Training.

Chrys Gerhart. District 1 Male.

Elkavich's words resound in his mind.

The Capitol. They want a normal game this time. And Chrys doesn't particularly mind. It'll be part of his plan, anyway; he'll be part of the shadows, and he'll wait — he'll fade out from the rest till he pounces upon them. That's how he'll win the Games.

It's his victory plan. It's a story that's been told time and time before, but he figures that the Capitol won't mind a rewind. Especially not after what had happened… last Games.

(And everything after that. It wasn't wrong to say that things became a little bit more than… different, after the 55th Games. Nothing had changed too drastically in One: but the shift ran like adrenaline through air, the ways the trainers' limbs had tightened at any mention of an Academy romance, how the One kids' rancour had withered till it was nonexistent, how a void of emptiness stayed where palaver about the Victor should be.)

(Some changes, of course, were more physical. Careers had to undergo screenings before they were allowed to volunteer; night gatherings were banned; curfew was enforced and established. Peacekeepers roamed the streets at night and day, in sixes and sevens, like a wolf-pack—so much more than the sole one or two that Chrys would occasionally see at night.)

(It would not be wrong to say that things have… changed… after the 55th Games.)

It is with this mind that Chrys seizes the Training Rooms. They had never televised these segments, but he couldn't say that it wasn't what he had expected. It looked just like the facilities he had in the Academy back at One: but more compact, more strong, flourishing far more. Beautifully metallic; twisting briars upon the chamber and seeping into the lustre of the weapon racks. He takes his axe, one lifted with a gleaming metalhead; and he weighs it upon his hands. So well balanced; it's like it was made for him.

"You're Chrys, aren't you?"

It's an angry—gruff—childlike voice that Chrys hears. He turns and then there is Kiernan: the District Two boy. And when Chrys says boy, he truly means boy: the kid's young, can't be older than fourteen, maybe younger, even.

What is he even doing here? It's a question that he doesn't know whether to ask or chuckle: because the chances of a kid like him getting out alive were close to none. And he's volunteered for it, too: what's going on in this kid's head?

(Chrys remembers the Reapings of Two. Of the silhouette of a kid that shouted his name in a pissed-off drawl. Ruffled slick hair, a too-big denim jacket, scuffed shoes. Broken; angry; tired. It's his eyes that had struck him, then.)

It's Kiernan's eyes that strike him, now. Dirty; hoary; beaten-down. And Chrys realises he's seen the pair before—far too many times, back in the slums of Coal.

(And then Chrys understands, a little bit more.)

"Yeah, I am," Chrys says, and there would've been humour lacing in his voice before; but now he keeps himself neutral. "And you're Kiernan, right?"

Kiernan appears surprised, for a moment. But then his eyes narrow—weighed down with suspicion; caution. "You know my name."

"'Course," Chrys says, easily. "It would be stupid for me to not know the names of my pack-mates."

Another glint of surprise crosses Kiernan's eyes. "… thank you."

Chrys feels a small smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. It's almost like he's talking to Emilio. He lifts the axe in his hand; Emilio had always been afraid of weapons, despite how much Chrys had encouraged him to try.

He inclines his head towards Kiernan. "Wanna give it a spin?"

It is surprise that jolts across Kiernan's face again—but it disappears with a scoff. "I can do it myself," he mutters, glancing away from Chrys's blade. "But thank you."

And then Kiernan is gone: off to another corner in the Training Centre.

Chrys watches him go. District Two boy. Huh. Interesting kid.

It's then when he feels the weight of eyes upon him.

They're all looking at him: the Careers. He lets his axe drop by the rack, and he makes his way towards them all.

It's an uneasiness that he finds amid them all. Some of them shift; some of them avoid his eyes (like Rhodos, the District 4 Male); some of them don't seem there at all (Hera Dalenka, he thinks is her name: that District 2 girl who seems like she floats upon air).

But some of them seize him up; other than Dior there's Althea. Chrys doesn't know what to make of this pack at all.

"What shall we do first?" is said, and he thinks it's by Althea, who tilts her head to the side, just slightly, rolls her neck like she's flexing her muscles, impatient, anxious, ready.

