think of her parents, does not think of the Academy, and does not think of Sylva, whose avarice has dismantled her legacy before Elona herself could even lay claim to it. She takes her place as Two's female tribute and thinks only of Jai: her brother, her companion, and her dearest friend.

Elona Cascade has always seen herself more as Jai's sister than as her parents' daughter. And while she has never cared for legacies, she will never stop caring for him - his life will be her legacy, because her life would be nothing without him.

I'm coming back to you, little brother.

I swear it.

Kallikrates Wolfsbane does not care for violence.

He does not enjoy fighting, does not like destruction, abhors the sight of blood be it his own or others. There is nothing worthwhile in the chaos that violence causes, for the devastation that humans perpetrate has always been senseless and foolhardy. The Hunger Games, in particular, are a testament to that: a sportive competition wrought through bloodshed, in which loss of life is celebrated with such fanfare that it's nauseating. Every year, twenty-four children are sent like lambs to the slaughter on baseless whim, for no purpose but the Capitol's entertainment. They fight, they kill, they die, and through it all there is no point, no gain, no sense.

It's abhorrent. And aberrant.

Just like humanity itself.

We're a blight to the world that would do well to wipe ourselves out. Not that it's likely to happen any time soon. Still, the earth should not have to suffer our taint and our faults; Mother would agree, if she were still here.

Mother…

Kali worries his lip between his teeth as he crosses his arms, and slumps further into the wooden chair (frivolous waste of nature, forcing the wood to serve us by cutting down trees and rending them apart) that he's been left to sit in. Unsurprisingly, the room around him is empty - devoid of the tearful parents and befuddled friends that gathered like a hoard around his District partner, desperate to speak with her before she's sent off to her death. And while he can scarcely begrudge them for it - it's natural to seek closure when faced with change - he can't help but feel a bit resentful, considering his own circumstances. His mother might have been here too, if she weren't taken from him years ago, shot down by a peacekeeper for nothing more than speaking her mind. And his father… oh, his father's been gripped by grief since it happened, so worn down by loss that he's become dissociative. Kali suspects that Agapio doesn't even realize that he's been reaped.

(In an ironic way, Kali supposes that's probably for the best; he wouldn't know what to do with his father's grief or his father's tears if he were to see them now. Since the escort drew his name from that bowl, the only thing that he's been able to focus on is the rage burning in his gut, the slow-growing fire that's scalding the inside of his body as it overtakes his veins. He'd barely managed to hold it in as he made his way up to the stage - had to bite his tongue and the inside of his cheek 'til his mouth was full of blood, which he spit out on the justice building's stairway to express his disgust at what had happened.)

(The only disruption to his anger came in his District partner's handshake - thirteen years old, she must be so scared - and Kali had done his best to offer her a smile and keep his grip light because it was clear she needed it. Anger is not for the innocent, and should never be cast in their direction; it would be like setting fire to a garden, letting flames eat away at fresh-blooming flowers and well-shaped leaves that never did a thing but mind their own business and fill the world with color.)

Still, there's no point in reflecting on any of that now - he needs to save his energy for what's ahead. In less than a week, he's going to be in the Hunger Games, fighting a battle against both humans and nature for his own survival. The former will be easy enough, but the latter is disconcerting - though in the long run, Kali supposes it's just another reason for him to abhor the Capitol, the fiends of Panem's government who have such little care for the earth, even less than they do their own people. They deserve nothing but agony for the harm they've caused.

(Kallikrates Wolfsbane does not care for violence, but the Capitol deserves nothing more than a violent end. Perhaps he cannot bring it to them, but he may wish it all the same.)

Twenty-Four go that year, into an arena of ice and snow.

Twenty-Four are led to the slaughter, told to put on a show.

The Juggernaut of One, who would bow to none, despairing over her lost love.

The Demagogue of Two, with a legacy she rued, yet was desperate to uphold thereof.

The Chessmaster of Three, so ambitious was she, that her pride would be what brought her low.

The Eccedentisiast of Five, empathic and kind, her life in shambles from another's woe.

The Changeling of Eight, upbeat about his fate, but guiding himself to ill-end.

The Stargazer of Nine, oh-so-mellow and benign, who perhaps the others would befriend.

The Sentinel of Eleven, harsh in expression, wishing to uphold the will of the land.

The Hermit of Twelve, who in sorrow did dwell, having known misery few could understand.

Twenty-Four there were, but Eight here are hailed -

Eight taken by the winter. This is their tale.


She doesn't want to be here.

Chanson's positive that's not a surprise - there aren't many kids who actually want to be in the Hunger Games, barring those from One and Two. But the point still stands. It was hard enough just to set foot on that stage during the reaping - hard enough to let go of her sisters when they came to see her in the Justice Building, Hedy with a stern expression and Erna with tears in her eyes, her lower lip quivering as she drew her into a hug. She'd hugged back, of course, trying to keep a smile on her face even though it was nearly impossible with how out-of-sorts she felt. Seeing Erna - tough, gritty, haughty Erna - halfway to a breakdown was surreal. Feeling Hedy clap her on the shoulder and press her head against her chest was even worse, because in some twisted kind of way it just made everything really sink in and Chanson started sobbing. Saying goodbye to her sisters was like losing her parents all over again… the grief, the uncertainty, the fear, the indescribable loss that surged up through her veins and left her feeling empty, so drained of energy it was all she could do to even stand. She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. She just…

Broke.

By the time the Peacekeepers whisked her away to the train, she'd managed to put herself back together a little bit - mostly for the sake of her District partner, whose eyes looked like they might pop loose from his skull they were so wide. Chanson's never liked the sight of fear. Anger's hard and sadness is harder, but there's something about the hopelessness of panic that just makes her feel sick. Anxiety's a terrible thing, one nobody should have to experience. So when the door closed and the train started to roll down the tracks, she put her happy face back on and turned to her fellow tribute, figuring she might as well try and offer him a little comfort before they have to deal with… well, all that Capitol mess. It'll still be a lot to take in, but storms are easier to weather when you're prepared for them.

"Nice to have a moment away from the cameras, isn't it? Easier to relax without so many people around."

She smiles and offers her hand to him. Honestly, she's not the best at initiating conversations - and she probably sounds far too nervous herself to put anyone else at ease - but it's better to try and make nice than not, right? Facing the Capitol with an ally seems a lot safer than facing it alone.

"Um… my name's Chanson. What's yours?"

"Didn't you hear it at the reapings?" Her partner replies, his voice somewhere between sarcastic drawl and genuine confusion, though not without a trace of worry. Chanson nods and keeps her hand extended.

"Yeah, but I'd rather hear it from you. That way we can have a proper first meeting. If you're alright with that, I mean."

The boy eyes her hand for a moment, then begins to size her up. After a moment, his posture becomes a little less guarded, his half-panicked eyes softening a touch. He reaches his own hand up - fingers trembling, she notes - and takes hold of her own, grasp not too tight, not too firm. They shake.

"I'm Valion," he replies. Chanson's smile widens.

"Classic Five," she jokes, and a hint of a smile curls her partner's mouth as she lets go of his hand. Progress!

"Yeah," he agrees. "Know about three others in my class. Chanson's different, though." His brow furrows a bit as if contemplating. "Suits you though, I think."

Chanson keeps smiling, trying not to diminish the rapport she's trying to build. Silence can only stand for so long before it becomes awkward, though.

"So, um… should we go find our mentor?" Valion asks after a few lengthy seconds, and Chanson nods agreeably, her cheeks flushing a little with the return to conversation.

"Yeah! That sounds like a good plan." Maybe she'll even have some advice for us. Hopefully, that is. I can't imagine mentoring for something like the Hunger Games. It has to be difficult.

Chanson follows her partner through the hallway into the main car, the lights so bright in comparison to what she's accustomed to they almost hurt her gaze. She fidgets a little as she steps through the archway into what seems to be a dining area, her fingers toying with the fabric of her shirt as she looks around. There's a lot she's going to have to prepare for - a lot to take in, even just in this moment. But if she keeps her chin up she might be able to do it. Her sisters need her to come home; they've only just been reunited, and she can't let the Games tear them apart again.

She just can't.

The train out of Twelve is as cold as Gwendoline's shack in the winter, each car frozen over with the bitter aura of melancholy. Fiore supposes that it should perturb her, but she doesn't mind; she's had time to grow accustomed to the chill of sadness, especially with the wounds of last year so fresh in her mind. She stays fixed in place on the couch through the first part of the ride, at ease with the disquieting silence that hangs in the air.

Her District partner tries to strike up a conversation once or twice. Fiore says nothing. Eventually his boredom will get the better of him, and off he'll go - either to pester their mentor or shut himself away in his room, it doesn't matter. Fiore will be glad for his departure. She's not the talkative sort - charm and affability are overrated, the trades of cityfolk and Capitolites. As a Seam kid, she came to adulthood knowing that honeyed words wouldn't put food on the table or save you from being trapped by a shaft collapse in the mines. Silver-tongues served the pickpockets in Darktown well enough, but what use did she have for one? Her trade - the Fianders' trade - was survival in solitude.

Loneliness is the way of the world in Twelve, and it's something she knows how to deal with. Fiore's partner can think her rude and abrasive all he likes - it's no skin off her back.

(The Capitol would disagree, she knows. The Capitol will want her to be winsome and pleasant and marketable. They don't want a backwoods Seam girl with a broken legacy, perpetually covered in dirt and coal dust. They want someone to gawk at; a performer that's willing to go along with their whims and play their Games. Fiore's disinterest will only anger them once they have her in their sights.)

...

She should care.

(She doesn't.)

