Chapter Seven: A hero's welcome can just as easily be a villain's farewell

"The crowd laughs with you always but it will cry with you for only a day."- King Vidor.

Oliver Bold, District Seven Tribute, He/Him.

District Seven Prep Room, Remake Centre, Central Capitol.

3:00 pm, June 23rd, HG 87

"Why does she look like that?" I was always taught not to judge a book by its cover, but I don't think that idea really counts here. With the look Azmi gives me, I can tell we're on the same page. I wouldn't say it to my stylist's face, of course. She said she needed to adjust her hair and left ten-ish minutes ago. I'm not sure what she's fixing when it's mostly made of twigs, but that's her business.

"It's probably surgery and makeup. I'm surprised she isn't replacing us in the parade. Put the freak in freakshow." She huffs, rolling her eyes and reaching towards me to ruffle my hair. "How does she expect us to keep balanced like this?"

I shrug; I've been watching the door, just in case she returns. Sprucie Root looks like the first villain that Bee and I ever made. Leavesamamnia in the flesh. We were only… six? No wonder Papa says we make him feel old.

Spruce's not the only person I've seen around this city looking like a cartoon villain. She's definitely got the weirdest look… and attitude. At least she was flitting back and forth between us since District Seven only has her as a stylist, so I didn't have to deal with her all the time I was getting ready.

"You stay right there, darling. I can't possibly trust those avoxes to get Azmi ready for me. I'm looking for realism, and what would a bunch of traitorous sewer mutes know about trees? Hmph!"

I'm not sure what was creepier, her rambling or the silence of my prep team.

After a while, she let me stay with Azmi and did the rest of our makeup. I don't see why because she said they wouldn't care about our faces.

"Then again… I simply must accentuate those baby blues of yours. You're going to be stars. It would be a waste of my talents to hide your lovely faces from your fans. I'm glad that they stopped me from giving you those masks, but it does break the illusion. Oh well… as they say in the City Centre: one must sacrifice themselves for beauty and brilliance."

Azmi must've seen how uncomfortable I was because she kept Sprucie talking so I could avoid her. She got the short end of the stick, pun intended. Her dress has a massive skirt with tendrils on the bottom. They keep getting stuck on the floor, so it's tough for her to walk. At least she's wearing flat shoes… I mean, I hope she is. She doesn't look any taller.

"I don't know what she's thinking." Azmi sighs. "There's no way this could be safe. You can't be safe standing on someone's shoulders unless you're a circus person or something. They don't tour in the Districts anymore."

"Huh?"

"This has to be against the rules. I'm in a dress, you're only going to be attached by velcro on your feet. The noise could spook the horses, or the wind could knock us both over. Capitolites always throw things. You have a long cape, too. Do you know how easy it is to get those tangled?"

I reach up and hug her. Once Sprucie's returned, she's put on a calmer face. Our stylist leads us downstairs to the stables, where the others are already staying.

She climbs onto the chariot to help us up. Then she picks me up, and it's not the first time I've cursed my height today. She asks Azmi to crouch so that she can attach my feet to her shoulders. When we straighten up, I'm finally at eye level with our stylist. Creepy, to say the least. Her eyes are all… dark and foggy.

"Would you look at that? Perfect." She coos and pinches my cheek. "I told you: I'm going to turn you into stars. You'll be remembered by my work, not by whatever prom-esque outfit he chooses for your Interviews."

She reaches for a bundle of wood by her feet, producing two stilts and putting one in each of my hands. I don't feel any safer.

"Remember to hold on tightly, okay? It would be a travesty if something happened to either of you! My career would be in ruin, and we can't have that. You'd better make me proud." I cringe away as she kisses my forehead, but at least Azmi gets the same treatment "Bye-bye!"

She runs off and leaves the others to stare at us. I glance downwards, craning my head to see Azmi's face.

"How's the weather down there?"

"Don't make me come up there. I will get you." She rolls her eyes skyward.

"You're just jealous that I'm the taller one now. Maybe this'll shrink you forever!" I'm rarely taller than anyone, even Bee, so I'm more than willing to take advantage of this.

"Over my dead body… that was a poor choice of words."

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine, Oliver. Just… don't wiggle about. Or move. Don't fall forwards, backwards, or anywhere."