"I think Chrys had already chosen for us," Dior says. That tinge of ice upon her tone is unmistakable; and Chrys forces the wince down. Instead, he focuses his eyes upon Dior; who returns to him in kind.

"The weapons it is, then?" Chrys says. He lets the question linger; even if it's not quite a question than it is a statement of fact. The other Careers don't do much but look at each other. Althea and Rhodos exchange a look. Hera doesn't even seem to be there at all.

Dior's eyes rest upon him, through and through. "Do you want to keep waiting?" she says, too icily. "Or should we go?"

A statement rather than a question. Chrys doesn't say any more; he goes over to the weapons. Picks up his axe, and hammers it straight into the face of the first target dummy.

Dior Marini. District One Female.

Chrys… challenges her.

He wants to gauge her. He wants to determine how she is. She's not surprised; she's incensed. At the fact that anyone would dare.

It's being played out, now. She's playing into his game, she knows, with every successive axe-throw, with every passing moment that her weapons make their mark. Dior's giving him more, she's letting him in, telling him information, how she wields a blade and a sword, which side she prefers in a fight, just where she'd go for the killing blow.

But she doesn't care.

Dior's showing her strength. Showing her power; her ability; telling him just what she could do. And Chrys would be an idiot not to think that she wouldn't be able to compete. He'd be an idiot not to be intimidated.

(Of course… she's not the best with weapons; with knives; with anything at all. But she pushes down her insecurities: she's authoritative, she's strong, she can do this. Even if her fingers shake upon the blade.)

He looks at her, on occasion, in the moments when he thinks that she doesn't see him. His teeth grit at every hit she gets upon the targets. It makes him more riled up, more irritated, and angrier.

(It's not hard to infer why, exactly. It's old news in the Academy that Chrys's there because of a scholarship. He rides a bike to the Academy. She'd seen the way he looked at the rest of them: jaw tight, fingers gripped, seething at the extent of wealth and privilege that practically drenched the faces of the kids there.)

And she's glad. She's having a physical effect on him—a physical reaction. He's recoiling. He's retaliating. He's on the defensive. And Dior's aim might not be the best: but she knows how people work.

One down. And she knows how to control him now.

(How many more to go?)

Four more in the pack. Dior hadn't quite taken them all in yet; but she's got a rough idea of what they're all like, by now. The District Two girl - Hera Dalenka - has the wrong kinds of drugs in her system, and all the better for Dior. The District Four boy - Rhodos McNamara - is a dog, really. She'd noted the way he'd looked at her: uncertain but hopeful, and he'd already been putting the work into getting into Dior's good side. District Four girl's resolute, cold, and strong, and dread pulls taut in Dior heart. Althea's like Dior, she thinks, and she doesn't like that at all.

And of course. There is a child in the Career pack. Kiernan Alcraiz, the District Two kid, younger brother to the last District 2 girl in the 55th Games. Angry, childlike, mad, he's probably the most volatile of the pack. Dior doesn't know why he's here, or if he's as crazy as his sister, but she can't care less. Even if the angry ones are the hardest to control.

But out of them all, Dior knows this. She is the best-positioned one of the pack. She can keep Chrys under her thumb. Rhodos is already lapping up to her every word. She'll ground Hera down from her heights. She isn't so experienced with kids, but there's an easy way to shut up children.

And Althea. There is Althea, of course. But no pack is complete without a rival. Dior'll figure something out.

(She will, soon. Because she knows this, as she hurls another knife right at the centre of a target: she is in a pack of wolves. And she must rise atop it all.)

Rhodos McNamara. District 4 Male.

It's uncomfortable, being in the same room as Dior and Chrys.

It's not exactly uncomfortable, really. But the tension is high between the two: and Rhodos doesn't like being there between them.

(He wants to say something; he wants to relieve the tension, somehow. To make sure that they'll both… be fine, somehow. But not just is it not in his place, but he doesn't know how they'll react. They might explode, and things might get worse, and no, that's not what he'd want to make happen.)