The train continues to chug along, wheels screeching as they glide over rickety tracks toward what Fiore assumes will be her final destination. From somewhere in the space around her she can hear Caesar Flickerman's ostentatious voice launching into yet another brainless commentary as he recaps the day's events. Though it might be prudent to pay attention, Fiore can't be bothered to give her attention to the reapings, nor the man doing his best to make a spectacle of them. Her head aches something awful, and all Flickerman's voice is doing is driving her mad.

(Don't they ever tire of talking? It's so… unnecessary. So pointless, just rambling on and on like that. I hope the whole Capitol doesn't act that way. The last thing I need is more of the silver-spoons' chatter.)

The couch dips beside her as her District partner rises to his feet, and turns to walk toward the table where Haymitch and Effie are gathered. Fiore doesn't make to follow him, nor does she bother to acknowledge his departure with anything beyond a soft hum. Her arms wrap around her torso as she shifts her body to one side, her elbow pressing uncomfortably into the sofa's leather upholstery. She turns her eyes to the window, where a few droplets of rain have fallen across cracked glass, the water sliding down the pane's exterior with excruciating slowness. Fiore reaches a hand up to wipe at her own cheek, entirely without thought.

When her fingers come away wet, she isn't even surprised.

"They're a threat."

Elona raises her head as her District partner nods toward the mounted television, the fog that's been clouding her brain since leaving Two that morning still far too present within her head. She steeples her hands and leans forward, resting her chin atop them before peering at the flashing screen - and the tributes that seem to have captured Dorian's attention.

District One. She can't stop herself from frowning. Of course it's One. And look at them, just as prissy and frigid as they've ever been. Stars, the guy's practically preening. And the girl…

the girl…

Elona licks her lips and starts to swallow - only for her own saliva to catch in her throat. Her arms slip from where she's braced them atop her knees as she pitches forward, coughing so loudly she must seem like she's hacking up a lung. She reaches a hand up, presses it against her throat as her District partner shifts and pulls back, staring at her like she's an exhibit in the Nut's training hall.

Elona raises a hand, choking out a brief "- inhaled, fuck-" before swallowing again, trying to force some moisture back into her dry throat. Her District partner's surprise dissipates into a mocking grin as he laughs, shaking his head at her.

"What's that thing the trainers always say about not choking?"

"Don't -" Another cough. Elona shakes her head, massaging at her neck with calloused fingers. "Don't know. Alwaysstarted to doze off when they got to the lectures. Only ever heard the ones about not respecting authority."

"Hah!"

Elona offers him a rough-hewn smirk as the fit subsides and she (thank fuck, it's about time) regains her senses. Dorian reaches over to nudge her arm playfully, and even though the touch makes her want to flinch away (not the Blades, I'm not with the Blades, he's not dangerous… yet) she keeps herself steady, not wasting a moment before she sharply elbows him back.

"Think you've got something in common with her, then," he continues, and Elona tilts her chin up and turns her eyes. One's still on the screen, but it's only the girl who's in focus now; sharp eyes, grimacing, head held too high (another prideful one… how lovely). Her entire aura pretty much screams Career. Elona rolls her eyes. Dorian's got a point; the haughty ones are always pretty irreverent. She just hopes that Astoria Morel-Omari won't cause too much friction for the rest of them.

"As if," Elona grumbles. The boy's on camera now, more of the flourishing cursive font the Capitol always uses for District One proclaiming him to be Florin Delarue. And that has to be the most annoyingly One name I've ever heard. Wow.

"What, no interest in trying to bond over mutual attitudes with the ice princess? You know we're going to end up allying with them anyway."

"Believe me, I'm more than aware." She rolls her eyes. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

District Six appears next; the Capitol seems to be going by time zone rather than District this time around. Odd, but she's not complaining. She really doesn't care to see her own visage highlighted on that screen, especially when she knows there's probably more emotion than she'd like attached to it. Even the Reaping Ceremony hadn't been enough to keep her mind off Jai - off what might happen to Jai if she mucks this thing up. She never wanted to volunteer, she never wanted to leave, but she had no choice. And she has even less of one now. She needs to win. This isn't about honor or pride or desire or fame for her, it's about security and self-preservation.

The other Careers won't get it. She already knows that. One churns out the same types every year - socialites looking to get themselves ahead by putting their name out there - and Four's kids are usually in it for the money. Dorian's a legacy brat like Elona, which makes him at least mildly easier to connect with, but he's too naive to understand her. Too sheltered. Too brainwashed.

Elona takes a deep breath in. She's here, but she's more alone than she's ever been; no parents, no Jai, no Blades, no Academy looking over her shoulder and calling her on her mistakes. Nobody to keep track of but herself, no skin to save beyond her own.

And Jai's, but the context isn't the same. He's not going into the Hunger Games. She is. So for as much as she wants to worry about him…

She has to focus on herself. There's too much at stake for her to do anything else.

(Her life, Jai's life. All because the Cascades decided to mess around with thugs. All because her parents were too selfish to accept a failure with grace, and chose instead to resort to blackmail.)

Fuck that. And fuck me.

"I'm going to get a drink," Elona says, standing to her feet. She doesn't really want a drink, but being here - around people - thinking about the Games - about volunteering - it's making her sick. She can't stand feeling so hopeless!

"Don't hurry back," her partner jokes, and she snorts.

"Oh, I won't - even pouring out a glass of water beats spending time with you, Giggles."

Dorian thumps a hand against his chest, then mimes the action of brushing away a tear. "You know just how to make a guy feel appreciated, Cascade. Truly, I'm touched."

"Touched in the head, maybe." She snarks back. "Tell me, are you always such an idiot, or do you just show off when I'm around?"

"Don't tell me you don't enjoy it."

Elona gives him a mocking frown. "As sweet as your delusions are, they're hardly doing you any favors. Word of advice, babe, save the teasing for the cameras. You're gonna need the extra sponsors."


Kali Wolfsbane often finds himself feeling disgusted - at the wastefulness of the wealthy in his District, at the fieldhands who shock wheat, husk corn and strip orchards with little to no care for the damage their tools do to the crop, at the merchants in town square who bargain carelessly and damn their resources for the sake of satiating human greed… at the Capitol for being so bloody self-indulgent they make peacekeepers look ascetic…

But he has never felt quite as disgusted as he does now.

Three stylists have been fussing over him for the better part of an hour, their hands tearing at his clothes and mussing his hair and even nicking his flesh hard enough to draw blood as they go about their business. We're making you presentable, one of them said when Kali tried to bat her arm away, her tone so offended that it was actually laughable. The least you could do is show some gratitude.

I'll show some gratitude when you learn some sodding respect for your surroundings, Kali retorted, eying the makeup brush in her hand with a glare nearly strong enough to draw blood. Don't you dare think about putting that shit on me. You kill animals for that, you know. And plants. So much gaudy makeup and yet you wonder why the land around this place looks like it's dying. How blind do you have to be. Bitch.

He'd hoped his words might be enough to drive her from the room; hoped that his logic might actually resonate with her somehow, despite the fact that most Capitolites have their heads so full of air there's no room for rationality. But when has Kali ever been so lucky? All his comments did were make the harpies swarming about him grow more persistent in their efforts to, quote-unquote, "pretty him up." They'd smeared so much junk on his face he can hardly breathe around the stench of it. His jaw feels like wax under the endless layers of concealer and blush, and the outfit they've fitted him in isn't much better. He's not even sure what he's supposed to be, all covered in feathers and paint and…

Don't dwell on it, he reminds himself. Only makes it worse, and you've got to keep yourself together until the Games hit. Dissent of any sort's just going to be taken as rebellion. You'll need to bite your tongue if you want to keep it.

(You'll need to bite your tongue if you don't want to end up like Mom.)

It's not like Kali wants to make a bad impression - rather the opposite, actually. He's just… angry. And he hates it, hates the rage, hates the bitterness, hates the way that he sees the Capitolites waving around their wooden brushes and their jeweled necklaces and their feathered scarves and just wants to kill them, because they're so ignorant, so careless, so covetous that it makes him nauseated. He's so tired of all the excess. More than that, he's sick of the destruction that the Capitol's vapid desires cause. It needs to change, it does.

… but he can't change it alone. No matter how much he wants to…

"Good to see you're being more amenable," the head stylist says as she fixes the gold-and-beige sandals in place on Kali's feet. "No more temper tantrums for the foreseeable future, I hope?"

Kali grits his teeth. Swallows the less congenial response he wants to make, and lets his sheepishness show through instead.

"Sorry," he says, because he probably ought to. "I'm just… I'm passionate about the natural world."

The stylist raises an eyebrow. "Right…"

Kali reaches a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck and she sighs, shaking her head.

"Passion's good. Just make sure to channel it more constructively from now on, okay?"

"I'll take that advice to heart," he assures her, and even if it's not entirely true, it's simple enough to pretend. "Honestly, with the reapings and now this, the stress has just been… a lot to deal with. It's exhausting, you know?"

The stylist does up the final strap on his shoe and pulls back, standing to her feet. She looks him over with a critical eye, then motions for him to turn. Kali does, and isn't surprised to find a set of hands patting down the fabric on his back right after. Everyone here seems to be rather… touchy.

"Seems to be in order. Fits you well enough." The stylist swats his ass briefly and Kali's face flushes. "Follow Marina out the white door over there. And do try to leave a good impression for the audience - I'm up for a promotion next month and I don't need any scandals setting me back from it."

Roewe's still cradling his arm to his chest when Eight's chariot pulls onto the skyway, nursing his stinging fingers with no small amount of tears.

"I told you not to keep bothering the horses," his partner Satine mutters from his side, entirely unamused. "Seriously, why are you like this?"