"Aye-aye, Captain Plammen."

The whole room is staring, but I can't help feeling like eyes are burning into my back, even when the attention turns to the cheering outside. I'm being watched, but I guess I better get used to that. After all, it's gonna be the whole country watching me soon.

Cassandra Melner, District Twelve Tribute, she/her.

Stables, Remake Centre, Central Capitol.

I suspected that Jet and I were going to look ridiculous. There's never been a single sensible tribute outfit. Confirming it makes me angrier. I know they can't do the fire schtick again, but there are other options. All of them are terrible options, but they're a metric fuck ton better than this.

We're dressed as stone pickaxes, but our costumes are made of foam. 'Pick-zel' art, as Minnie put it. Some old reference to a mining game. Someone needs to teach these people the difference between mining and mockery. The gods hate me, but not as much as my stylist will when she gets this piece of shit costume back. I've already picked holes in the foam with how flimsy the material is. If only the inside was the same way. My arms are trapped in place by the wooden handle.

"We left your hands free so that you can hold on. Just appreciate the crowd and enjoy the show! It's the closest to President Snow that you'll ever get, so you'll need to cherish every minute of it."

I'm glad Minnie has as much faith in my survival as the rest of my team does. My chances were dismissed the moment that Haymitch spoke to me. I'm about average for what people think of the tributes from our district. At least I'm being pitied rather than outright hated; I never thought I'd say that. At home, it's the opposite, and for a good reason. I've taken the blame for things I had a choice in and accepted the punishment for getting caught. They can't blame me for being Reaped. Jet's only been receiving different treatment because of his stunt, and I'm collateral damage. Which is something I'm going to have to get accustomed to. I should've punched him when he got up there. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten all tangled up in it. As a matter of fact, it could've bettered my chances and split us up for good… but we're both already in too deep.

I shouldn't have accepted his confession in the first place… and I should've broken it off with him as soon as I realised how little he knew about the differences between our worlds. But he was so eager, earnest even, and it benefited me… now we're here. I should've done so many things… but I can't fix it now. I won't share the blame for what was ultimately his mistake.

Suffice it to say: Jet hasn't made much of a good impression. He keeps trying to defend his actions. I know he's a bit sheltered, but he must realise this is pointless. Couples, or 'couples', get broken apart all the time. People die, leave, or get married off. It's not common, but it's not the first time that a pair would be broken up by the Hunger Games, even excluding the most famous example. Partners cry at the Reapings every couple of years. A few older tributes leave a kid or two behind. Life goes on, and the world keeps spinning.

We're not as unique as he thinks we are.

It's how the system works, and it wouldn't have been the end of the fucking world if he had stayed home. Even if I died, his life wouldn't be over. He just hasn't clocked the severity. The least he could have done was pretend it was an act to the team. The smartest thing would have been to play it up in front of the cameras and scheme in the shadows. That's the only way District Twelve ever makes it past the Bloodbath… but I'd know I was lying to myself if I said either of us would be popular as winners.

I'm not letting his actions be my death warrant. Quite the opposite.

"I'm scared, Cassie. What if they don't like us? We have to be so careful here. I can't lose you on the first hurdle." There he goes, gripping my hand again. Shaking. If he's not careful, he'll cut off my blood circulation, and then we'll be doubly screwed.

"We'll be okay, Jet. It's just a fashion show. Nothing can hurt us while we're here. They wouldn't allow it. And.. hey now," I clear my throat. "It's no different than when I met your dad… we don't have to care what they think."

It's kinder than the truth. The audience will love us because that's how the game works. The people will sing our praises because they don't know any better. The crowd spits the same sweet venom Jet has always sworn as truth.

"Cassie! Cassie! I love you, I'll never let anything get between us."

What matters is what the powers that be think of you and what they can take away. Be it your finger or your life.

Same shit, different day, worse situation. I'm stuck in the middle of a fickle crowd and a loyal dog. Neither of them will ever pay enough attention to see what's coming, and both think they'll get what they want. Unstoppable force versus immovable object. Maybe that's a good thing. Less time to feel hurt or betrayed, less time to feel regret. It'll be quick and painless when it's over.

