Here's our second Reaping! It took a while to get it out due to the holiday rush, but I hope the wait was worth it! District 2 was already closed when submissions opened, so without further ado here's her introduction! Great big thank you to palm-biitch for making her!

02 - Battle-Destined Beauty

The Principal's chair lets out a loud squeak as he leans back in it. He holds the loose records of each student in his hands, a small grin on his face as his gaze flits between them.

"My, my," Principal Decimus muses. "It would seem that our Tribute is clear by now."

Cetronia straightens her posture and keeps her expression neutral. At either side of her, the two eighteen-year-olds ranked along with her struggle to keep their faces from twitching.

Principal Decimus looks up from the reports—and then slides two of them back towards the Vice Principal. "A shame neither of you will make the cut this year, gentlemen," he says to the eighteen-year-olds. "Miss Livius has simply failed to disappoint."

One boy clicks his tongue and glares up at Cetronia, but she pays him no mind. It's his fault for not being good enough, and he knows it. The other simply nods in thanks to Decimus and leaves the room without a word, effectively saving his pride and reputation.

"Mr. Caius," Decimus says expectantly. "You're excused."

Caius doesn't move at first. He keeps his glare trained on Cetronia, his expression contorting slowly into a sneer. She deigns to glance down at him, disinterest in her eyes as she regards him distastefully. Cetronia doesn't have time to deal with sore losers like him, and he knows it just as well as everyone else she's sparred with.

Caius slams his fists onto the desk. "Sir, you've got to be joking," he growls. "She doesn't even technically attend the Academy—she shouldn't count—"

"She," Cetronia cuts him off, "was enrolled just like everyone else." Caius barely even looks back at her. The way his nails claw at the desk is enough proof of his irritation. "She would also like to point out that her village is too far to make the daily trip to classes, nor far enough to warrant a dorm. She, much like your cousin, was tutored by a member of staff from the comfort of home."

Decimus raises his brows with a satisfied smile. "Considering Miss Livius's accomplishments paired with such a handicap, Mr. Caius," he adds, "your own efforts may as well come off as lazy to the Capitol."

There it is. Caius jumps back as though Decimus had slapped him, hurt crossing his features for only a fraction of a second. It's quickly replaced with a crumbling facade of calm, already falling apart by the time Caius crashes into the office door and fumbles for the handle.

The Vice Principal shakes her head as she lets out a short tut. "What a mess," she mutters once Caius is out of the room.

"It'll do him some good," Decimus argues. "Boy needs to get off his high horse before he ends up in trouble."

Cetronia begs to differ. Caius will never get off his pedestal, never surrender it to someone else. He's a sore loser, a proud winner, and if things had escalated today she knows he'd challenge her to a fight to decide who would volunteer.

She would be the winner, of course. The final assessments are proof of that much. Cetronia doesn't surrender as easily as Caius does when someone critiques her form.

"In any case, Miss Livius," Decimus continues, "it would seem congratulations are in order. In all my years both teaching at this school and in the position of Principal, no one from your village has made it with such stellar marks."

She raises her head higher, blinks slowly as she takes in the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"I can't help noticing one of your strengths may play into our advantage, as well." Decimus runs his eyes over the paper again, and then sets it down on the desk slowly. Cetronia can just barely see the picture of herself—of the freshly shaven head, pronounced lips and clear, dark skin. "Your tutor noted that you work extremely well in the dark and use it to hide yourself. Played right, he said that most kinds of arenas could work in your favour."

Of course they could. Most of the arenas she's seen have had ample shadows that even a sickly pale Tribute could hide in. Cetronia was trained to be a hunter on the battlefield, and she'll be damned if she doesn't use her own assets to her advantage.

Cetronia simply nods in acknowledgement. Decimus rises from his chair with a grunt, prompting the Vice Principal to reach hesitantly for him. The old man waves her off, clearly displeased by the offer. Ms. Dione rolls her eyes at him and picks up Cetronia's report, reading over it to herself.

