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Note: Just a friendly reminder to PM me any alliance ideas you might have.

Train Rides
Who We Are

Septimus Drakon, 18
District Two

"So, who are you, kid?"

Septimus glanced over at Balthasar, who was leaning back in a big, comfy armchair. Harriet and Naella had already retreated to the next car to discuss their own strategy. Harriet, at least, had flashed a smile in his direction, but Naella hadn't even bothered to look at him. That didn't bode well for any hope of him being accepted into the Careers' alliance.

Not that Careers were the only option. For years, District Two had allied only with District One and District Four. Stable. Predictable. The strategy ensured that only trained tributes were allowed in the Career alliance. While that provided a certain sense of order, it eliminated some of the spontaneity and resourcefulness that outer-district tributes could provide.

"Well?" Balthasar cocked an eyebrow. "Just wake me up when you're ready to talk, I suppose."

"I'm Septimus Drakon. What else do you need to know?"

Balthasar shrugged. "Why those Peacekeepers were chasing you, for starters. Why you didn't seem to know that the Victors would be the ones voting to decide who went into the Games if you volunteered. Oh, and where you learned that move you pulled on Anton; the others tell me they've never seen you around the academy."

Septimus scoffed. "As if the academy is the only place to study strategy."

"Well, at least that rules out the idea of you lurking around the academy without them noticing. I feel much more confident in their security now. Unfortunately, that still doesn't tell me much about you."

"Why didn't you ask the Peacekeepers why they were pursuing me?"

"Because I know the answer I would have gotten. It's their job to chase people. I'm sure your side of the story is much more entertaining."

"Entertaining?"

"Yeah. You know, a good story. I'm sure you've heard some of the ones they tell about me. I poisoned the intended volunteer so that I could take his place. It was always my plan to get booted out of the Career pack. The skulls of the five tributes I killed are still locked up in my basement somewhere, along with the little children I've abducted since I made it back from the Games." He smirked. "None of it's true, of course, but it makes for a good story. So what's yours?"

"My story?"

"Your story. Don't tell me you're a rebel."

Septimus froze. "Why would you assume that?"

"Because after what happened last year, the Capitol's going to assume any volunteer who isn't a Career is a rebel until they've proven otherwise. So you'd better have a good reason."

"After what happened last year?"

"Yeah, last year. The rebels. The torture. The executions. What dungeon have you been locked up in?" When Septimus didn't respond, however, Balthasar finally caught on. "Oh. You have been, haven't you. You've got no idea what happened last year."

Septimus clenched his fists. He hated admitting that he didn't know, but the simple fact was that he didn't. "They don't exactly keep me informed of … current events."

"So I see. Well, here's the scoop. Last year, a group of rebels got it into their heads that if they volunteered, banded together, and refused to fight, the Capitol would have to stop the Games. It didn't go so well for them – or their families. Wasn't that big a deal here in District Two, but you can see why the Capitol would be suspicious of … unorthodox volunteers."

"I'm not a rebel."

"Good to hear."

"My mother was."

"Less good."

"She was a Capitolite."

"Intriguing. Was?"

"Executed seventeen years ago."

"Better. Sorry."

"Don't be. I was only a year old; I don't remember her."

"And your father?"

"Still in the Capitol."

"What's his name?"

"Doesn't matter. I don't want anything to do with him."

"You do if he has money. He might sponsor you."

"He disowned me."

"Blood is blood."

"Blood didn't matter to him seventeen years ago. He left me in District Two to be raised as a prisoner. Why would he sponsor me now?"

"Because you're a strong contender with a compelling story. And there's nothing Capitolites love more than a compelling story. Where'd you get your training?"

"Quentin Markus."

"Any relation to former Head Peacekeeper Markus?"

"His nephew. They both fought in the rebellion."

"On the Capitol's side, I presume."

"Obviously."

Balthasar nodded. "Military training, then. Military history. Military tactics. Are you any good?"

"Very good. You saw me at the reaping."

"I saw you attack an unprepared opponent." He stood up. "Let's see what you've got."

"Now?"

"Why not?"

"It's against the rules." Was it? It was against the rules for tributes to fight each other before the Games. He'd never thought to ask if the same rule applied to mentors.

Balthasar shrugged. "It's not against the rules for me to attack you." He swung.