It's the only thing I can give him out of every promise ever made… I'm not talking about the crowds anymore. Does it even matter when I know that the fucking President is going to be up there, eyes on me, on us? Thinking of ways to get us out of the way. It'd be easier to succumb to my fate. Odds are, they kill me anyway, no matter how I react to what Jet does. Or they'll let me down easier if I ditch him now.

Despite everything, he's still someone from home. He needs me; he thinks it's best to die for me. Only I can give him what he wants now that he's chosen his path.

Who knows? Miracles have happened before.

That miracle died with its martyrs… so this will have to be enough. It'll be enough to get me through. Sabine will be rooting for me. I mean, she said our parents were always watching over us. Not sure what that means, but it doesn't hurt to believe her. I guess there's a time when we all have to sacrifice for our own gain. I'm the only one willing to do whatever it takes to save me when the going gets tough. People are inherently selfish, and I'm not ashamed of that. Relying on Jet as a shield is my only insurance, and it's a last resort. Just in case.

Arla Nezovic, District Nine Tribute, She/Her.

Stables, Remake Centre, Central Capitol

This entire city looks and acts like something out of a fever dream, each little bubble of naïveté acting as its own separate world. It's amusing, if confusing. Alien, but in a different way to home. I only know one thing. They're appealing to emotions that I simply do not have.

I've socialised a little, but it's nothing more than to make a good impression, which I seem to have failed to give my District Partner. She's far timider than she appeared on stage and on the train. She's running on adrenaline. Twitchy and uncomfortable. I'm not sure she got any sleep, but it's hardly the time to ask.

"If you keep squirming, you'll look more like a worm than a wheat stalk." I approach the conversation carefully. She's been hidden behind me since we arrived in the stables. Hardly reassured by any compliments from the team or anyone. Even that sweet girl from Eleven couldn't get a smile out of her with an enthusiastic wave as we walked past, apologising for her own partner's actions.

Our outfits were both made entirely of grain stalks. There was a material collection task force that was opened back in 84. I always assumed the yield was used in the schools. But perhaps it was something to do with this? What a cruel coincidence it would be. My father picked it up as a second job, on and off, whenever we were down on rent. It turns out that our shared stylist, Dora, wanted as much authentic material as she could get. District Nine has never had the most glamorous costumes, so I can't critique them. I've never been one to engage with the impracticalities of such outfits, and I'm not one of Eight's professionals, but I look alright. The golden brown of my dress even matches the horses' manes. Sadie's been fidgeting since she got here. The suit covers more. It's noticeably tighter, and there are her personal grievances.

"I don't care how I look in it." A lie. She wrinkles her nose when she lies. "... Rather not be seen at all. Too fake n' showy."

Ah.

"If it's all the same to you," I give a coy little smile. "I think you're really pretty anyway, and I bet Dora has something big planned for the Interviews. You know if they had the materials, we would have been twinning!"

She smiles in return, but only a little, clasping a hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you, Arla… "

It's a classic trick of mine: the little sister schtick. Only one person has seen through it, and Megs isn't here to call me out. The thought of that is… disturbing. Anyway, yes, I'm older than my partner, but the effect works all the same. She's got two older siblings. I can't imagine dealing with double the annoyance, but it's not my place to judge. We were both the youngest, so it's something to talk about and bond over like our Escort suggested.

Her father seems to be a touchy subject. I didn't push last night, and I won't now. She didn't pry about my mother or brother. In comparison, my father is the only relative I have left… and I love him as much as I think I can love someone. He focused on raising me and working to make sure I could live. Live to work to live in a vicious cycle. He liked making promises and telling lies that only a parent could believe.

"Arla, sweetie, it's going to be okay. I promise, I'm never going to let anything happen to you. Maybe Vic isn't coming home, but we're still here. I promised your mother I'd keep you safe, and I will. As long as I'm here to do so."

"You can't promise that. Mama said telling lies is wrong, and Victor loved her most."

She's not here anymore. Not to protect Victor or to save Dad from himself. I don't need to be safe. Not from a skinned knee or the death that haunts this family. Mama understood that more than anyone else.

He's been foolishly hopeful, but we Nezovics are nothing without our resolve.