Decimus clears his throat as he makes his way over to Cetronia. His hand is extended toward her, waiting for her to shake it. She takes it with a firm grip. "Allow me to walk you through the next couple of hours, Miss Livius. Seeing as there'll be no need for the Reaping Balls, we'll have to find some other way to make this Reaping proper enough for the Capitol and its own Tributes." Decimus nods to her, waiting for her to agree to his offer.

There's not a lot of need for her to agree. Cetronia had had her own plans for preparing for the Reaping. Every year it was the same, waiting for someone to be drawn and then volunteering—which would hardly come as a surprise to anyone else by this point. It'd be more surprising if the drawn child wound up being the Tribute, but Cetronia has the feeling Decimus doesn't even want to bother with that basic first step.

She glances at Ms. Dione, only to find the woman dialling a number into the desk's phone. It's just herself and Decimus in this conversation right now.

"What did you have in mind, sir?"

Home is too far to simply return to. Some small part of Cetronia had wanted to spend more time with her family before the proceedings would begin, maybe even watch her father work on his latest stonecarving project. With less than an hour till the Reaping, though, she has no choice but to wait for them to arrive.

She's settled herself within the Academy comfortably. It's not very often that she comes here—normally it's the assessments and mandatory events she walks the halls for—yet she can't help notice just how many people know who she is. Cetronia isn't social by any stretch of the word. Coming from a village as small as hers, being too busy to stop and smell the roses in between training and basic needs, Cetronia just didn't even bother fitting a social life into her schedule. Besides, her mentors and family had said it's always best to wait before forming emotional connections—if she goes into this Quell with, say, a girlfriend or close friend waiting for her back home, she'll slip up.

That's what Alcander always says. The man's tutored so many children over the years and Cetronia trusts his judgement when it comes to mental fortitude and how to build it. If he says that attachments are a distraction—and, more importantly, if her father agrees—then Cetronia will sever any ties leading to her before they have a chance to form.

It becomes fairly obvious that the people claiming to know Cetronia aren't under Alcander's tutelage. They all sit in their own little cliques and show off scars to each other, always with smug expressions and jealous glints in their eyes. Careers, but definitely not the refined sort.

Cetronia's never been one to stand in the spotlight. She's never been one for attention or big crowds watching her. It always feels so unnecessary, so uncomfortable. Cetronia keeps her unease in mind as she does her best to avoid the students rushing to meet each other within each classroom, watches carefully for any followers as she reaches for the upcoming library door. She wants to spend her next hour or so in peace, to look over the papers Decimus had left her with in silence.

No one ever seems to want to go to the library before the Reaping. It's always the training rooms or the courtyard they flock to, wanting one last chance to impress their peers into giving up a spot to volunteer. It reminds her of the scavenging birds some arenas had sported, and it disgusts Cetronia to no end. Opportunistic fools, the lot of them.

The script is dropped onto the table with a light flop. The sound practically echoes throughout the empty room, leaving Cetronia to breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn't hear the shuffling of someone else's feet. She's utterly alone, just the way she likes it. Cetronia drapes her blazer over the back of a chair and leans down over the table, hands splayed out as her shadow is cast over the script. Were she not wearing her neat pencil skirt, she'd sit and cross her legs—but the Reaping doesn't allow for comfort. Impressions must be made within the first second of your name being called, because what Capitolite fool would sponsor someone based on how comfortable they look?

She chews at her lip as she reads over the lines. It all sounds like pandering and rambling, even as she reads a few phrases out loud. It's a script that's meant to sell her as the "true hero" the Capitol Tributes need, as the one the sponsors should turn their gazes to and applaud for being so strong. The fact that Decimus wants her to say all this, had it all prepared for District Two's chosen volunteer ahead of time, makes her wonder just how much he thinks it'll sway the Capitol. Their District may be the lapdogs of the Capitol, but even a pretty little speech isn't enough to sway them from the fact that Cetronia will still have to kill eleven other Capitol kids.