Septimus dodged. Once. Twice. The third time, he caught Balthasar's fist in his hand. Balthasar twisted away, but not quickly enough to block the blow that caught him on the chin. A second punch knocked him back into his chair. Septimus stepped back, satisfied, but Balthasar was grinning. "Not bad, kid. But what'd you forget?"

"Nothing."

Balthasar sprang to his feet and flung a knife at Septimus' feet. Septimus dodged, then stepped back, startled. Where had Balthasar been keeping it?

"Tucked it between the cushions before you got here, in case you did turn out to be a rebel," Balthasar said matter-of-factly. "Glad you're not. You might have a shot at this."

"Might?"

"Yeah. 'Maybe' is all any of us have to go on in the Games. Better to learn that now."

"I beat you."

"You beat an opponent who's been out of practice for ten years. And you knocked me back into an armchair. Don't do that in the arena."

"There won't be armchairs in the arena."

"You've got no idea what'll be in the arena. My arena was a giant town, built for people ten times my size. The tributes were like mice scurrying around, using oversized pins and needles as weapons. And you can bet they'll cook up something even crazier this year. You have to be ready for anything."

Septimus hesitated a moment. Finally, he nodded. "Thank you. I will be." And he would. No matter what the Capitol had in store, no matter what the other tributes were planning, he would be one step ahead. He had to be.

He would be ready.

Elizabet Brower, 15
District Ten

"Who are you hiding from?"

Elizabet sat up on her bed, surprised to see Glenn in the doorway. The first thing their escort had suggested was a change of clothes, so she had traded her reaping clothes for a fuzzy blue shirt, dark grey sweatpants, and soft blue slippers she had found in the closet. They were warm. Comfortable. And the bed was so soft. It had just seemed easier to stay in her room, to try to forget what was happening – if only for a moment.

"I'm not hiding." But her voice sounded timid, even to her. "I'm just … not ready yet."

Glenn sank into a chair nearby. "You and me both."

Elizabet couldn't hide her surprise. "But you – you've been mentoring for … what? Thirty years?"

"Thirty-eight, counting this one," Glenn nodded. "It seems longer, sometimes. And then sometimes … sometimes it seems like yesterday that I was sitting here, a tribute, on a train just like this one, doing exactly what you're doing now – wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere but here. Anything but this." He smiled a little. "I was your age, you know."

"You were?"

"Sure was. Fifteen years old. Pudgy. Quiet. Nervous. Scared out of my wits. And my mentor was … not the most helpful. My district partner was older. Stronger. Faster. The two of them ignored me." He smiled a little. "Everyone ignored me."

"Seems to have worked out all right," Elizabet pointed out.

"In the end, it did," Glenn agreed. "The other tributes ignored me during the bloodbath. The Gamemakers ignored me until it was too late. I hid my way to a victory everyone was convinced I didn't deserve." He leaned forward a little. "But that won't work for you. Not anymore. With so many extra tributes, it may seem easier to hide at first. Easier to fade into the background. But, mark my words, no one's going to just forget about you. Sooner or later, you have to step out of this room."

Elizabeth nodded. "I know. I'm just…"

"Not ready," Glenn finished. "That's fine. When you are, though, we're in the next car. Eating supper. I'll bring you some later if—"

"I'll be there," Elizabet promised. "I just need a moment."

"Fair enough," Glenn agreed, then got up slowly and made his way out of the room.

Elizabet lay down again, tears starting to well in her eyes. He was right, of course. She couldn't stay here forever. But if she went out there…

She was hungry, though. She'd eaten earlier, before the reaping, but that seemed like ages ago. A lifetime ago. And it hadn't been much. They never had much. She'd heard people talk about Capitol food…

Finally, Elizabet forced herself to her feet, then out the door. One step after another, towards the inviting aromas coming from the next car. She opened the door to find the others already eating. The six of them were seated around a large table, piled high with more food than she'd ever seen in her life.

All hesitation forgotten, Elizabet took the empty seat between Calantha and Glenn and immediately started filling her plate. "This is all for us?"

"Sure is," Glenn agreed with a smile. "And if there's anything you want more of, just let me know."

More? Elizabet shook her head. She couldn't imagine ever wanting more food than this. For a long while, the four tributes and even the three mentors were content to stuff their faces, and to forget – if only for a little while – why they were all there.

Eventually, though, none of them could eat any more – except Glenn, who had somehow saved room for dessert and was serving himself a generous portion of cake. Finally, Indira broke the silence. "So … Where do we start?"