"Look, kiddo, I know this is scary for both of us. You can come home, I know you can make it. I know you can win; I promise you can. You'll be safe, and nothing will happen to us. Nothing." He chokes on his tears. "I'm sorry… I've never been able to keep us all together. But… you're strong, mila, I believe in you, always will. You can make it."

He pulls me into a hug, and his words sound broken on his tongue. His mili and mila. That was always what he called me and Vic when he was thinking about Mom.

"Even if I don't… I'll say hi to Victor for you, okay Papa? Stay safe… I'll miss you."

He'll be lonely if I don't come back. He's said it himself, he's nothing without family. A struggling family will lose their daughter if Sadie doesn't survive. I'll admit that the odds aren't in our favour. They never are, so it'll be a shock to the system if I make it... but that's not why I want to win.

The primary objective is survival because I value my life. The circumstances back in Nine aren't ideal, but nothing is. I won't let that be what stops me. I won't wallow in fear. Victory isn't impossible. It's only improbable, and that's all the reassurance needed. I'll kick ass in the parade, and that's just the first stepping stone.

"All tributes proceed to board your chariots." A speaker chimes in. "The horses will pull you in District Order for the procession, and once you are on the chariot, you will not be allowed to leave until arrival at the Hunger Games tunnel, unless you require immediate medical attention. Happy Hunger Games!

There's our cue… it's showtime. This city will be the stage in the play of my life and the journey to a new one.

Regina Alameda, District One Tribute, she/her.

District One Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol.

3:30 pm, Tribute Procession, June 23rd, HG 87

Back home, I have a reputation to uphold. It's a legacy given not just by my brother's victory but built by my skill and temperance. I ruled the Auborous Academy with biting blades and steel punches. Losses mattered too much to succumb to failure.

I glance over at my District Partner. No one would've thought that pedantic Paladin would have made it here. None of the Whitefangs will ever amount to anything but scorn. That's what Mother says, and she knows how people tick. Especially those whose names are local legends.

I don't think I've ever had the time to know someone. This might be my last chance. Not because I'm dying here, but because all these fuckers are a waste of time. There are too many wannabes. Really, what the hell's the point of trying? This will be easy, as long as it all goes to plan, but it'll make boring TV if I just let a bunch of insects rip each other to pieces. That's what Quintus did, and look where that got him. He turned into a tired once-hero who uses his Victor clout to influence elections he can't win otherwise.

…

Of course. It's that easy. Confidence is the draw. Play it up, and supporters flock to you like moths to a candle. I can utilise the Pack to my whims, and I will. To take over the minds of a few outliers should be easy. Especially the Walker boy. I mean, he's already halfway there. His whole family is a menace to the Career system. Keep your allies close and your enemies closer. They never expect their own tricks to be turned against them. No one ever does.

This naive audience expects nothing more from me than what my brother showed them. This requires a flexible plan. A willing alliance would be helpful too. I hardly glance at the crowd, their adoration bouncing off of me. Paladin soaks it up like a sponge, and the lights glint off his armour. King Arthur, huh? He's more of a soldier or a knight, practically nothing compared to me. He won't have a magic man to depend on.

I will be the Queen of these games. Queen to D1 versus a knight? We know who wins that battle, whether in chess, warfare or leadership. This was never a democracy, and it wouldn't be the first time chess made a game go smoother.

I don't need anyone's trust, and I won't be giving it out. If I'm to have allies, all I want is their loyalty and fear. The audience's love means nothing in the long run if it's foolish enough to support any old sob-story-toting underdog. Fear and respect will make what I'll do even sweeter. No one brings forth an alliance without an ulterior motive. Anyone who believes otherwise is less than a worthy opponent and will deserve what's coming to them.

"I've known you would make it here ever since you walked in through my doors. You're our first pick for volunteering, Alameda. The top of your year. We have chosen you in faith that you will bring us another victory, that you will honour our work, our district, and the country. We can think of no one more capable. " The terror of the Academy halls- the Victormaker, the serpentine backstabber, poisoner of men, et cetera- Taaffeite Spinel smiles at me. It's almost scarier than when she's pissed. "Well done. That's not something I can say about a lot of my trainees."