If she's absolutely honest, Cetronia doesn't want to lead these people on. She's not the biggest fan of the Capitol or its people, and she's by no means as patriotic as the next Career. It'd be so much easier to play the part of the lone wolf than to shoot herself in the foot before she even reaches the arena.

She sighs. All this work just to stand on a stage. It's ridiculous.

Cetronia yawns and scratches at the fuzz on her scalp. Any other day, she'd be sleeping in until eleven. She's always been more of a night owl, always did her training at night. Alcander said it gave her an edge most kids didn't have—made her unpredictable, and more likely to catch people off-guard. But that makes her equally vulnerable during the day, Father had pointed out one morning. When she rests, the others move; and if she's found, they won't hesitate to strike while she's asleep.

The door bursts open. Cetronia jumps in surprise, but is quick to regain her composure as she searches between each shelf for the visitor. It's easy to spot them with their large girth filling most of the gaps in her view. Cetronia can't help frowning at the way the buttons of their shirt look to be bursting from the material, ready to pop off and hit the nearest bystander in the eye.

"Anyone here?" a man's voice wheezes out. It's only just now that she notices the laboured breaths in between the two words, with each hobble of a step he takes.

He must be one of those rich, well-fed citizens that live closer to the Justice Hall. It'd be no surprise to her that someone in a financial situation like that would be as heavy-set as this man.

With a roll of her eyes, Cetronia turns back to her table and sighs out in response, "Just me."

"Where—" He cuts himself off with a breathless inhale. "Where's 'me'?"

"Non-fiction, K to M shelves."

And with that he hobbles over to her. She might as well be polite and help him, see if he needs anything that even an occasional student could find. She leafs through the script once more as he waddles over to her, and then she's glancing over her shoulder at a middle-aged man with sweat covering his brow and a handkerchief in his hand. He dabs at his forehead with it as he regards her curtly, and then he's pulling out a chair and slumping into it with a groan.

Cetronia doesn't bother to introduce herself, let alone greet him. "Can I help you with something?"

He's busily catching his breath as he continues to dab at his brow. Part of Cetronia is worried he'll just pass out—the man's so heavily overweight, it'd come as no surprise if it was a struggle just to walk down the hall—while a smaller part of her wishes he'd get on with what he came for.

The man fans himself with a large hand. "I'm looking— Looking for a book," he wheezes. He's starting to go red in the face.

Cetronia glances at him, and then at the shelf behind her. How vague of him. "Any book in particular?" she presses.

"Complete History of— Excuse me—" He begins coughing loudly. Cetronia can barely keep the disgust off of her face as he barely makes a move to cover his mouth. "I'm looking for the fifth volume of The Complete History of the Hunger Games."

He wants one of the required reading books. Even a man like him should be able to find it. Regardless, Cetronia exhales and stands up straight again. "I know where that is," she tells him. As she stands, she folds the script in half and tucks it between the waist of her skirt and her v-neck. "Give me a moment."

The man waves a hand at her and resumes his laboured breathing. It takes her maybe five minutes to find the shelf, another two to find the correct volume. Before she returns to him with the thick, leather-bound book, she moves for the front desk and peeks over the counter for the loans folder. It's sitting right in the middle of the desk, opened to today's date, and displays only three names that have borrowed books.

Her brow raises at the sight of it. Perhaps she's not the only one who visits the library at such an early hour.

The redness in his face has subsided somewhat when she returns. Cetronia slides the book across the table to him, and then drops the loans folder in front of her. It lands with a loud clatter, causing the man to look up at her in alarm.

"Before you leave," she says monotonously, "please state your name and the book you've borrowed."

His eyes are blown wide, like he almost can't believe she's asking him to comply to such a request. Cetronia is more than certain he's one of those rich folks now.

"Don't—" He wheezes in surprise. "Don't you know who I am?"