"Why are you not?" Roewe retorts, only because it's the first thing that springs to mind. The chestnut mare that's been affixed to the front of their chariot was all despondent looking, hanging her head and braying with no real sense of purpose. He thought the sugar cubes would perk her up. And they had, actually, which means Roewe's plan to coax her back to happiness was a resounding success. Just happens that the sacrifice was his fingers, and possibly the side of his palm. Who knew horses could chomp so hard?

"Because I actually have half a brain?" Satine grouses back and Roewe snorts, thinking he should probably be offended by the dig the comment implies.

"Ouch! Low blow, Satan. My head might be rotting faster than a peach in the winter but I like to think I still have most of my braincells left. Well, not that I had more than five to begin with, but still. Details."

Roewe leans forward, resting his arm along the front edge of their chariot and propping his chin up on his hand. His partner's not all bad, really. She's quite nice to look at - maybe not as nice as like, the Four boy, but still cute. And outside of all the harsh rhetoric and half-glares getting tossed his way, she seems pretty smart too.

Smart enough not to ally with him, at least.

That's okay, though; it's like the adults back home always say, there's plenty of yarns for the loom; if you can't spin one, you can just use another. He's got three - four? no, three. no, four… ah, whatever - full days to find an ally, and there's twenty-two people he still hasn't met! Somebody out there's bound to take pity on him eventually…

"Ugh, whatever. All I know is pain." Roewe half-jokes, half-sulks, raising his hand to his mouth and biting down on one of his injured fingers like it'll somehow make them hurt less. Still sugary, he realizes appreciatively, humming to himself. It may be pain, but it's sweet, sweet pain. Yum.

He tilts his chin up to find Satine looking at him disgustedly, and rather than speak up, he just moves his head enough to waggle his fingers at her, his bicep still comfortably in place atop the chariot's rail.

"Please tell me you're waving goodbye," his District partner deadpans. Roewe rolls his eyes.

"Geez, way to make me feel appreciated."

Satine raises an eyebrow. "You do realize that we're on camera, right?"

"So?" Is he supposed to care about that? Camera, no camera, dead, not dead, what difference does it really make?

"So you might want to wipe the drool off your face and stand up straight. In case you actually want sponsors, that is."

Oh. Well. Yeah, that's a thing.

Roewe moves his arm from the chariot's railing, shifting his weight a little as he tries to regain his center of balance. Unfortunately, being unbalanced is sort of more his thing. He's just getting his stance back in order when suddenly the chariot's wheel catches on… something, who even knows what, the ground itself? Anyway, it catches. The chariot whips to the left as their horse begins to whinny, and Roewe tries to fasten his hand in the fabric of Satine's weird mess of a costume, but given that they're basically dressed up as mummies it's not very successful. Her robe starts to unravel. His feet go out from under him and then…

Oh, the stars are really pretty tonight! Roewe muses as he topples backwards out of Eight's chariot. Very picturesque. Where'd the floor go?

There's chaos. Someone shouting, a bit of laughter, Satine's voice snapping "Seriously?" like she's actually surprised about what's happening, even though after two days on the train together she really shouldn't be. Roewe starts to laugh just before his head smacks against hard concrete and the air gets punched right out of him, his chest aching and his back feeling bruised to all heck. He wheezes as the laugh blossoms into a cackle, new tears spilling out of his eyes as he curls in on himself and breaks, shit, holy shit, this is so funny, I can't, I'm dying, ah, ahahah, wow, okay, wow. Woooow.

Not to be overdramatic or nothing, but this is like, totally classic. Oh shit, I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die, ahaha, I can't, why, why am I like this, really, I don't even know anymore, oh Snow, oh fuck, fuck me, I'm dead, I'm dying, ahah…

The hooves of a dozen horses thunder past him. Roewe curls in on himself, his arms wrapped around his torso as he loses himself in hysterics.

Shit, just kill me now. Death, take me now, oh how I crave your sweet embrace, haha, ahaha, oh, fuck me. Why didn't I eat more sugar cubes before I went, I really don't wanna get kicked to death. But the horses, horses are cool. It's a pretty night, isn't it, so twinkly and pretty and - wait, where'd the Pres come from? Why's it all gold? Man, I'm so tired…

The curtains on either side of his eyes start to close, and all Roewe can hear is quiet.


For as much pomp as there is surrounding the Games back home, Astoria hadn't expected her first day in the Capitol to feel quite so mundane.

Oh, sure, there are differences between One and the training center - actively being housed with your competitors, nicer beds, cleaner water, holographic displays every which way you look - but they're minimal, comparatively. There's not much of a line between trainee and tribute when it comes right down to it, other than some mildly raised stakes. She's still got the same weight of expectations hanging over her shoulders that she did in the Academy. She's still expected to do what she's told, be it bowing and scraping to appease her trainers or simply following a set of conduct rules in the walls of the training room. And worst of all, she's still stuck dealing with egocentric pricks and arrogant brats who think they're special just because their family's got money (Two) or a few people happen to find them attractive (Florin).

Not that their highfalutin attitudes are any concern of Astoria's, in the end. They'll all be dead soon. And when you're a corpse, nobody cares what your name is, how pretty you are or how much money you've got. Nobody cares what legacy you are or aren't leaving behind, because you won't be around to guard it.

(Isolde is proof of that. A testament to the notion that the dead have no voice, no personhood. They put her body in a box and sealed her into the ground with no reverence for her life, no respect for her identity. Did they know she left behind two parents, a younger brother, a sickly aunt, a loving girlfriend? Did they know that her murder was a tragedy, one that irrevocably changed the lives of everyone who knew her? Did they realize that the body they had in that coffin wasn't just another dead trainee, but a beautiful spirit so touched by honor and virtue that her loss was as much a loss to One as it was her own kin?)

(Did they understand that her death demanded a debt of blood?)

(No. Of course they didn't.)

Astoria listens as the Head Trainer's voice tapers off into near-silence, and the room around her begins to buzz with the chatter of a dozen voices all speaking in tandem. Though the mass of tributes that have gathered in the center of the room seems reluctant to move at her call for dismissal, the same hesitance apparently doesn't apply to speech. A shame, really, since Astoria's already tired of entertaining small talk. She wastes little time in getting her own wits about her, pushing past her District partner as she dismisses herself from the aforementioned gathering with a scowl and a sharp glare in the direction of the Twos. Allies they may be, but Astoria finds them insufferable.

(Well, the boy, mostly; too upbeat, too jocular for her liking. The girl's a little more serious, a little more intense, but still far too full of bratty snark for her liking. Astoria knows she'll have to put up with their barbed words and jesting jabs for the next few days, but she's not exactly looking forward to it.)

She finds herself at one of the weaponry stations, standing before a rack of carefully maintained swords. Each of the blades that line it are sleek, black and carefully whetted into sharpness. She draws a rapier out from the array of sabres, tests the heft and weight of it in her hand before giving it an experimental swing. The air whooshes around the blade as she cuts through it, enough momentum behind her swing that she's sure she'd have severed a limb were there a tribute standing there instead.

This will do, Astoria thinks, giving a decisive nod. She turns to the trainer and cocks an eyebrow at him, a bit surprised when all he does is motion for her to approach the dummies lined up near the wall.

A sword-jockey who doesn't speak. How refreshing.

The trainers in One are always prattling on about form and stance and how there's no tolerance for mistakes, either in a spar or in the Games. Astoria always grew sick of their lectures, to the point where some days it was all she could do not to beat them silly for critiquing her. Isolde usually kept her from doing anything too bad, but she's always had a bit of a… capricious... temper. Quick to anger and quicker to fight, her peers liked to say. Don't get on her bad side or she'll tear you in half.

She doesn't waste any time after selecting her dummy. The second she's chosen her target she's lunging at it, all fast footwork and quick strikes as she circles the thing, hitting first its legs, then its arm, then its neck. Crippling strike, sever the tendons. Take off one arm and it'll unbalance them. One blow to the back of the neck and even if you don't decapitate them, the results should be lethal.

I've trained for this. I know this.

I can do this.

For Isolde's family. For her honor.

He's been fiddling with this thing for twenty minutes now.

Rhodes admittedly doesn't have much experience with snares, but he's pretty sure they aren't supposed to fall apart the second you let go of the groundpost. He's also pretty sure the little aluminum strings aren't supposed to be quite so… curly… as his currently is. Too much room between the wires and there's almost no chance of catching anything between them - that much he's heard from his dad, back last winter when the rats kept trying to get into the grain barn. So he's done something wrong.

He just can't figure out what.

Ah, no matter, he thinks to himself, making to set his unfinished trap down on the ground next to him. I'll try it again with a new wire, and maybe that'll help me figure it out. No point in getting too stressed about it; this is probably as mellow as it'll be for awhile, and I need to just enjoy it while it lasts.

Before I can't anymore.

He exhales slowly, tears pricking at his eyes. His calloused fingers curl around the snare a little tighter rather than releasing it, and he casts a glance over toward the trainer. Maybe he should ask for some advice. This is training, after all, it wouldn't exactly do any harm to pick up what useful knowledge he can. Except…

Well, he's not really sure how to talk to a trainer. Or anyone else. Not because he's unused to being amicable, but because it all just feels so surreal. He's a tribute. He's going to be competing in the Hunger Games. He has maybe two weeks at best to live. What do you do with that sort of pressure?

"It's actually a bit more effective if you cinch the wires here and then pull them into a loop over the wood."

"Huh?" Rhodes asks, startled from his stupor when the tribute sitting beside him speaks. He hadn't even noticed the guy was still there, his head's so foggy and in the clouds. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Cinch the wires," the other tribute - District Ten, according to the number on his training jacket - repeats, holding up his own half-made trap. He presses his thumb against a loop in the wire mesh and nudges it upwards for Rhodes to examine. "Right here - that's where you went wrong with your first one. Don't mean to impose, but you seemed a little..."