He watches them as they fight. They're not fighting, exactly, but it feels just like that; with every axe throw against the dummy feels like an axe aimed at Dior, and every toss of a throwing knife feels like it was meant for Chrys. With each thud, Rhodos winces.

A cold war's brewing between the two of them. And he and the rest of the Careers are there. They've agreed upon weapons, but Rhodos doesn't dare approach that sector. He doesn't want to get between… whatever… is going on between Dior and Chrys.

Instead, he looks away and takes stock of the entire Training Room. The other tributes are scattered across, and it's with a jolt that he realises that they're staring at him. The pair from Three. He doesn't remember their names… was it Daniel? The other girl's looking at him too… he faintly recalls her name, Ryleigh, maybe. Usually, other tributes wouldn't dare look too long or too openly at the Careers; too much and you risk being a target. But they're staring at him, and he's staring at them, and discomfort heats his cheeks up in red.

He turns away. But it's not just they that are looking, though; it's the pair from Six, too, and then those from Eight. Rhodos swallows. There is a conflagration that spreads across the Eight Girl's face: and it isn't sullen. It's… hostile. It pricks against his skin, and he shifts in discomfort. He gazes away from them; not just because their eyes are too much to take, but because Rhodos knows, so precisely, that it's him that's riling them up so much. He's a Career — he's the root cause of them all.

So he refocuses. He'll have to train eventually, and it brings him strolling towards the rack of weapons. He takes one - a spear, and he's mindful of the way Dior and Chrys throw their weapons; the vigour of their madness concentrated upon one point, and he looks away just as quick. Rhodos doesn't try to match their power: he tosses his spear and it hits the mark, close enough, but his eyes always flick back to Chrys and Dior.

They're the alphas, fighting it out. And he doesn't want to get into the midst of it. So Rhodos lets his spear relax, slightly, and throws again. Training is what they'd commanded, and that's what he'll do.

Rhodos watches Chrys and Dior the entire time and makes sure that his throw's never better than theirs.

Dior Marini. District 1 Female.

She bests Chrys. It is easy. His swears and his power were merely glamour. And he can only glower at her, now, as she tosses her throwing knives back to the side.

He can glower all he wants—it won't matter, in the Games. In the Games: one has to be prepared. A snarky remark won't save him from a pike or a blade or a garrotte.

There's a squeak. Dior's eyes move away from her weapon, and they land upon a child.

They are a vase about to break. Quivering eyes. Choppy blonde hair. Face hidden by shadows and locks. So terrified—that is what all the children are.

But it is not simply fear upon the child's face. They are ragged, yes, but they are surly: it emanates from their gripped hands, their stance. There is a determination in the child's gaze, that Dior can't place.

(It is familiar, for one. Flaxen hair; blue eyes; angelic smile when they smile. Sibling; sister. But does Dior want to remember?)

She doesn't recognise the kid: somebody from Eight. Perhaps it is the female tribute: but the female tribute is sixteen and not thirteen. But it is Eight all the same that crests upon the tribute's chest.

It is then when a girl enters the weapons sector. She's sixteen or seventeen, with a cascade of dark hair that's like the wash of sparkling night stars. Weariness drifts in her eyes; but a coagulated black, like a bead, solidifies once she meets Dior's eyes.

That is the female tribute of Eight.

She feels her jaw go gaunt. Oh, Dior remembers her. That girl that raised her finger against the escort; against the rest of the kids; against the Victors; against the camera; against the Capitol.

Her third finger is yet to be cut off. It is merciful, perhaps: the Capitol would not let their tributes be damaged until the Arena. Or perhaps it is a punishment: there is no anaesthesia to stave the girl's pain in the Games.

(Rebellion. Is she why Elkavich said what she said?)

She glares at Dior, now. It is almost funny, for the girl is so much like her. Dark hair; emptiness in her face; anger thundering in her chest. Except that Dior is a Career and she a rebel.

Predator and prey; and Eight Girl is the devil in human form.

Eight Girl takes the child by their hand - leads them away, behind her, like she's acting as a human shield.