Cetronia pulls out the small pen from the plastic pocket at the back of the folder. "Someone important, I'm assuming," she sighs. "Pardon me for not noticing. Name?"

"F— Felix Brough."

She scribbles the name down neatly. "And I already know the book you're taking," she says, mostly to herself. The man—Felix—stares at her in bewilderment.

"Madam, are you telling me the name doesn't bring anyone to mind?"

So he's rich and thinks he's important. Cetronia can at least be glad she won't have to see him again while she's in the Quell. Something good has come out of this.

She signs the paper and shuts the loans folder with a little more delicacy than earlier. There's really no point in entertaining the man any longer, and she has no doubt she'll find an excuse to leave the library by the time the folder is back at the desk.

Felix hasn't left by the time she comes back, and he certainly doesn't look like she's lost his attention with her disinterest. Cetronia does her best not to look disrespectful as she pulls the script from her skirt and frowns at it. She reaches for her blazer blindly as she reads over one line in particular—I'll do you all proud by representing our District, and prove that we remain the most loyal even as we are faced with adversity—before being pulled away from her script by Felix's voice again.

"What's your name, Madam?" he mutters. The wheeze is almost gone from his voice, suggesting that his forced projection puts a strain on his lungs.

Cetronia glances down at him. She drapes her blazer over her shoulder and huffs out a short sigh. She supposes she'd better humour him.

Just as she opens her mouth, the doors burst open again—but this time there's a certain edge to the bang that makes her fingers twitch. It's aggressive, different from Felix's own attention-commanding entrance.

"Cetronia!" shrieks a voice, and she knows exactly who's come looking for her. There's more voices following him, running in through the doors and demanding to know if "it's true" and if "she'll do it". Caius must have spread word of her being chosen to volunteer, and he must not have liked everyone's positive reactions.

With a final nod to Felix, Cetronia says, "That would be my name."

Felix watches in bewilderment as she tosses the script to him. "Burn this for me, by the way. It's pretty terrible," she adds. And then she exits the row of shelves.

Caius stands in the doorway with a face redder than Felix's, a polearm in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. Younger students flood into the room and crowd around her, all gazing up at her with starry-eyed expressions and big smiles.

"Are you really the best, Cetronia?" one girl, probably only a year younger than her, giggles. Cetronia can't help flashing a charming smile at her, watching as a small blush dusts her cheeks and other students begin to ask questions.

Caius is seething at the attention she's getting, and she wants every reason to yell out that she'd gladly trade it for his social abandonment. If the boy wants a pack of fans following him around and screeching over him, he's more than welcome to take hers.

"Make sure you don't get any facial scars!" one girl warns her. "You're, like, the prettiest girl I know and they don't always heal right!"

"No way," her friend disagrees, nudging her roughly. "Facial scars are hot—she'll be a goddess compared to the other victors."

She can hardly move as the crowd grows denser. It's amazing how a group of kids only a few years younger than her can overwhelm her six-three frame. Cetronia keeps her composure as she raises her arms above their heads, slowly wading her way through their questions and demands.

By the time she reaches Caius, he's grinding his teeth loudly. He doesn't even spare her the chance to greet him before he drops the gauntlet to the ground in front of him. She looks down at the gauntlet, then at Caius. He really can't be serious.

"You and me," he snarls. "We're settling this."

He's actually serious about this. Cetronia lets out a heavy sigh as the crowd of students gathers behind her. They watch in silence, the occasional whisper of who would win in a fight heard among them.

"You're a stubborn fool," she berates him.

"Just shut up and take my challenge." And then, for good measure, Caius spits, "Bumpkin bitch."

Her chest practically caves in on itself. Cetronia inhales sharply, eyes closing as she rolls her head between each shoulder. A chorus of "oooh" breaks out among the students. How they find this entertaining is beyond her.

She glances above him at the clock. It's nowhere near the Reaping's schedule. She's got time.