"Maybe we should watch the other reapings first," Beckett suggested. "Find out exactly how many other tributes there are, which districts have extras – that sort of thing."

Glenn nodded. "Sounds reasonable." Together, they headed for the other side of the train car, to a ring of chairs and couches that circled a screen. Indira and Beckett settled onto one couch, while Calantha claimed one of the chairs. Presley and Tess chose a second couch. Elizabet silently chose a place on the third couch, and Glenn plopped down next to her with a plate of cake and cookies. "They'll calm your nerves."

They didn't. But she took a cookie, anyway, and munched silently as the reapings began to play. District after district. Name after name. Face after face. So many tributes – more than she'd expected, somehow. There had been twice as many from District Ten, so maybe she should have expected it, but she hadn't realized just how many that would be.

Districts One and Two passed by as normal – all volunteers. Careers – older, stronger, better prepared. District Three had two extras – a boy who seemed as confused as she had been when they began calling extra names, and another who knelt down to comfort Avery, last year's Victor, and ask her to be his mentor.

District Four brought not two volunteers, but six. Elizabet shook her head. Six tributes only a few years older than her, ready and willing – eager, even – to risk their lives in the Games. District Five had two volunteers of its own for the third year in a row. That made twelve. Twelve Careers.

Too many. Far too many.

District Six had six tributes, one after another after another. A boy and girl who seemed to be twins, followed by a little girl in handcuffs. District Seven had four – three girls and a boy. Six from District Eight, including a volunteer – a boy her age who raced to the stage after his brother's name was called.

District Nine had two extra girls. Then District Ten. Calantha's name was called, then Beckett. Then her. Then Indira. Two extra girls. Two girls who shouldn't be here.

District Eleven had a fourteen-year-old girl, a thirteen-year-old boy, and then a twelve-year-old boy – and, last of all, a volunteer. District Twelve had only two tributes. Elizabet felt Glenn's arm slide comfortingly around her shoulders as she finished the last of her cookie. Only two from Twelve. Only two. Their tributes hadn't rebelled. They had been obedient.

If District Ten had done the same…

She wouldn't be here. Indira wouldn't be here. But that didn't matter. They were here. There was no running now. No hiding.

There was no escaping this.

"Forty-six," Calantha said as the tape turned off.

Elizabet nodded. She hadn't been counting, but that sounded about right. Forty-six. Nearly double the usual number.

"Twelve Careers," Indira offered. "That's not good."

"None of it's good," Beckett pointed out. "But maybe there's some way we can use that. Twelve is a lot for one pack; they'll have to split up. If they're focused on each other…"

Elizabet tuned out as the other three kept talking. Glenn drew her close, his arms wrapped around her. "It's okay," he said quietly. "There'll be time to talk strategy later. Get some sleep."

Elizabet opened her mouth to argue. To say that she wasn't tired. But she was. She was tired, and scared, and she wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to think about the Games. Not yet.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they could talk about strategy. Tomorrow, she would be focused. Tomorrow, maybe, she could forget how scared she was.

Tomorrow, she would be ready.

Eleanor Marxs, 16
District Twelve

"Who are you?"

Eleanor glanced up from the couch where she and Barry sat together. Barry was drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch – impatient or nervous, Eleanor wasn't sure. "What?"

Brennan leaned forward a little in his chair. "Who are you? That's the first thing my own mentor asked me. The first thing he taught me. Whoever you used to be – the mayor's kid, the class clown, the loud one, the quiet one, the smart one, the athletic one – you have to leave it all behind. Whoever you were – that person gets left behind somewhere. Maybe that person is still back there in District Twelve. Maybe you'll leave them somewhere in the chariots, or in the Capitol. Sooner or later, you'll become someone else. Someone new.

"And that can be good or bad. You get to decide who that person is. Who you want to be in the Games. What have you always wanted to be? Who would you be, if you didn't have people telling you that you couldn't?"

"Free," Eleanor answered without hesitation.

Brennan smiled a little. "Good. Free from what?"

My father, she almost said. But that was a given. She had been free from him – from her life back in District Twelve – the moment her name had been called at the reaping. "Rules," she decided after a moment. "Being told what to do, when to do it, when to go, when to stay. I want to … to be able to make a choice, because it's what I want, not because it's what someone else says is best."