And Dior knows the Eight Girl's name: Sadie. But Eight Girl doesn't deserve the dignity of being called by her own name.

"Don't look at my District Partner like that."

Dior raises her eyebrows. Eight Girl's eyes are sharper than glass shards: and her tongue seeks to excoriate her. There is so much dark rage concentrated upon her face, and Dior cannot help but retort.

"Like what?"

Eight Girl scoffs, and her eyes are a glaze of madness. "Like we're meat."

Meat. Is that not what they are? Cows to the abattoir: creatures caught in grimy stockades, dredged from a bowl, brought to the Games. They are unimportant blocks of flesh; they are here to die.

(They're meat. Meat that decided to rise up. Meat that had murdered her sister. Meat, fucking meat—)

"Don't act like you're any better than that," Dior sneers. Frost crawls up her skin, and she pushes her chin up higher. Dior waits for the Eight Girl's scowl; her spit; her slander.

But Eight Girl doesn't even look at her. She ushers the child - her District Partner - towards a secluded corner of the Training Room, away from sight.

Dior makes her fists relax. She levels her gaze at Eight Girl's back; how nice would it be to have a knife buried between her shoulderblades.

But for now.

She'll deal with the Careers, for now.

Her fights can wait until the Arena.

(But oh: Dior does not so easily forget.)

Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2 Male.

He's already done with all of this.

Kiernan doesn't even want to look around him. Because all he'll see's eyes, not just of the other fucking Careers (Chrys, Chrys, Chrys, that District One boy built like a tractor that stares at him with so much mysticism), but that of the other tributes as well. Those that gaze at him with so much confusion lighted in their eyes; those that expect him to be an outer District tribute, Reaped, but see him mingling with the other Careers. He thinks he's seen a blanch - maybe two, three, can't be surprised if there were more - from all of their faces. Those that see a kid, really, amid this mess, and they don't expect more from him than what they've expected of the other twelves that have lighted up the night sky; dead, dead, dead, never a Victor, slit throat or bashed-in head or stabbed back, they never live.

(He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here at all—he should be back at home, he should be back with his mom, he shouldn't be in the midst of a Training Room that he'd only imagine in his dreams whenever he thought of Maeve, he shouldn't be here.)

But he is. He is and he's in with the Careers (if they haven't abandoned him already, because really, who would take in a child into the middle of a hunting pack?) - and he has to do what they're doing, too: has to send knives thudding against a target like Chrys and Dior, has to at least follow along with the much less enthused Rhodos, who's talking with Althea too as they throw their spears. If he doesn't wanna seem like an outsider, already, like Hera, who's practically a straggler in the pack.

Hera, who's staring at the Training Room in a groggy confusion, staggering towards trainers and then bumping into other tributes. Even as they scatter about. She looks distressed, like she hasn't quite figured out that she's a Career and the rest are red meat that she's gonna butcher.

(And he's just a kid, really, one that nobody has any expectations for, one that's gonna die in the Bloodbath, one that's gonna get his throat slit and one that'll end up as just another number in placements; because the Capitol's sent him towards his death, and so that's what'll happen, because defiance, who's ever heard of that?)

Defiance. Defiance. Defiance is what's brought him here. Defiance, because his sister decided that kissing that girl from One was better than fighting in the Games. Because his sister decided that getting to live her fantastical world inside her head was worth more than his life itself. Because she was so goddamned selfish that she decided to end everything for the both of them; for him and mom, for…

Defiance. Fucking defiance.

Kiernan grabs a sword from the rack. He's never used the thing before—but a stick of metal doesn't seem to hard to wield. It's unbalanced in his hand; veers off to a side, and it's heavy, lifting the thing. But their eyes are upon him (he doesn't know who, but there's twenty-four pairs in the room and then some more, and there are eyes and that's what matters at all), and he strolls towards one of the dummies by the side. Kiernan lifts his blade; and slams the metal tip against the plastic chest (not a dummy, a puppet, really, and if he closes his eyes and really imagines, it could be a person's, a fleshy chest, exploding in claret, red piercing the room from what he's done, if he thinks, he tries).