"The council was unanimous even with our correspondents elsewhere. My voting privilege when it came to you was revoked for obvious reasons, but regardless… you are our designated volunteer for the 87th Annual Hunger Games." Quintus' face is as impassive as ever. Regardless he claps me on the back and manages a smile, mocking though his words may be. "Congratulations, little sister. I'm sure our parents will be thrilled to hear that our work has paid off so soon."

I hate to admit it, but he's right for the first time in ten years, and he even sounds genuine about it. I've been living for this day. Waiting for the opportunity my parents, brother and trainers have been preparing me for. This is my lifeblood; I've been selected for the Hunger Games.

"Victor Lux, Victor Tourmaline, and the… other Victor Spinel asked us to give you their regards. We have high hopes that soon you will join this list. Three's legacy has been getting too comfortable. You will restore order to our ranks, that we are certain of."

"How come they aren't here?"

"Well, we believed it appropriate that your brother and I inform you, while Tourmaline and my uncle tell your… equivalent."

"And Victor Lux?"

"Organising a tourney for your last facet of training. Off you go."

"But, ma'am-"

"What." For a moment, I'm sent back to the first day of training, the same icy glare sent my way for interrupting. Unlike then, she nods her chin, allowing me to speak where there would once be a penalty.

"Who will it be? I'd like to know who my partner i-"

"That's for us to know, and you to wonder. Run along now, little one." Despite the interruption, I can't find the annoyance needed to snap at my brother. This is the best day of my life, and it can only get better from here. "There is much work to be done."

Paladin and I have sparred before, and I've seen him perform when our positions were announced to the rest of the Academy. He's honour-bound and fickle. The boy has a lot holding him back. There's a lot to use against him when he's on his little redemption arc, trying to convince the world he's not his father's son when he should have his head in the game. He wouldn't even try to hurt me. I, however, have no such reservations.

I risk one last look at him and grip the bar tighter, but his eyes are on the crowds. How can you survive like this if you can't identify the threat next to you? No matter. The crown is already mine.

After all, I'm the only one they see as worthy of it. Why else would I be here? I'll no longer be anyone's second choice. I'll have the best odds. The richest sponsors. I will be a legend… and I won't have to meet death to do it.

Colten Lux, District Five Tribute, He/Him

District Five Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol.

I won't deny that much of my time here has been spent observing the merry band of zombies. It was a gloomy environment in the stables, a stark contrast to the eternal party atmosphere currently surrounding us. An unlimited supply of food, drink and even sleep. One widespread conspiracy back in District Five was that it was to fatten up tributes so the politicians could cannibalise their bodies. They're foolish thoughts as such things would upset citizens' sensitivities. Either way, I predict one of the scrawnier kids will end up with a ruptured stomach by tomorrow. Lily, maybe, or the utterly minuscule girl from Three. The food here is loaded with all sorts of artificialities. Better than starving, but overconsumption is no joke either. It'd be just like the Hunger Games to cause such an issue.

They'll all be eating each other alive soon.

A single drop of water hits my face. I wipe it off with a finger before returning my hands to the railing. Lily has begun to shiver. Another. I look upwards, crunching numbers and patterns. The meteorology elective is finally paying off. Another point to me. Knowledge is already appearing to be my greatest ally.

These cloud formations are unnaturally perfect lattices, almost grid-like in appearance. The wrong colour for the presence of thunder. No air pressure front could form so quickly or cause the half-inch of rain that hits us. No flood, but certainly nothing to sniff at. I've heard stories of the Capitol's weather machine, able to wring hurricanes from heat waves. For scientific experiments and safety measures, much like the water pressuriser we in Five use to sustain the dams. Even that was only given after the flood of the Styx and subsequent destruction. So why would this marvel of machinery be in use now?

A bright, sunny day has been turned into a torrential storm, including artificial rain with periodical thunder and a light show masquerading as lightning. Ironic, considering the hydroelectric plant overalls Lily wears.

Someone's getting fired.

Unless…

I see Three's chariot ahead, past Four's seahorses and shells. Technology is aiding me in all sorts of things today; the two are painted metallic gold with black outlining their hands and joints, dressed in a way I can only describe as eccentric. Steampunk, to use the closest category. From the quickly blurring screens, I can see that the girl has green markings fading around her face… an imitation of… rust? Oh, right. Rust, robots, Three, technology. As if there's ever been any tech in three that lasted long enough to rust. I'm off my game, but there's no point in dwelling. One cannot lose before starting.