"Training Room Seven," she announces. Her voice is commanding and mature, intimidating enough that a few students actually take a step back from her in surprise.

Training Room Seven is the closest room to the library. The last of the training rooms, nowhere near the smallest or largest, though. Whenever Cetronia had to come to the Academy for assessments, it was Training Room Seven she presented her skills in. Caius had practically sprinted in the direction of the room, leaving Cetronia and the crowd to follow at a leisurely pace. Questions are thrown at her, asking if she's okay and if she'll go easy on Caius. One of them even requests she doesn't ruin his fighting capabilities, but the barrage of questions soon fall onto deaf ears.

Her fists are clenched tightly by her sides, her footsteps dangerously close to stomps of rage. The nerve of Caius, unable to take his losses as lessons. He could be resuming his classes and pursuing a great job, maybe even working his way into the ranks of the Peacekeepers. Caius could be a respected member of society. He could do anything if he wasn't so bullheaded and stubborn.

Within the instant Cetronia enters Training Room Seven, she throws her blazer aside and into the crowd. The students already training within lower their prop weapons and turn their heads in the directions of their seniors. As a crowd begins to flock to the walls and fill every inch of free space beyond Cetronia and Caius, Cetronia struts confidently over to Caius and keeps up her mask of calm.

Deep down in her gut, though, Cetronia is livid. She takes off her shoes and digs her toes into the padded flooring, feels the strain of her skirt against her legs. Despite the slit that starts at the middle of her thigh, the calf-length skirt is not suited for any kind of battle stance without tearing horrifically. She tries to keep her appearance—her stance—neutral so that Caius won't pick up on the obstacle she'll have to face.

There's people cheering for Cetronia, and minor few cheering for Caius. This is the opposite of how Cetronia wanted her Reaping—and it's preparation—to go, but she'll be damned if she doesn't stake her claim on what's rightfully been given to her.

They circle each other, slowly closing the distance before only a few feet remains between them. Cetronia side-steps and keeps her form loose, one hand hidden behind her hips; Caius is stomping and stalking like a crazed animal, his grip on the polearm the only thing proper about him. How crude, she thinks. He won't give her time to grab a weapon, won't let this fight be fair. Maybe if he'd shown off this ruthlessness more, he'd have been picked. Then again, perhaps it's the exact reason he wasn't—a complete barbarian can't represent their prestigious District, after all.

Caius jumps forward—practically propels himself with one foot in her direction as he aims the polearm for her torso. Cetronia doesn't have much time to actually think on a strategy, relying solely on fight or flight instincts as she jerkily slides to his side. The polearm moves directly for an onlooker in the crowd, already at eye-level and on a collision course.

Just as the students surrounding the poor onlooker shriek in realisation, Cetronia whirls on the ball of her foot and harshly kicks out at Caius with the heel of her other. It lands directly under his ribcage—she can feel the outline of it against her Achilles heel—and forces almost all of the breath out of his lungs. Caius lets out a pitiful wheeze as he's pushed back, as the polearm flies back with him before it drops entirely from his grasp with a loud twang. He doesn't move far, but he drops almost the second she pulls her foot back and rights her form. Caius is staggering away, reaching for the polearm as he clutches his stomach in agony.

Cetronia is physically one of the strongest students of her year. She grew up carrying marble and granite in her father's workshop, built her strength thanks to the rich environment she'd been raised in. Caius only needs one punch from Cetronia to wind up concussed—and if she were a cruel person, that's exactly what she'd leave him with.

Sometimes having a greater threat removed from right in front of you is the best way to realise how much you need to improve. Alcander made sure she knew that lesson when he caught on to her habit of ignoring her peers' advice.

He's back into a stance—someone's yanked the polearm away from him at the last moment, leaving him with mere fisticuffs as his only option. There's a little bit of blood on his lower lip, mixing in with the spit he's failed to wipe away. Cetronia can't help smirking at him; poor bastard bit his tongue when she kicked him. Caius takes in one deep breath, two, before raising his fists until they're level with his jaw.