He hits. He hits till that thing's demolished. He hits till that thing's destroyed; he hits till that plastic flesh's gooey and wet and plaster and nothing more than broken under him. He heaves and if he looks he can see scattered limbs, broken heads, destroyed flesh.

If he looks, he can see red.

They're staring at him now. He knows that, now. All of their eyes: hoisted upon him. Not just the tributes but the Careers, too. Chrys has put his axe down. Dior hasn't looked away from the targets; but her throw arm drops, slightly. Althea's turned towards him, head cocked, surveying him. Rhodos falters, and looks, uncertain, his feet shifting under him like they're on water.

Kiernan puts his blade down. He inhales; he exhales. Wreckage is what decimates the Training Room. Eyes are what smoulders him. Thoughts are what smothers his mind.

(Defiance's what rules the streets of Two. Defiance is what explodes the people's hearts. Defiance is the 55th Games. Defiance is Maeve.)

Defiance is what kills him.

Defiance is what will kill him. And that is what Kiernan sees, as he surveys the room and the room surveys him.

(There is defiance, that pervades every corner. It dangles in the eyes of the outer Districts; in Eight Girl's eyes, in the Sixes; in the Threes. He watches: and there will be defiance, in the 56th Games.)

It will be his end.

Althea Ivory. District 4 Female.

It's quieter, in the Training Room, after Kiernan lets out his outburst.

Althea couldn't care less about the child. If anything, he's a straightforward kill— twelve, shouldn't be really any different from the Bloodbaths—and he'll be gone, anyway, quicker than she'll know it. She doesn't know why he's taken up that particular spot in Two, and she doesn't particularly care, either—all Kiernan's done is he's stolen the spot of competent competition, and that's one less real Career which Althea'll have to deal with.

The Careers. They have quite the group this year. Everybody's felt the tension between Chrys and Dior. It doesn't matter to her—not quite, at all. Althea'll be wary of them; they will die, anyway, eventually: they're nothing but stepping stones to her victory.

All she needs is to be careful; she'll watch them; she'll keep track of them all. Althea'll be there when the Careers disintegrate, and she'll ensure she's the one that comes out on top. All she has to do is to look: to search; to pry into their weaknesses.

(It won't be hard. She'll just have to pull her lips in a facsimile; so many people slip when she smiles. She'll observe, of course: and then she'll disappear. Wide-eyed, pouty-lipped, confused-like. Weak, so fucking weak, shouldn't be fucking hard at all, the cameras already think her it and her District doesn't need any more convincing, her parents will buy her act in a second, because she's a pathetic girl, useless, impotent, she'll fucking die in the Games, won't she, just a little goddamned girl—)

She finds herself next to Rhodos in the Training Room. She's slamming the halberd into the centre-target; and it's a smash that crashes through the illusory sheen of the bullseye, that falters, for a moment, before solidifying again. Althea grabs another and continues; there aren't enough, spears and halberds and axes and knives, she throws and decimates and breaks the hologram's screen till her teeth's gritted and she's halfway towards screaming.

Rhodos can't even concentrate anymore because of her; his eyes wander to her blows, and even then she does not stop. Psh, pathetic, that hit's offside, you won't kill him with that strike, he'll have his knife slammed into your throat by now, seconds you're wasting, it's pitiful, really, you're gonna be displayed at 20th on-screen, even Talon's record you can't beat, sully the Ivory name some more, will you, won't you—

"… Althea?"

Her eyes snap towards the person who spat her name. Rhodos flinches. It's only then when she realises that she's seething, that her nails are crushing her own skin, that she's turned the blade in her hand towards her District Partner.

She lowers her blade. "Sorry," she apologises, tops up a smile. "You scared me there, Rhodos. Wasn't looking."

Althea turns her eyes back towards her target. She readies her knife.

"Wait—"

Impatience takes her now. Turning back to Rhodos, she lets out a breath; but keeps the smile on her face, the tone of her words neutral. "What is it?"