"Out of it?" Rhodes suggests with a slight smile. Ten shakes his head.

"No. Stressed, maybe... it's a look I'm familiar with, at any rate."

They lapse back into silence as Ten turns back to his own snare, seeming content enough to just work in silence. Rhodes eyes the partially-constructed wiretrap in his hands and turns it over, sizing up the wood and the knots of aluminum cord looped around the oaken base. He presses his lips together, humming thoughtfully. Okay, sure... this is the spot where he told me to cinch. So if I redo the mesh here and take this wire through...

There it is! Rhodes almost beams as he turns back to Ten, raising his snare before pulling on the wooden sideposts to display its sturdiness.

"Hey, I got it!"

The Ten boy glances over and nods, a tentative smile curling his own lips.

"Good work," he says approvingly. "A few more and you'll probably be doing them better than me."

"Ah, well… I doubt that..." Rhodes responds, setting his snare aside and running a hand through his hair. "More accustomed to baling hay than I am setting traps. I'm so far out of my element it's sorta funny. Like, might be able to catch a rabbit with this, but it won't be all that useful compared to what some of the others can do. You know, all that weaponry stuff, building a tent, memorizing a hundred different types of plants… can't do it. And while this could come in handy for you, for me it's more... well, I'm not even sure what I'm doing really."

"You don't necessarily have to know," Ten responds, inclining his head a little toward the finished snare that Rhodes set aside. "Don't discount your work so quickly. We're here to learn, and learning is a process. Remember they call it training for a reason."

Rhodes nods. "Yeah... yeah, that's true. Thanks."

He sort of likes the way Ten put that; learning is a process and it's what we're here to do. It's a thoughtful statement, definitely, but more than that, it's a respectful one. That's something he appreciates. The guy seems pretty chill all around - kinda similar to people back home, just minding his own business, giving and taking advice where it's needed. Maybe he'd be open to…

Nah. It's probably too early to think about finding allies.

Unless...

"I'm Rhodes," he states plainly, sticking a hand out to the Ten boy in offering. "District Nine. You?"

Ten glances at his hand, then turns his gaze to Rhodes' face, perhaps trying to analyze the intent behind his gesture. Still, he doesn't wait more than a few seconds before clasping the Nine boy's hand with his own and giving it a sturdy shake.

"Josef, District Ten. I'd say it's good to meet you, but to be honest, the circumstances are putting a bit of a damper on things."

"It's alright," Rhodes quickly assures him. "No offense taken. I… get what you mean, actually."

Josef releases his hand with another nod. "Still, I can say I'm glad to make your acquaintance. No point in brooding."

"That's how I feel, too," Rhodes agrees. "Gotta handle what we can, right?"

"Exactly. One step at a time."

Josef looks down again, refocusing on his own project. Rhodes hums. If he's going to ask, he probably ought to do it now - the timing seems right for it.

"Is there any chance you'd be interested in working together for a bit? Just… you're the closest I've found to a friendly face here, and I could use the company. So I thought maybe…"

Josef's brow furrows slightly, like he's mulling it over. Rhodes bites his lip. It's not like he won't get it if Ten says no - he moved pretty fast, after all. But it would be nice to…

"Sure. How about we train together today? See if we're a good match, and if it works out, we can make plans. Would that work with you?"

It's not really an acceptance. But… it's not a rejection, either. And Rhodes can see where he's coming from with the suggestion - when your survival is on the line, it's good to keep some options open.

"Yeah, that sounds great," he agrees, content with the arrangement. "And while we're at it, any suggestions for what snare I should try next?"

Caissa Keagan is prepared for this.

She's no Career - she hasn't trained for the Games, and didn't volunteer to be here. She's never picked up a weapon in her life. She's not some sort of brutish fighter, she's not physically imposing, she's not even all that memorable in terms of appearance. And even though her mother's name carries a lot of weight in Three, it's not nearly as impressive here - especially not when most of the kids she's surrounded by are half-starved, backwoods mudlarks. But for all her faults, all her lacking qualities when it comes to partaking in bloodsport, there is one thing she possesses in spades - one thing she has going for her that nobody else here does.

She's used to playing Games.

And she's long since rid herself of the moral scruples that so often hold tributes back from victory. Some might call her perfidious and sneer at her for how false she is, accuse her of being manipulative, callous, sociopathic. Caissa doesn't care - she isn't obligated to care. The only thing she's obligated to do under these circumstances is fortify her own position and construct a framework suitable to her victory. Nothing more, nothing less.

She's been riddling the others out since she'd had the chance to observe the reapings. One is divided; the girl's closed off and aloof, the boy's an egotistical preener. The pair from Two seem to work well enough together, but it's evident that their blunt manners, constant joking and rampant sarcasm aren't winning them One's favor. Four is irrelevant. There's enough tension between the others in their pack that Caissa knows the Careers will be inefficient; they'll bicker with each other, and they'll implode. It's as simple as that. As for the outliers, she's catalogued the major threats; the boy from Six, whose eyes have an untamed wildness to them that she's chosen to take as a sign of probable insanity, and the girl from Ten, whose proficiency with a blade suggests a pastime beyond even the usual butchery that her District is known for. The boy from Eleven is a bit of an odder case. He seems genial on first glance; talkative enough, observant enough, but nothing more. On a second glance, however, she can work out the anger in the firm set of his jaw, the tension in his posture as he moves about the room. A little pressure and he's liable to snap.

The others are unnoteworthy. Caissa remains unimpressed by the vast majority of her competition; they're not tough, not trained, not hiding secrets enough to be troublesome. However… a few of them seem malleable enough. Bend them in the right direction, and they'll be under her thumb. All she has to do is win a few of the more acquiescent ones over. But where to start?

Not the Careers - that's obvious. The One girl, especially, is liable to run her through without a second though if Caissa so much as speaks to her. No, it's best that she deals with them later - after the infighting starts, when they're weak and separated, and left at their wits' end. Six is off the table as well. She doesn't want anything to do with someone who seems as loose a cannon as the boy does, and the girl's been babbling to herself in between tying knots. Caissa pegs her as a potential bloodbath.

Seven is an option. The girl's a wallflower, and the boy's shady enough I could see him being an asset. Bit jittery though. I suppose there's Nine… although the boy's found a partner in Ten already, and they don't seem interested in expanding their sights right now. Perhaps…

Five.

Caissa approaches the plant sorting station, where the girl's already busy flitting through a holographic questionnaire about edible berries. The boy stands beside her, perusing the pages of a manual he'd been handed by the trainer a few minutes prior. Both look up on her approach, though say nothing - which is fine, Caissa prefers to do most of the talking, anyhow. She gives them a winning smile and a little wave.

"Hi, there. Mind if I join you?"

The boy's mouth opens briefly, although he doesn't respond. The girl's cheeks redden as if flustered, but she shifts to the side to make more room for Caissa at the holo-board beside her, her own smile surfacing after a couple extra seconds.

"Not at all! There's plenty of room." She says, and Caissa pretends to brighten.

"Thank you so much! My name's Caissa, by the way."

It's the boy who speaks this time.

"Valion. And this is Chanson." He nods to his District partner. Chanson smiles sweetly.

"Nice to meet some other urbanites here," Caissa replies playfully. "I'm guessing the pair of you don't know much about foraging, either."

"Unfortunately." Chanson muses, her eyebrows knitting into a mildly-frustrated line. "They don't teach us much about nature in school, back home. Just the geography bits, mostly."

"I hear you," Caissa 'empathizes.' "Still… maybe we can help each other out some? It can't be all that hard, right? Especially with three heads instead of one."

"Really?" Valion asks, almost as if he can't believe that Caissa would want to work with them. Chanson says nothing, although her eyes widen a little, and her blush deepens. Caissa shifts a little, doing her best to seem winsome, if somewhat hesitant.

These two are perfect. She can't come on too strong, or she might drive them away.

"Well… if that's alright with you." She feigns a slight tremor in her smile. "I understand if you aren't looking for more allies. I just thought…"

"No, no, of course you're welcome!" Chanson jumps in, reaching out a little bit as if wanting to comfort her before withdrawing her arm, clearly concerned about overstepping. "We didn't mean to imply otherwise… I'm sorry if we did."

"No, it's my fault. I can come on a bit strong." Caissa laughs. "But if you'll have me, I'd be glad to work with you." Make it seem like it's their choice. They'll trust you more if you act nervous.

"We'd be happy to have you, Caissa. Honest."

The Fives each smile in turn, and Caissa grins right back. They aren't exactly ideal allies, but they'll do for now.

(Checkmate.)

For all the worries that Chanson has about the Games, she's glad that solitude is one that no longer has any relevance to her.

Or not much relevance, at least; of course there's the chance that she'll lose her allies in the arena, or that something will happen between them to cause friction, as much as she'd like to believe otherwise. Friendships don't have much place in the Hunger Games and camaraderie… well, it doesn't last forever. But for the time being, at least, she can pretend differently to put herself at ease - she has allies. Two older, more experienced, and perfectly winsome allies, who Chanson's quite glad to be working with. And on top of that, the three of them make a good team. Caissa's smart as a whip, and Valion's got a pretty decent knack for the survival stuff they've been studying.

With the pair of them at her side through all this, it's enough to make her feel almost… not safe, the Games are never safe, but… more at ease. Less unsettled. Valion and Caissa could never come close to replacing her sisters, but for the moment they're a solid substitute. If nothing else, she feels a bit more resolute having them with her. Not enough to believe she's actually got a shot at winning - there's never been a victor under fourteen - but enough to think that maybe, just maybe, her odds are a little less terrible.