Cetronia moves first this time. She's not as fast as she is strong, but she's definitely a whole world more graceful than Caius is. She feigns another kick, watches as he lowers his arms to catch her by the leg—and then the shock is on his face as her fist flies right in the direction of his throat. Cetronia misses his Adam's apple—a shame, she notes, as that was her target—and instead lands between his trachea and collar bone. He'll be in more pain than she'd intended, but he deserves it.

The fight is over within minutes. It's not the grand brawl the students were hoping for, but it was definitely the beating they'd expected. Caius is curled up on the floor, hands clamped around his throat as his face slowly turns blue. He's just barely getting a fraction of a breath in between each cough, but he's still capable of breathing nonetheless.

As the crowd cheers for her, Cetronia kneels down in front of Caius and leans in close. She can hear the tear at the slit of her skirt—the ironic sound that she'd expected to come during the fight—as she leans over his ear and says, "I'm sure they let even the dregs of the Academy into the Peacekeeper ranks. Chin up."

No one stops her as she walks towards the doors. Her blazer is offered back to her, and she accepts without a word. Caius finally has the crowd surrounding and suffocating him, just like he'd wanted.

Father definitely notices the miniscule tear in her skirt, but instead of lecturing her he simply smiles knowingly. Like he knows she's proven her worth, that Cetronia is truly the best this year has to offer. She can't help the pride that swells in her chest at the sight of it, at the hug he offers that, admittedly, only lasts half a second.

The escort—a lanky woman named Edith dressed only in bright pink, even having the colour in her hair and eyes—announces the change of plans before introducing this year's mentor. Cetronia almost groans out loud when she's called up onstage, announced as the "predetermined" volunteer instead of just letting her, well, volunteer. She makes her way up with grace and her head held high, looking down at Edith over her nose as the woman greets her.

Edith's voice is shrill and makes her sound like a constantly-spooked horse, but at least everything she says is understandable. "Give Miss Livius a hand everyone!" she screeches into the microphone. No one disobeys—if anything, they're already beginning to applaud before Edith is even finished with her sentence. The escort smiles toothily—(who on earth gets all of their teeth flattened like that?)—before waving a hand to silence the crowd.

Here it comes, Cetronia thinks. The demand for the atrocious speech.

"Now, I was told you have a few rousing words for us, Miss Livius?" Edith squeaks. She shoves the microphone into Cetronia's hands before backing away entirely.

With exaggerated effort, Cetronia brings the microphone up to her face. "'Rousing' may be subjective," she begins, and the colour drains from Edith's face once she hears Cetronia's accent. Everyone from her village speaks this way—most of the residents are descended from refugees who'd made it to Panem before their country was taken by the rising water levels, and their culture and language still thrives today—and it has taken a while for most people in the more populated areas of District Two to get used to it, to understand what everyone says. Regardless, anyone can understand Cetronia if they listen carefully enough. "I was quite bored by the basic structure of it myself, after all."

Students giggle. They seem to know what she means, causing her to wonder how often they've had to look over scripts written by the Academy's staff themselves.

"The only difference this year makes is that I won't be killing my District partner," Cetronia goes on, "and that's because I've instead been saddled with a Capitol partner. As much as you all want to believe that District Two will save all of these Capitol children—"

Edith reaches for the microphone, only to have it yanked away by Cetronia. "I'm not done with my speech, though," Cetronia says sweetly. Edith is as pale as a ghost, gesturing wildly to her assistants when she turns away from Cetronia. The live feed must be getting muted with some poor excuse about "technical difficulties", but that won't stop Cetronia.

"As much as you want to think I'll save them all, the truth is that I still have to kill eleven of them. Believing otherwise is childish, quite possibly hypocritical depending on the way you approach it. I was trained to win, and I'll do it with or without a well-fed, spoilt Capitol partner by my side."