"You don't seem…"

He struggles. Althea watches. It's like he's caught between two things: wanting to speak, but not wanting to offend her. Usually, it doesn't matter to Althea at all: she'd often just stare, and wait until the perpetrator would either leave or give up on her.

(But she thinks back to Rhodos, upon the train: they're not the best, mine aren't either, and it's something a little more different that twinges her. Althea doesn't feel, not usually; but it isn't usual that she hears those words at all.)

"I'm fine," she says between her teeth, "It's just training. Got intense. That's all. You know those times; I'm sure you've felt the same in training. The thrill. The bloodsong."

Rhodos gazes away. "Yeah," he says. "Felt the same."

His tone twinges Althea. It's light, still, like he's trying to be agreeable, but she detects emptiness mingled in there, too. It's quiet; dispassionate. Not quite there at all.

"Don't you like it?" she says. Curiosity swirls in her chest, as she observes Rhodos' expression.

It takes a few moments until Rhodos answers. "It's not my passion," he says, and there's wistfulness infused in there, too. But he's already moving on before Althea can ask him to elaborate.

"But you're a beast with a blade," he says, a light smile tilting his lips, and the transition's so immediate that Althea wonders if she'd seen what she'd seen in Rhodos at all.

Passion. Training is Althea's passion. It's what invigorates her; it's what fuels her. Every day would bring a fault, a fix, a thing to improve: empower her throw-arm, let the base-side cut bone, trying her hand at natural combat. Every day she'd be better, and that's how she takes the disapproving glances she gets from her mother and father back at home; that's how she strolls through her District ignoring the jeers of the people; that's how she lives with herself.

"You're in love, aren't you?" he teases. And Althea, though she knows he means the game, feels a half-smile work up her lips. She thinks about Kani; the 49th Victor of the Games, wreathed in forest pines and with lips that taste of sea-breeze; she thinks about their lives, alone, together, free, finally, away from their District's prying eyes and her parents' shaking heads; she thinks about their home waiting for them in the Victor's Village.

You're not wrong there, Rhodos.

"Looking to be the best?" Rhodos continues, the edge of a tease upon his voice.

Althea's lips quirk. "Not quite."

She turns back towards the target; she lifts her knife. It's one fiery thud against the target; and the hologram, already unsteady from its flickering, shatters completely. She's sure she hears gasps from the Gamemakers' viewing consoles. It doesn't matter—they have more than enough money to make up the cost of the entire Training Room and more.

Instead, she tilts her head towards Rhodos. "I'm showing them what I can do."

Rhodos's eyes still riveted upon the decimated hologram. But his eyes lift towards hers, for a brief moment.

It's then when the entire Training Room shakes. Althea's head whips towards the source of sound. A flurry of white uniforms—Peacekeepers, she realises, upon the far end of the Training Room, near the exit. And there's a girl thrashing in the midst of them all.

There's a scream. But it's in fury than in pain. It's Eight Girl, being manhandled—they've got her arms twisted behind her back, they're pushing her back against the wall. She's bleeding from the head; her slick black hair's matted with wet.

Tributes aren't meant to be attacked. But that's what Althea's seeing: now. She stares, as Eight Girl screams and scowls; and in the chaos Althea can almost make out her words. "Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I'll show you all!"

It's in one fluid moment: one that Althea herself almost doesn't see. Eight Girl slams her head against the Peacekeeper's head and shakes herself out of their grip. And then her fingers are encircling their throat, and she's slamming them against the wall, she's throttling them. Somebody should stop her, Althea thinks, dimly, but nobody makes a move.

It's a tableaux of a debacle that they stare at: not even the two other Peacekeepers move. Finally, after what is eternity, the other Peacekeepers finally grip her shoulders and wrestle Eight Girl away from the chokehold. They're smashing their batons into her thighs, into her chest (aren't tributes supposed to be protected), but Eight Girl grins, as if triumphant, still, and spits at the choking Peacekeeper, still gagging for their breath.