Brennan nodded. "That's good. The audience loves free-spirited tributes. But you need to be careful with that – make sure you don't come across as rebellious. Especially after last year."

Eleanor hesitated. "I hadn't thought of that."

"That's what I'm here for. Just make sure those 'choices' you want don't turn out to be anti-Capitol. For example, you don't get to choose not to fight. But you do get to choose when to fight. Or who to fight. Frame it like that, and you'll be fine." He turned to Barry. "What about you?"

"What if … What if I don't want to change? What if I like myself the way I am?"

Brennan smiled sadly. "Not an option, I'm afraid. The Games change everyone."

"You came out okay," Barry pointed out.

Eleanor nodded. As Victors went, Brennan didn't have it too bad. He had a shop. He was helping the district. He seemed pretty happy. And he seemed very normal.

Brennan thought for a moment before answering. "It's been seventeen years since my Games. Sometimes it seems longer. Sometimes it seems more like seventy. There are times when it seems like all those horrible things happened to someone else, somewhere very far away or long ago. Like it's all just a nightmare, or a story.

"But then something will happen, something that brings back the memories like they were yesterday. I'll remember my first kill – a girl from District Seven. She didn't do anything to me. She had food; we didn't. I'll remember her guts spilling. The smell of blood. So much blood. Hers. A girl from Nine. My own district partner. A little boy from Three – only twelve years old. And Mercury … the girl from Five."

"The girl you faced in the finale?" Barry asked.

Brennan nodded. "We were both lying on the floor. Weaponless. Choking the life out of each other. It's been seventeen years, and I can still remember how it felt – trying desperately to breathe, to hold on … just a little longer than she could."

"And you did."

"I did," Brennan agreed. "But it's things like that, Barry … things that you never forget." Carefully, he slipped the glove off his right hand, revealing a tightly clenched fist. "Things you never let go of."

Eleanor couldn't help staring. Brennan's injury was no secret – nerve damage, the doctors said – but, with his gloves, it was easy to forget.

"Seventeen years," Brennan said quietly. "But there are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep." He shook his head. "Those wounds, those memories … They don't have to consume you. They don't have to overwhelm you. But they do change you. I'm not the same boy who entered the Games. That boy would never have made it out. I changed. So will you. But you get to decide whether that change will destroy you … or make you stronger." He pulled his glove back on. "So what'll it be, Barry. Who do you want to be?"

"I want … I want to win. But everyone does."

Brennan held up his hand. "Doesn't matter if everyone else wants it, too. You want to win. What's it going to take to win?"

Barry hesitated. "I'll have to fight. So … I want to be a fighter?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"An answer."

"Good. Because that's what you'll have to do – both of you. And not just for yourselves. For your families, too. The tributes last year – Lyta and Miles – they fought, even though they knew they would probably die. And, because of what they did last year, District Twelve was spared."

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. "Spared?"

Brennan nodded. "Come with me. There's something I need to show you."

Twelve reapings later, she understood. "This changes everything," Eleanor said quietly.

Brennan shook his head. "This changes nothing. There were extra tributes the year I won, too. You go into the Games, you fight, you kill, you survive. Tributes die. One lives. It's the same."

"But the odds—" Barry protested.

"It's never about the odds. It's never been about the odds. Do you really think a kid from District Twelve would have won the first Quarter Quell if it were all up to the numbers? The Games are about a lot of things. They're about determination. They're about knowing when to fight and when not to fight. When to trust your allies and when to go it alone. They're about sponsors and the Gamemakers and paying attention to the arena and to the other tributes – but they are not about the odds."

Barry opened his mouth to argue, but apparently thought better of it. Eleanor nodded. "So what do we do?"

Brennan smiled a little. "We. I like that. Good to hear it so soon. Lyta and Miles worked well as a pair last year, and I think you will, too. The first thing we're going to do is watch those reapings again. No, don't argue. This time, don't just stare. Don't just count. Keep an eye out for threats – aside from the obvious. Careers are always a threat. Who else do you need to watch? Watch for potential allies, too. People who will be useful, but also people you can trust … for a while, at least."

Eleanor swallowed hard. For a while. Barry was nice enough, but how long could she trust him? How long before he turned on her, just like Brennan had turned on his own ally?

Eleanor took a deep breath. She would have to watch him. She would have to be careful. Because, as friendly as Barry seemed, sooner or later, he would be competition.

And she would have to be ready.

"It doesn't matter who we were. It only matters who we are."