Maybe that's enough, Chanson tells herself. Can't really ask for more. I knew when they pulled my name that I wasn't gonna be coming back… even though Erna tried to say different.

(She'd wanted to believe her sister when she told Chanson if anyone can do it, you can do it. You're smart and you're kind and far braver than you know, Chan. So do everything you can and make or back to us, okay? Hedy didn't fight for us just to lose you to the tifs anyhow.)

(You can do this. You can win. You'll just have to make sure you fight instead of holding back.)

Chanson sighs. She looks down at the pieces of flint held in either of her hands, the skin of her palm chafed from how much force she's been trying to put into striking the rocks together. Maybe she can win if she puts her mind to it, but fighting… that's something entirely different. She's not a fighter, never has been. Erna knew that. Hedy knew that. And she's willing to bet that Valion and Caissa know it, too. Two and a half days of puttering around in the training centre and she hasn't so much as gone near a weapon. She can't bring herself to. The kids here… most of them don't deserve to be here, and the ones that volunteered probably don't even know what they're getting into, really. None of them deserve to die, that's for sure. And the thought that they'll have to for her to win… or that she'll have to, for them to… the thought of killing, senselessly killing…

She feels sick.

"Hey… you doing okay?" A voice asks, and Chanson quickly swallows down the bile in her throat, blinking a couple times to clear the bleariness from her eyes. Caissa's looking at her, smiling faintly enough to seem comforting, even though she's got to be overwhelmed too. How could she not be? Chanson sets down the two flint pieces, bites her lip. She swallows again. Her mouth is dry. Her stomach's all tied up in knots. She's a bit nauseous.

"I'm nervous," she admits. "What are we supposed to do here, really? Training… it's not going to help. The Games… I just… we'll never be ready, you know? No matter how many plants I memorize or knots I tie or fires I start, at the end of the day I still don't know what I'm doing… and I don't mean to seem ungrateful for the time, or like I'm complaining, but I just - I don't - it's not fair."

Caissa's brow furrows. She frowns sympathetically at the younger girl, reaching a hand out to her. Chanson doesn't shrug it off when she rests it on her shoulder, just pulls in on herself even further, her own arm reaching upwards as she brushes tears from her eyes with the side of her hand.

"I just… I want to go home," she says to Caissa. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," her ally replies, rubbing gently at her shoulder as Chanson hunches forward and bows her head, trying to hold it together even though she wants so desperately to fall apart. "You're right. The reapings aren't fair, and kids like us… the ones with no choice? Shouldn't even be here in the first place." Caissa pauses, her voice dropping an octave. "But we are. And even though it's hard, there are ways of dealing with it. Learning new things. Meeting new people. Trying delicious food and sleeping in a real bed, fluffy pillows and all. Take advantage of the Capitol while you can, Chanson. It's the best way to keep your mind off the tough stuff."

"But in two days -"

"In two days, a number of us will be dead. Not 'might be,' will be. Isn't it better to make the most of the time we have, before we can't?"

Caissa smiles, and pats Chanson on the back.

"Anyway, once we're in the Games, we're in there together. We'll have each other. And that makes our odds a hell of a lot better, don't you think?"

"Yeah…" Chanson whispers. She's not sure what she thinks. "Yeah, I do."

Elona's not sure exactly how she came to be training with Astoria Morel-Omari.

The One girl's been standoffish to practically everyone in their alliance. She doesn't talk to the other Careers, doesn't sit with them at lunch, won't spar with them even when she's asked. Elona's not entirely sure what to make of it. She's not… arrogant, really, and she's not conceited or snobbish the way her District partner is. She's just aloof. Stoic. Brooding, even, although Elona's certain saying as much aloud wouldn't go over well. Astoria doesn't seem like the type who takes kindly to remarks about her temperament.

Elona gets it. She's never liked having people call her on her attitude either, much less people she only knows on a superficial level. It's one of the reasons she had such a hard time back at the Academy. Oh, sure, she listened to her trainers when they spoke, cycled through a training regiment the way she was supposed to, but she'd never been good at taking advice, especially where image was concerned. Her mother's lectures and daily sermons about respecting the family name and fighting for the honor of your District was always too patriotic for her liking, not to mention patronizing. Elona may have been a Cascade, and she may have been a Career, but she was also an individual. She chose to behave in a manner that best suited her moods. She doesn't think anyone should be able to fault her for that.

Astoria's pretty similar in that regard, if not in others; she cares more about autonomy than she does conformity. She doesn't apologize for being abrasive or snappish when she is, doesn't bother trying to smooth down the rough edges of her personality for the sake of sparing others' feelings. Even though she's almost robotic in how she treats people - one-worded answers, surly scowls and crossed arms - she's got this silent sense of self-assurance that shines through in everything she does. It's almost admirable.

Elona continues to batter away at a training dummy with her set of throwing stars, letting the practiced motions of every raised arm and wrist flick pull the tension out of her body. Beside her, Astoria's been tossing knives at a target dummy, each one of them striking the black leather of the model with surprising efficiency. There's two knives sticking out of the thing's neck, one where its heart would be, and a couple more down in the area she figures is meant to be its groin. Every blade is wedged deep in the fabric, nearly to the hilt. No glancing blows, no simple tosses. Every single knife makes a meaningful hit when it leaves Astoria's hand, and it's impressive enough to make Elona's heart skip a beat.

"Damn. You've actually got some skill," she says before she can stop herself. Astoria turns to her and lifts one eyebrow, then looks back to the dummy without saying a word. The only sound to leave her mouth is a single, possibly amused hmph as she returns to her previous task of ignoring Elona altogether. Elona rolls her eyes.

"You aren't very good with people, are you?"

"No." Astoria responds gruffly, tossing another one of her knives. This one sinks deep into the dummy's head.

Thunk.

"Well, well. Was that an actual word? Give yourself a pat on the back, Ice Queen."

Elona draws another star out from the pouch clipped onto her uniform, raising her arm and bending it back. Keep the motion in the hand, she reminds herself as she snaps her hand to the side and lets the weapon fly. It sails through the air and embeds itself in her own dummy's shoulder. Not a lethal wound, but the best hit for a disarm. Sever the tendons in the upper arm and it's a lot more difficult to hold onto a weapon.

"Mind your own business." Astoria grumbles.

"Wow, now we're up to four. Is that a record?" Elona quips back, not sure if she's trying to goad the One girl into a reaction or just banter enough to fill the awkwardness of the silence. Maybe a bit of both.

"So, District One…" she muses as she draws another blade - the last one remaining in her satchel. "Luxury goods. You must be right at home in the Capitol."

Astoria scoffs. "Hardly."

Another knife finds its way into her hand, and she tosses it away carelessly. It doesn't hit the mark at all - actually, the blade bounces right off the hilt of another knife and clatters uselessly to the floor, leaving Elona to blink at it in surprise. She raises her head again, this time to find Astoria looking directly at her.

The Two girl smirks.

"Trying to keep me guessing?"

"Like it's hard." Astoria snarks back, turning away and walking over toward the wall to retrieve her daggers.

Interesting.

Astoria's not all that different from most of the trainees she knows back home - strong, efficient, more vicious than is immediately apparent. She's the sort of Career who prefers violence to reason, the type that's just a little too good with a weapon and a little too comfortable with killing to not already have firsthand experience. But while the kids in Two are usually arrogant hotheads, addicts, and gangbangers, Astoria's something altogether different. For a moment, when she was looking at Elona, there was this… thing in her eyes that felt just a bit too familiar for Elona's comfort. Something sad and miserable and almost desperate, like what she sees in the mirror when she looks at herself and thinks of Jai, contemplating family and avarice and assassination attempts. Astoria's grieving, in a way that only the lost seem able to do.

"Why are you here?" Elona asks, not because she thinks Astoria will tell her, but because she needs to hear her voice. She wants to see if there's grief there. She can't say why, but…

"Why are you?" Astoria snaps back, just a little too angry to be angry. She's like a dog with her foot stuck in a trap; got a vicious bark, keeps snapping her jaws, but it's not because she's dangerous. It's a defense mechanism.

"I think you know." Elona answers, and leaves it at that. Astoria's motives don't change anything - she still has to win - but they do make the Games seem all the more real. Elona knew she'd be facing legitimate threats in her allies when the pack split, but now she knows where the danger is.

Desperate people will do anything to put themselves ahead.

Fiore Fiander is used to waiting.

She has never minded it, unlike most her age, unlike most she knows. It was the most obvious difference between her and her brothers, when they had still lived: her tendencies toward caution and her ability to be patient even when the situation was overwhelmingly intense. She was never fussy, never restless.

(Sometimes she wishes she had been, but that's neither here nor there. Her family is dead. The entirety of the remaining Fianders, swept away in a flurry of ice and snow. And she'll be next, she will. Fiore knows it, Twelve knows it. Not one of their kids has won since Haymitch Abernathy, eighteen years back. Not one of their kids has even come close. What she'll be facing in two days is a death sentence, no matter how she might try to frame it.)

"Fiore Fiander, District Twelve."

The Gamemaker's voice booms through the room from the speakers overhead, and Fiore rises from the bench. There's a peacekeeper posted beside the door, and as she stands, he steps forward to pull it open, revealing a dismal looking training room, not unlike the one she'd wasted three days away in. Her feet begin to move forward as she walks toward the peacekeeper, toward the open door beside him. She crosses the threshold into the Gamemakers' examination chamber before she even realizes, and the door clicks into place behind her. She takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly.

At times, the best thing we can do is face our ends with dignity, her father's voice whispers from somewhere beyond her reach. Stand tall, Fiore. A mountain can only be toppled when it loses its foundation; you are much the same.