It's under control. It's under control, she tells herself, and Althea sees all the Careers staring. Their eyes, as if pivoting upon gravity, turn back to one another. It's an exchange of looks: fear-awe-surprise-pain-anger—

And Althea realises, then, with a sick sack in her throat, as she gazes upon Eight Girl, as she gazes upon the Peacekeepers, as she gazes upon the chaos made of the Training Room. It's so clear, now, what she sees. Rebellion.

This must be what Elkavich meant.

Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.

It is… dizzying, the place.

And it is not because of what the Peacekeepers have done. Their beatings… have shaken the puffy grounds. After they have dragged a girl away somewhere-Hera-doesn't-know-where.

But it is the cold that shambles in her veins. Ice rattles upon her skin. Her teeth's chittering and her mouth's barely clamped enough to keep it all under control.

(Hera's felt like this before, of course. It's not the first time she's gotten high; it's not the first time she's crashed. But… has she gotten so high before? Has she crashed so hard before?)

Sober. She's sober. A day sober—but she's sober. She's sober, and that's what she needs for her parents…. for the Capitol… for the Games.

(She's cold-turkey. Cold-turkey…)

Hera's messed up all the first impressions (in the places that matter, what would her parents say, getting high in the chariot rides, they'll see her wobbly grin and her twitchy eyes, they aren't blind—)

She had a crisis in the stylist's chamber (breaking apart, what do they think about her, the so-called Career, they've seen her and they've laughed, how'll she salvage this now—)

It's okay. It's okay. Damage control. She'll do that. She's done that before, in the Academy. Getting too high with Thyia and her friends; she knows the way it goes. There is a reason why she's kept her spot in the Academy. And it's okay. She'll do that now.

Hera will be okay in the Games. That is a promise she makes to herself.

(But she is cold. She is always so cold. In the Games it will be colder; what were the Arena last Games? She doesn't remember the specifics: but the ending was cold.)

They are dissipating, the people. Most of the Outer District tributes have disappeared. A girl with "Four" on her chest leaves, her spear clattering back on the racks. A boy with "One" keeps up talk with the Boy Named K… Kiernan, her District Partner. The One Girl, too, is gone.

All of the Careers have disappeared. And Hera feels like she should go, too— she'll follow the crowd.

But there's still one of them left with her, here.

She sees Rhodos McNamara. He's still mingling near the herbs sector. Close to the Threes… and Sixes. She's not quite sure why he's near them. But he seems a little wide-eyed… and wary.

None of them seems to notice him. Or her. For the matter. Hera's hidden; she's behind a column, one her back's resting against.

They are speaking to each other. She cranes her ear.

Cracks of conversation are what she hears.

"… you sure…"

"… I trust them…"

"… do you…"

"… of course…"

"… wouldn't be here if we didn't…"

"… will save…"

Hera's brow furrows. What are they talking about?

Her eyes meet Rhodos's. He seems just as confused, too.

It's then when one the Threes' eyes snap up. Hera stills; fuck, shit— but it's Rhodos's eyes that they meet.

Thank Panem.

Hera slips out of her hiding spot, as the Threes and Sixes stare at Rhodos. She strolls out of the Training Centre. Her heart's hammering in her chest.

But why?

It isn't as if she's heard something incriminating. Games plans. That's all the Threes and Sixes were discussing.

That's all there is. That's all.

Right?

Right.

This will be a normal Games. It's what it must be. It's what it'll be.

After all: rebellion has no place in Panem.

A/N: I meant to post this yesterday, but got swept up in my Justice submissions! Speaking of Justice: it's Joseph(m611)'s new SYOT, and it's honestly amazing! The worldbuilding is spectacular - and I highly encourage everybody to submit if you can! You honestly don't want to miss out.

That aside - what did we think about our Careers? About what might be building up in the backdrop? I know that the POVs are distributed slightly weirdly, but I'm still kind of evening out everything

Thank you for so much reading! Let me know what you thought! I have yet to reply to everybody's reviews individually, but I'm honestly loving them so much - you all honestly make my day. Special mention goes to Joseph, Bradi, Slytherindauntless, Axe Smelling God, and strawberrypoppingcandy for all your wonderful reviews! And Linds - your review was so appreciated!

Next Update: Interviews - 26th-28th August!