They're so needlessly still… frozen in shock? That can't be it. The girl flinches whenever the 'lightning' strikes near the chariot. Why is the storm so concentrated around them anyway?

A quiet rumble occurs at constant, five-second intervals. It only takes two for the world to light up once again. One strike hits Three's chariot, and as they say, the rest is history.

I weep for anyone intending to make a good impression after that. The two spring to life, electrified, performing the most minuscule actions to keep the performance of clockwork toys ongoing. As the rain blasts on, their 'rust' becomes more apparent. By now, I've given up even trying for attention, though it wasn't my primary goal anyway. Lily, like most, is entranced by the light show. I imagine this is what fireworks must look like up close. Five's last Victory Tour occurred before she was born and I was no more than two. My family has, unsurprisingly, never had much cause for such an extravagant celebration.

I take it back. Someone is being paid very handsomely for this. Paid off, should I say. No wonder rich kids get such privileges. I'll need to think of something to iron that crease out later on. I'm no street rat, but a Victor's money is no joke.

My costume is screwed anyway. There's no point in solar panels when cloudy weather is afoot. Were they to have chosen hail to use, we would all surely bruise. Especially Oliver Bold, whose chariot has just left the stable. Standing just over ten feet upon his partner's shoulders. I must look like a fool compared to the Threes, hair plastered to my head and only getting worse. I'll have to put it back up again when I'm dry. We're only halfway down the track, so I bite the bullet and take off one of the fake solar panels for use as a cover. I'll not succumb to hypothermia over such a small bump in the road.

I'm not upset or angry. I have no need to be. Everything is fine. Three is cheating and creating a fiasco of what was already farcical, but that's fine. The pretentious, over-the-top way of life was never my style. While I'm more than ready to admit that social climbing is necessary, the pageantry is foolish. The only physical looks to worry about in this game are during death and funerals, bodies immortalised in memoriam in coffins and on screens. It's a death competition, not a runway show.

So no, I'm not angry. Everything will fall into place with or without the success of this parade. It bears no importance. My subject is a much more interesting character than any costume could bring to life. Why whine about an expensive show when my ticket to life is merely yards away?

I don't need a show of power. Only the powerless ever succumb to those anyway. I only need time to plan and refine, and if this stunt delays the parade, then that's simply another point to me.

Harlyn Jute, District Eight Tribute, He/Him.

District Eight Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol

There's a begrudging sort of respect I have to have for the aesthetics of this city. I mean, I still hate everyone in it. If given a chance... I would commit numerous petty crimes against anyone here because I'm nice. That doesn't stop it from being a pretty place. No wonder people kill to live here. Looking at you, Careers. Eternal parties, free entertainment, the ability to be somewhere else at the touch of a button… it's the kind of life you'd imagine only the President could afford. Yet… it's a whole city of idyll and luxury. I almost want to stay, to find out how far it goes, what it could give me. Maybe that's how they get you. I am not immune to propaganda. Snap out of it, Harlyn. You're better than this.

Okay. Let's be honest here. I don't know what the fuck is going on. There's a vague timeline of events that happens annually. But I've been jailed or on the run during the past few Games seasons. I spit at the ground whenever I see it on screen and move on. So I'm not too caught up on the details. All I know right now is that Lysanne is adorable in her little thread spool outfit, I'm covered in needles in what's either the best coincidence or worst subtlety in history, our stylists kept hitting on one another, and they expect me to ride this death trap when I'm effectively intoxicated on whatever they shot me with.

Morphling must have nothing on this. If I press on where it got me, I can't feel a thing. Never had this back in Threadbare, which is a surprise since it's much more effective. With Peacekeepers, bullets usually did the trick when you were too far away to restrain, but they never managed to hit me. Then again, I'm a tribute now. Precious cargo and all that. Only Gamemakers and fellow tributes have the privilege of trying to kill me now; it's such an honour.

It's go time, and I don't have a choice. I hold on for dear life and hope that no one throws anything. The Sevens in front of us better not go toppling backwards. I've had enough injuries for the past two days. Thank you very much.