Fiore begins to walk. The walls of the training room around her are too cold, too imposing; the floor beneath her feet seems to shift when she looks at it, seeming unfamiliar and out of place. She takes another breath in as she reaches center-room, raising her head to examine the Gamemakers tucked away inside their glass box. Only one of the group is looking at her; only one of the group even seems to realize she exists.

"You may begin," he tells her, and Fiore says nothing. She turns to survey her surroundings, and after a moment makes her way over toward the climbing net. Scaling trees may have been the first thing she ever learned how to do in the wilderness; she'd spend hours perched between the branches of the giant oak behind the Fianders' shack when she was a child, knees tucked to her chest as she watched the clouds go by. Her brothers could never climb as high as she could, and so the treetops became her domain, her sanctuary. No talking. No people. No society.

Things back then were far simpler than they are now.

She braces one hand on the rock of the wall, a few crudely carved holds lining the face that leads up to the overhead mesh she's spent most of training perched in. It's easy work - judging the distance between the divots, figuring out where to put her hands, how to move her feet before she has to. Doesn't take long before Fiore's off the ground entirely - closer to the ceiling than she is the floor. She turns her head again to examine her audience, and cannot even pretend to be surprised when she sees that they are all gone from her, talking amongst themselves as they eat and scribble things onto papers.

Just another Twelve girl, Fiore reminds herself, destined to die and destined to fall. And truth be told, I'll be glad when I do.

She doesn't keep pushing herself, deciding it's best not to waste her energy on trying to summit the ceiling nets. Instead she lets go of her handholds and lets her body drop, sliding down the wall toward the ground, only reaching out an arm to slow her descent once her feet are nearly back on the floor. She doesn't stumble, doesn't injure herself. She gets back down and lets her focus rest on the door, rather than the Gamemakers.

It would be so easy to simply leave now, leave the rest of her time for the chatter and the treats that the Gamemakers are so enamored with instead of using it for herself. She could walk away before she is dismissed, never to return…

Fiore closes her eyes and turns away. She can busy herself for ten minutes.

A glint of metal catches her eye from a weapons display mounted by the training mats. Why, she cannot say, though when her gaze falls on the steel pickaxe glinting beneath the fluorescent lights, it's draw becomes apparent. Her father had a pick just like that; they kept it on a shelf over the hearth, cherished it as they cherished everything in their home. The pick had belonged to his father, Fiore knew, and his father's father before him. It was a miner's legacy, the only heirloom worth passing down because it was a tool of the trade, and therefore, wealth itself.

The pick is buried now, in the rotted ruins of an old seam cabin, beneath wooden beams and clinging vines, layers of snow and coal dust. She'll never see it again. She'll never see him again.

She's not going home.

She has no home.

The pickaxe fades into the periphery. On a small table, there lies an array of knives: those of hunters, those of fishers, those of killers, too. Fiore approaches it without trepidation, some type of somber tranquility settling into her bones. She will not survive the Games. She has survived too long already.

Her life means nothing to a Capitolite. Her death means nothing to Panem.

She is dirt and dust already. Made of bones that break and blood that spills, flesh that splits more easily than wood.

Fiore grabs one of the blades and brings it to her wrist.

She would much prefer eternal slumber to the cacophony of life's chaos.

Let me rest.

Dear Death, let me rest.


"So, training. Not too bad, overall. Solid four out of five stars for a program rating. Although I could definitely do without the pain. And the Careers. And all of the sharp pointy objects that kept being hurled at me. There was even a shoe one time, I think. But hey, like, free lunches, yanno?" Roewe asks as he emerges from the darkness of his assigned bedroom, striding over toward the semi-familiar figures of Woof and Lavinia, both of whom are sitting in front of a near-silent television. He doesn't waste a moment before tossing his exhausted body down on the couch, sighing as he buries his face in the plush purple fabric beneath his head.

Please just let me off myself already. I'm okay with suffocation by velvet.

There's not a trace of calm remaining in him after the conclusion of the private sessions, but it is what it is (and by that I mean, it's shit.) Despite his constant attempts to charm the competition with his stunningly awful sense of humor, he's leaving the Capitol with no allies, no skills, and about five more injuries than he had when he arrived - the dislocation from the horse accident notwithstanding. And for as miserable as all of that shit was, training in front of the Gamemakers was abysmal. He'd nearly self-immolated trying to start a fire, and practically got crushed by the weapons display when it fell over in front of him. And people think I'm lying when I say I'm cursed? Hah. Ahaha. Yeah, sure.

(He can't exactly pretend to be surprised at how awful his luck has been over the past week; today's mishap was just more icing on the cake. Along with yesterday's, and the day before that, and… okay, every day, really, but hey. He's trying, right?)

Oh, well. He can't complain too much, given he's literally in the Capitol, surrounded by fancy art and fancy tech and all sorts of goodies he'd never have gotten back home. He'll take this over Eight any day. Especially tonight. Another overly decadent meal, a couple hours watching Flickerman call off scores from the telly, and a nice long sleep on a soft mattress under a holographic ceiling? Yeah, sign me right up.

Honestly, the only thing left to put a damper on his mood is Satan, but she's been surprisingly quiet since watching him tumble off of their chariot during the tributes' parade. He's not entirely sure why, although he vaguely remembers her saying something along the lines of why should I waste time trying to mock you when you're so good at making a mockery of yourself? And, okay, he was a little miffed about it at the time (Like first off? Rude. Second off? Rude!) but if Satine thinking he's foolhardy means he doesn't have to deal with her then it's worth it. Besides, Roewe's gotten pretty desensitized to having people shit on him. Not literally mind you, that's nasty, but… figuratively. A lot of people talk a lot of crap. It's just not worth getting mad over. Not anymore.

(Not before the Hunger Games.)

He's got plenty of time to contemplate his pain and suffering in the arena. Tonight's a night for celebration! Why ruin it by moping?

"So, how'd it go?" Woof asks, and Roewe's head snaps up at the sudden attention from his mentor. He laughs a little and gives the guy a thumbs up, sticking his arm out over the edge of the sofa to give the action a little more pizazz.

"I didn't get killed, so I guess I killed it! Score one for the walking abomination."

Woof gives him a polite smile that Roewe is definitely not gonna read into because he's probably just humoring me and seriously why do I just suck with people? and turns his attention to Satine, mere moments before she takes a seat in the vacant chair beside him.

"Hi," Roewe says, because it's just ingrained in him to greet people when they approach him, no matter how miserable they may or may not be. "Enjoying yourself on this fine evening? Lots of extra time for contemplating murder, am I right or am I right?"

Satine glowers at him and crosses her arms over her chest. The expression on her face is so sour she looks as if she's just swallowed a lemon.

Much bitter, many ow, he thinks bemusedly. Classic Satan.

"What do you think you got?" He asks her, because it's the first thing that pops into his head that doesn't sound like gibberish. Satine narrows her eyes, giving Roewe a pointed look.

"What's it to you? All you need to know is that it definitely beats your one."

"Oh, please, I doubt the Gamemakers will give me a one," Roewe jokes in response. "It's a zero or bust."

Almost as soon as the words leave his lips, the television screen flares to life in front of them, a set of curtains parting on the announcer's stage to reveal one Caesar Flickerman in all his purple-suited purple-haired glory. Lavinia snatches up the controller from the stool next to her and starts hammering away at the volume button with her thumb.

"- I've just received word that the Gamemakers have finished tallying this year's training scores. As usual, we'll be starting out with everyone's favorite - the glittering gem of Panem itself, District One!"

There's applause. Too much applause, in Roewe's opinion. But hey, he's supposed to hate District One on principle, right? Right. Fuck them.

"Astoria Morel-Omari… with a score of ten."

The One girl's face passes over the screen, a spinning, golden number right beneath it. Roewe thinks he probably should be concerned about her score, but the only thing he can really focus on are her eyebrows, to be honest. They just seem… weirdly shaped. It's sorta distracting.

Distracting enough that he actually startles when her face is replaced by that of her partner. Roewe blinks and reaches up to rub at his eyes. Focus, right. I can do that.

"Florin Delarue, with a score of eight."

"Keep away from One," Woof says, like they don't already know that. "The girl, especially. She's bad news."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Roewe replies, as the Two girl's face pops up, along with a bouncing golden 10, matching that of the girl from One.

The rest of the scores pass quickly. Matching fives for the Threes, an eight and a nine for the girl and boy from Four, respectively, two fives for District Five, a whopping nine for the Six boy, an underwhelming three for the Seven girl, and…

"For District Eight, we have Satine Callahan with a score of seven!"

"What the fuck did you do to get a seven?" Roewe asks, actually shook. "Bake the Gamemakers cookies?"

"Do I look like someone who bakes cookies?"

"... yes."

Satan shoots him a glare. Roewe plays with a little undone thread at the edge of the couch cushion, returning to silence.

"Roewe Bedford with a score of two."

"Hey, look at that! They gave me participation points."

"Riiiight. Just go ahead and believe that."

He beams. "Thanks, Satan, I think I will."

Roewe folds one arm up and rests it beneath his head, perfectly content to just vibe for the time being. Even the withering glare Satine gives him isn't enough to shake his mood. Maybe a two shouldn't be a call for newfound confidence, but it's better than he was expecting! And Roewe's definitely not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"A five for you, and a five for both of your allies. Interesting." Caissa's mentor, Beetee, says from where he's perched on the edge of an armchair a solid distance from the television. He's got his hands steepled, index fingers resting against his chin as he gives her a once over, almost like he's sizing her up.