There is no applause. There are no cheers. A few faces look up at her in absolute horror, though a good number of adults gaze up at her in complete rage. Cetronia doesn't care, though; the proud smile is still on Father's face, and that's all she cares about.

With a sharp inhale, she adds, "Now, please introduce my mentor so I can get off this stage already."

The microphone is snatched away harshly. Edith smiles nervously and lets out a small, ditzy giggle as she looks over the crowd again. They don't look as happy as they were before, and no amount of news could bring them back from the speech Cetronia had given.

Edith apologises for the "disruption" and is quick to call for the mentor for the Quell. "Ms Augusta's unfortunate passing has required a last-minute change in mentor this year," Edith explains, and alarms ring in Cetronia's ears. Camille Augusta died? Damn, she was one of the best mentors out there. She must have succumbed to old age, like most do. "So it's my absolute honour to introduce you all to Mr. Felix Brough!"

If Cetronia were still holding the microphone, she'd have dropped it.

The odds of something like this happening are as low as they can get without being nonexistent, the sinking feeling in Cetronia's gut causing her to beg internally, Not him, not him. Anyone but the man she'd met this morning, who was so heavy for himself that he could barely walk through a library. She can hear his footsteps as they climb the steps, too many seconds in between each creak of wood before another follows.

Those hideous wheezes, so loud and so alike to a balloon slowly letting out air. They're all she can hear as her face contorts into a mixture of disgust, horror, and disappointment. She can't even look at him as he approaches and presses a hand to her shoulder, the fat digits slick with sweat that seeps into the material of her blazer.

This has to be a joke. Camille probably just has a hidden sense of humour and sent out this man to play a trick on Cetronia.

But the proceedings go on. He gives a speech about how harrowing the 77th Game had been, how he'll make absolute certain his District and Capitol Tributes will succeed. She almost wants to scream at him, demand to know how in the world he could've won a Game, but she doesn't. Cetronia holds her tongue and clenches her fists tightly by her sides, waiting with the patience of a saint for the Reaping to end.

When it does, she walks in silence into the Justice Building to say her goodbyes. She sits down at a small chair and steadies her breathing, clenching and unclenching her hands faster than she should be.

Father finally bursts in with Mother and Grandmother in tow. The old woman clings to Cetronia and pats her head as Cetronia stares cautiously at her parents. Father still looks proud, but there's that doubt in his eyes that suggests his faith is not fully with his daughter.

As soon as Grandmother steps away, back to lean against Mother, Cetronia says softly, "How did he win?"

Father wastes no time with his answer. "Chance."

Her rage returns with a vengeance. A mentor who won by chance! This joke is beyond the point of staying funny—it's practically an insult now!

"He and the runner up were starving to death," Mother explains. Cetronia paces angrily as she listens, chewing at her fingernails to keep from throwing something. "The runner up just faded before he did. According to Alcander, it'd been a challenge to keep Mr. Brough alive after they retrieved him."

"It certainly looks like it!" Cetronia snaps.

Mother looks at her sternly. "Reign it in, Cetronia."

Cetronia inhales deeply and covers her face with her hands. She's tired and angry, but that isn't her mother's fault—nor anyone in her family's fault. If they'd just chosen a better-suited mentor…

"Yes," Cetronia breathes. Her voice lowers until it's calm again, and she removes her hands from her face. "My apologies, Mother."

She'll work through this, she thinks. That was part of her training, along with the fighting and the observations. She's not so hopeless that she has to actually rely on the man for this Quell—not when half of the Tributes lack most of the combat skills she has.

She'll work through this.

Fun fact about Cetronia: The accent specified that she has is a Ugandan accent!

I'm not sure how long it'll take to get the next Reaping done, but it'll definitely be less than this one took since I now have more access to my computer! And I also wanna share the news that I'm already planning the 101st Game, which means I'm definitely going to make sure this Quell goes out with a bang by the end of it all!

Hope you guys liked the chapter, and I'll see you all at District 3!