Caissa's not going to lie and say the scrutiny's not disquieting. Because the truth of the matter is it unnerves her; quite a lot, to be honest. While the other tributes are the human equivalent of sheep, so easily tricked and perfectly manipulable, there's a large difference between the flock of youthful contestants she'll be in the Games with and the seasoned veteran that she's engaging with now. Beetee Latier is intelligent; more intelligent than Caissa, no doubt. He's a Victor, after all.

She shouldn't be surprised that he sees right through her act.

She shouldn't be surprised that her mentor can tell she's not the rabbit she's pretending to be.

She is, anyhow.

Even after fifteen years, Caissa's family remains perfectly ignorant to her true nature - her slyness, her cunning, and all the venom that comes with it. They thought her a principled and dignified child, always striving to better herself through her endless array of hobbies and her capacious social network. To her mother, she was the perfect daughter; an adept socialite with a knack for asking the right questions at the right time, but too fawning and too sweet to really accumulate power the way her parents had. To her brother, she's simply Caissa, the older sister who lectures him when he does something stupid and offers him a shoulder to cry on when he's upset with their parents or his friends.

(Her own friends are ignorant, too. Ask any one of Caissa's peers and they're likely to say she's friendly; sagacious, but not egotistical, and gregarious without being overbearing. They come to her seeking advice, tell her their problems, rely on her to console them, all the while blind to the fact that she's weaponizing their secrets, only keeping up a mask of false concern in order to win their allegiance and trust.)

Beetee's different. Caissa can see the amusement on his face as he watches her, no longer than a few moments, before turning back to the television with a knowing glint in his eye. Her District partner, Cable, remains painfully oblivious to the exchange, practically bouncing up and down in his seat as he waits for the other scores to be announced. Caissa can't help but scoff at his eagerness - mentally of course, she wouldn't dare do it aloud. So jittery it'll be a wonder if he doesn't blow himself up the second we're launched into that arena. Though that's not any concern for me - the less competition I have overall, the better off my chance of making it home.

My focus must remain on securing a victory.

At any cost.

Caissa blinks and returns her attention to the television, where Flickerman's moving onto -

"- District Eleven, we have Dahlia Castille with a score of three!"

About what I'd expect from an unskilled thirteen year old. The younger ones always die first. Although hopefully I'll be able to get some good use out of Chanson before she goes…

"- Kallikrates Wolfsbane, with a score of seven!"

Caissa's interest piques. A seven? Well, well… perhaps Eleven will put up a fight this year after all. The boy's a moderate threat; tack his name on the avoid list for the time being. I should've kept a closer watch on him in training.

"And last, but certainly not least… from District Twelve, we have Everett Blackwell with a score of five…"

First impression was that he's irrelevant. Hasn't changed. I'm predicting sixteenth, at best.

"... and Fiore Fiander with a score of…"

Flickerman's brow tightens. But he doesn't seem particularly disgruntled, just… surprised, even for the slight lilt of his mouth and wrinkled forehead. Caissa waits for him to finish, grazing her teeth along her lower lip.

"Zero."

What?

Caissa doesn't move; oh, she certainly thinks about it, nearly sprang forward in her seat at the announcement, though more out of sheer bewilderment than anything else. But that would be an overreaction. District Twelve's well known for turning out the worst of the lot every year, and despite the strangeness of Fiore's score, it looks like they're just keeping with tradition. Still, she's curious…

"Has anyone scored a zero before?" She asks Beetee, eyebrow raised.

Beetee hums, observing the screen thoughtfully as the girl from Twelve fades out of view.

"Suicide," he says simply. Caissa frowns.

"You're saying she killed herself? But isn't that -"

"- against the rules? Oh, yes, it very much is. That's the reason they build that forcefield around the training center, to stop the jumpers after the twenty-eighth. That's why they station peacekeepers in with the trainers, down in the training room. But they must have overlooked regulations for the private sessions… a flaw in an otherwise well-oiled system."

"You think she's dead," Caissa says, but she knows as soon as the words pass her lips that they aren't true. After all, why would the Gamemakers bother with giving Twelve a score if she'd already put herself out of the running?

"Oh, no, Caissa. I think Miss Fiander is alive. Very much alive."

"Hence the zero," Cable pipes up after Beetee quiets. It seems he's been paying attention after all.

"It's a punishment," Caissa agrees. "They didn't figure anyone would be audacious enough to put an end to things right in front of the Gamemakers - but she did. And she's embarrassed them."

"Exactly so," Beetee says warmly. Caissa glances back up to the television, but Flickerman's speech is winding down now, and after the score reveal, he's made no other mention of the girl from Twelve. Caissa's unfazed. Keeping it quiet is the best way to avoid a stir. The gritty details are for the afterparties.

Still…

I wonder if there's a way I could turn Twelve's failure in my favor, come the start of the Games. She'll have made the Gamemakers angry; is it possible that I can benefit where she's suffered?


Astoria does not consider herself beautiful.

Not by One's standards, anyhow. Her district's always been inclined to favor those with a lighter complexion and a sunnier disposition than her own. The archetype of Career girls back home is always the same: blonde-haired, blue-eyed and confident to a fault. They could be flirtatious, bubbly, arrogant or snooty, but the other three attributes tended to be consistent regardless, yet another reason why Astoria seemed to be branded an outsider by her own trainers and Academy peers. She's not blonde, not pale, not a trained killer hiding in the body of a delicate princess. She's broader, taller, even brutish by most of One's standards - though she supposes she can chalk part of that up to her stoic (and often hostile) demeanor.

And she's not confident, either. Not like she's meant to be. Not like she ought to be.

She knows other people wouldn't expect her to be insecure, what with her stiff glares, her frigid attitude and the haughty way that she carries herself. Certainly most of the people that knew Astoria back home would balk if she ever admitted the true depths of her insecurity - the potency of her worries, the immense disdain she has for her own faults. She's never been one to show weakness to others, much less weaknesses of spirit. It's not in her nature to be soft or demure or - Capitol forbid - vulnerable. Isolde was the soft one, ever upbeat and gregarious and compassionate toward those she thought needed it. She was radiant, glowing, luminescent in every sense of the word. The brightness she exuded was so immense that it was captivating.

(Isolde would've fit right in here, amidst the glamour of the Capitol. She would've walked out on that stage and sat down across from Caesar Flickerman and won over the entirety of Panem with no more than a couple words and a little, secretive smile, charming even in its subtlety. She would've volunteered and she would've won, dazzling One and the Careers and the Capitol with her aura alone, and she would've gone home to cheers and laughter and weeks of celebration and dammit, Astoria would have loved her, just as she always has. Isolde should be here. This was her Games to win, her life to live! She should be here, and she should be with me!)

Damn them. Damn them all.

She watches in the mirror as her stylist weaves her hair with diamonds, the precious stones glimmering from amidst onyx strands like stars in the night sky. Astoria reaches a hand up to touch the silver choker around her neck, trailing fingers over the crystal pendant that hangs from it - incandescent and glossy. She feels ridiculous in this get-up, the white makeup and the glittery dress and the abundance of gemstones that accompany it, but Isolde would've been beautiful. She would have shined.

"And there we are. Just one more little touch and…"

Her stylist settles a silver circlet on her head, fitting it beneath her dark hair and around the front of her forehead like one might a crown, although this one has no flashiness to it, no elaborate points or jewels or anything at all. Yet it looks regal nonetheless, peeking out from beneath raven tresses and a diamond halo, and Astoria can't help but let out a tiny, near-timorous sob when she sees it.

She shouldn't be here.

If anyone has to be the dead one, it should be Astoria. Not Isolde. Never Isolde.

"It's lovely," Astoria tells her stylist, because it is. She doesn't look like a brute or a monster in these soft clothes, doesn't look like the murderer that she knows she is beneath them, sent to the Games as punishment for her wickedness.

She looks ethereal.

(You're the moon to my sun, Isolde had told Astoria once. Serious, intense. Definitely broody, but never cruel. Punishing, perhaps, and a bit loose in your morals, but not cruel. Just vigilant. Protective.)

Isn't it ironic, Astoria says to herself, that the only thing I ever wanted to protect is the one thing I couldn't.

She stands from her chair before her stylist can usher her to her feet. She'd rather be anywhere else than here - rather be anyone else but herself - but she's got an interview to push through, and a Hunger Games to conquer.

Isolde is gone.

Astoria's not.

Kali Wolfsbane likes to think that he's fairly charismatic.

Fairly being the key word. He's not always the most likable of people, but he's usually good at making small talk, engaging people in conversation, even setting then at ease when the situation calls for it. Sure, he can be a little too defensive, a little too irreverent for peoples' liking at times, but for the most part, Kali's usually been described as more charming than not. It's a trait he got from his mother, the ability to command attention with his voice when it's needed, the talent to project enough warmth into his tone to endear people to him even when his words are polarizing. His affinity for speech was something he came to rely on after his mother's passing - the greatest weapon Kali held in his arsenal, the very thing that he'd used to rally people to her cause when she no longer could. He's relied on it to carry him through moments of discord more than he's keen to admit.

He's going to be relying on it tonight, too. For better or for worse.

Kali's not subtle, mutable or acquiescent like most of the other outlier tributes; he's not bombastic or thespian like the fan-favorite Careers are. On the Capitol stage, he's likely to appear as opinionated as he is gregarious, and as irreverent as he is idealistic. And while he could probably win over some sponsors by tailoring his responses to Flickerman's questions in order to reflect a pro-Capitol stance… the fact of the matter is that playing along isn't likely to help his image all that much in the long run. He's got her name, he's got her features… he's got her beliefs and ideals, too. Even if he wanted to play sycophant (and he doesn't, not at all) his mother's reputation is going to hang like a banner across his shoulders. Activist. Dissident. Rebel.

Kali can't change her legacy.

He doesn't want to tarnish it, either.

Ideally, he wouldn't have to. But then again, ideally he wouldn't be here to begin with - stood up like a prop before the Capitol he detests, just a few scant hours away from certain death. Kali doesn't want to die - he doesn't want to hurt, doesn't want to suffer… doesn't want to kill, even though he knows he'll have to when push comes to shove. He's a tribute. Whatever he was beforehand isn't going to change that.

He's a tribute now. Not Octavia Wolfsbane's son. Not her successor. Not anything beyond a kid desperate to survive. Which is why as his District partner exits the stage to faint applause, her shiny gold dress ruffling as a slight breeze blows across the stage, Kali gives her a warm smile and claps her shoulder, only one thought prevalent within his mind.

I want to live.

He walks up onto the stage to little fanfare, as is typical for most tributes from Eleven. When he sits across from Flickerman, he gives the man a wide smile and extends his hand for a shake, not daunted in the least by the rowdy atmosphere or the large audience he's facing. Caesar accepts his handshake eagerly and Kali takes the opportunity to clap him on the shoulder as well, waiting for Caesar to give a cursory introduction before he speaks.

"If it isn't Kallikrates Wolfsbane, from District Eleven! How are you this evening?"

"Honestly, Caesar, I haven't felt this good in ages. Although I'm sure part of that's the food," Kali jokes, trying to keep his muscles loose and his smile strong.

"Well I don't think any of us can dispute that. That cherry almond cake backstage was just scrumptious!"

"To die for, some might say," Kali replies, not bothering to backtrack on his comment - a little gallows humor really shouldn't go amiss here. "Think I could smuggle some into the arena?"

Flickerman makes an exaggerated expression, complete with furrowed eyebrows, to make it seem as if he's debating the pros and cons of the idea. "I'm not sure it would keep. A shame, for sure."

"Ah, well… I suppose I'll just have to try my luck with the sponsors."

"From what I've seen, I'd say you don't have too much to worry about."

Flickerman chuckles, and Kali follows suit, tamping down his unease with another reminder of needing to impress patrons more than be himself. He can't afford to get too serious here. Casual levity is the best option he has.

"So, Kallikrates… that's a bit of an unusual name for Eleven, isn't it? Don't suppose there's a story behind it?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Kali responds with yet another chuckle. "Although my mother did have a bit of a flare for the eccentric."

"Eccentric might be putting it lightly, from what I've heard. Octavia Wolfsbane was quite the figure around your District - and I'm terribly sorry to hear about her passing, by the way. Such a tragedy."

The tragedy is how obscenely fake you are; how fake all of this is. The Capitol, the government, your human constructs and excess of amenities and wastefulness, so much wastefulness I can hardly stomach it. The way you equate entertainment with violence, the joy you take in murdering literal children for no reason other than because you can… it's sick. Everything about this place is sick.

"It's been difficult," Kali acquiesces, curling his fingers into his palm until his nails start to push hard into the skin. "But Eleven's moving forward - mourning, accepting, and rebuilding. We're just taking it one day at a time."

Sometimes that's all you can do.

Kali does his best not to clench his teeth. One day at time doesn't count for much when you may only have one day left, but…

But he can't focus on what's to come. He has to ground himself in the present, has to make himself likable, if only so the Capitol doesn't think him a threat. He knows what happens to rebels in the Games; they don't just die, they suffer. That's not going to happen to him. Not if he has anything to say about it.

As with most nights, the night before the Games is not kind to Rhodes Hoppe.

For hours he lies there in the dark, caught in the embrace of sleepless anxiety. He listens to the creaking of the ceiling overhead, the whistling of the harsh wind as it hammers the side of the training center. He watches shadows dance across the sparsely furnished walls near the window, gazes absentmindedly at the glowing silhouette of the shapechanging panels mounted across from the foot of his bed. He listens, and he watches, and he thinks until his skull begins to ache. Games tomorrow. Will I die? Will Josef die? Will Riel die? Will I ever see my parents again? I should've done more… pushed my Dad about traveling instead of just sitting around and waiting to turn eighteen, told my parents how much I loved them, spent more time in the city, made more trips, talked to more people. I wish I'd done more. I thought I had time - everything seemed so… normal, so mundane. It's crazy how fast it changed. I mean, four days ago I was back in Nine getting ready for the reapings. And now I'm in the Capitol. Reaped. Dead.

Guess the odds weren't in my favor.

Rhodes shifts a little, rolling over onto his side and folding one arm up, leaning his head against the open palm of his right hand. There's something amusing about all this, he's sure - some silver lining that exists in the mess of the Games-fear and threat of losing himself, be it through death or… something else - but he can't quite pin down what it is. He's just overwhelmed. And tired… so tired, could definitely go for a smoke right about now, but I don't have any tobac, I don't even have my pipe. Ah, well. Grin and bear it, that's what I always say. Think there'll be time for a good breakfast before the launch tomorrow? I'm feeling… battered toast with lots of cinnamon and sugar, maybe some honey, and coffee with a little bit of bourbon, just like Dad makes it. Although alcohol's probably not such a great idea given… well, everything else. So that's out. Hmm. Maybe orange juice. That's what Riel usually has, right? Hah, we could make a toast before we leave for the craft. For good luck and all.

No… that's stupid, isn't it? She's got bigger things to worry about than wishing me luck, I mean, I'm not even her ally, and we've barely talked. She's nice, but I don't think she'd want to… and I won't see Josef until we're in the hovercraft, if not the arena…

That's okay. It'll be fine. Nothing wrong with some alone time before the storm hits.

… alone time.

Rhodes sighs. He's plenty used to being on his own, and even enjoys it some of the time, but honestly? He could use some company right now. District partner, ally, mentor, parents - anyone at all, just so he can get out of his head. He doesn't like thinking so much, especially when the thoughts are little more than a rose-tinted, gift-wrapped hodgepodge of negativity and confusion.

It's to be expected with insomnia - confusion and weariness sort of go hand-in-hand, and who isn't a little depressed when they're tired? Rhodes is used to the rockiness of sleep-deprivation. Heck, he's even used to self-consciousness, on the rare occasions when it crops up, and to worrying, and to uncertainty. He just... isn't used to the stakes being so high.

(He isn't used to having nighttime thoughts about dying - or about what might or might not come after. He isn't used to mourning his own life in the hours between evening and dawn, going over everything he's experienced, everything he's done, over and over again until his skull begins to throb. Rhodes isn't an existentialist - he never has been. He's always preferred to take things as they come, go with the flow, and embrace whatever possibilities eventually found him. Things like the Games… he doesn't know how to feel about them. He doesn't know how to cope.)

Relax, Rhodes tells himself, closing his eyes for about the twentieth time since lying down. Focus on home. Focus on winning, not dying. Focus on…

Sleep. Focus on sleep.

He draws the blankets up around his shoulders, hugging the soft fabric of his covers close. As always, there's something comforting about the physicality of the action - being wrapped up in something warm and cosy, a fluffy pillow behind his head and a comfortable mattress at his back. It sets him at ease in ways he can't explain.

Get some rest, he repeats, doing his best to lull his on-edge body and his scattered mind. Everything else can wait 'til morning. Rest. Sleep.

(Enjoy the peace while you still can.)


Eight wake in the morning, to the sound of footsteps outside their door.

Eight wake in the morning, to feelings of dread they'd do well to ignore.

Astoria the Juggernaut keeps her head held high, as she marches toward the hovercraft, with no words but a sigh.

Elona the Demagogue takes a seat with a frown, plagued by torrents of concern in which any mind would drown.

Caissa the Chessmaster is all smiles through the ride, confident in her chances with two pawns by her side.

Chanson the Eccedentesiast taps her foot against the floor, her mounting anxiety refusing to be ignored.

Roewe the Changeling cracks jokes until they land, cracking each of the knuckles on each of his hands.

Rhodes the Stargazer smiles to his ally and waves, doing his best to stay positive despite his numbered days.

Kali the Sentinel shakes hands with his stylist, oddly glad for her presence - a mild reprieve from thoughts of the death sentence

That awaits each of them in turn, though most certainly of all, Fiore the Hermit, who has already chosen to fall.

As their pedestals rise and they gaze out on the land, the forsaken tributes begin to understand.

This is no Game. This is no show.

They are meant to die in this wasteland of snow.

Eight for the slaughter, Eight for the grave.

Welcome to the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games.


A/N: Hello, lovely submitters and lovely readers! Welcome to Fever Point, my experimental mini-SYOT project, intended to serve as an interpretation of the canonical Hunger Games where multiple tributes died via hypothermia in the arena. As this is an interpretation, I apologize if my details or depiction of the Games do not fully line up with canon, although hopefully you will find the story enjoyable nonetheless.

A huge thank you to dyloccupy, My-Mental-Mind, twistedservice, daydreamer626, ladyqueerfoot, kremit1000, Lord Shiro and Firedawn'd for submitting the brilliant main cast for this story, and a special shoutout to Josephm611 for inspiring Josef. I truly appreciate all the support you've shown me as I worked through Part 1 of this project, and couldn't ask for a better group of submitters. An additional thank you to everyone in the SYOT Verses server, but most notably goldie031 and thorne98 for cheering me on as I worked my way through the first part of this project. Your encouragement means the world to me.

I would also like to thank anyone who has read my work, recent or past, simply for sticking around and supporting me as I found my footing in this fandom, which I can now say I've been a part of for ten years. It's certainly been an experience, and although I am planning to retire officially from both submitting to and writing SYOTs by the end of 2021, I am grateful for the time I've spent here and all the friends I've made.

Part Two should be arriving in April!