"Lysanne? Psst- Lysanne!"

She does her best to focus on the crowd and ignore me, but I'm nothing if not persistent.

"Miss Shantung?"

"Can't this wait? They can see you talking!" It's an attempt at a firm rebuttal, but this girl is so soft-spoken that whispering is her default. We're not bugged, I checked, so it doesn't really matter what we say as long as we're not breaking the sound barrier.

"Technically? Yes. Realistically? No."

"…Okay. What do you need?" She has to speak louder over the crowd, but it's not like they would notice anyway.

"Is it just me, or is it really warm out here?"

"Harlyn, it's raining. What in the name of… never mind. It's just the petrichor."

I hold onto my button hat as the storm continues to worsen. I've never seen weather as extreme as this before. I feel a little… queasy.

"Th' what?"

"The smell of rain… Harlyn!"

She doesn't get the chance to reach as we go over a bump, and I begin swaying off the edge. I land with my back on the chariot, head dangling off the edge, but I don't fall. The sky opens up for good, and it feels like heaven is falling with it.

It's freezing and fantastic. The rain ruins the show and cleanses me of the clownish makeup all at once. Surface runoff creates a stream in the chariot tracks. I laugh, and I am free.

They will kill me in that arena… but watching the shaky mirage crack… I can't find it within me to care. Spectators scramble for unplanned shelter, and stormtrooper rejects fiddle tirelessly with the screens, trying to get them out of the rain. It's breaking. It's already crumbling. They're not as strong as they think they are. Never have been.

I bet District Twelve is glad they're still stuck in the stable. The District Elevens rolling out the doors seem to jump as they're exposed to the elements. The crowd is still scrambling for cover. I take in the laughs and horrified gasps. I can be their clown, their comic relief. They'll love me, kill me and then I'll be nothing. The only thing I need is someone to carry on for me.

Behind us, the procession seems to stutter, and I can envision the stammers in the footage. The desperate attempt at maintaining order. It's what happens every time the audience doesn't like what they see. Inconvenience is the vilest offence against them. Good. Let the antsy fuckers wait. It's what they get for thinking that I'll smile prettily and wave politely like the rest of them. Snow is waiting on a gilded podium, soaking through to the skin, and if I cause the senile git even a little bit of annoyance, then it'll be the best thing I've ever done. Inconvenience should be the least of his worries.

Iso taught me that no matter what, every action can influence change. So if I can piss off enough people, my job is done. I'm not a hero, I'm not a saint, I am who I am, and this fucking city can't take that away from me. They've made honesty a death sentence and created an invisible boundary between truth and lies. It's only fair to use it against them. First things first… get to the tower and get the hell out.

We all die anyway. It's ticking down to be my time to go. What's the harm in causing a little trouble before I leave this life behind and finally return to my mother's arms?

Pariah Locklear, District Ten Tribute, He/Him.

District Ten Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol.

It's a disgusting display of pagentry... enough to make someone weep... but they have not earned my tears . The spectators are distracted by fireworks and flashing lights as the officials try to keep the rain at bay. At least they're not looking at me. When our chariot was revealed, it had begun to pour. By then, I think the audience was lost in whatever was so interesting about the front end of the line.

The faux leather is a mockery of good design and quality material, soaking us through to the bones. Our shoes are already ruined, and we're hardly halfway down the mile. It's a blight on District Eight, one of whose tributes seem to be taking this all like a joke. A distastefully patterned poncho, faeces coloured boots, hat, and breeches in a stereotypical assumption of how we both live. Not the cattle ranchers that our District depends on, the people whose livelihoods they depend on. They've dressed us up as cowboys.

Even in his dishevelled state, Dallon promised to have a word with our stylists on our behalf. It'll be more than he's said to either of us. Too busy sobbing through the train ride, staring at an empty space where the late Buck Caprine must have stood. I'd have more sympathy for our solo mentor, but it's not his life on the line. At the risk of sounding unempathetic... this is, in part, his job.

No one from our District would ever be seen dead working in this garb. It'd be impractical, a waste of both money and materials. It's a testament to miseducation with what they said to me.

"Oh, I love your hair! Based on that Cowboys and Indians holo game, I'm guessing? Boys and their toys, honestly."

"…" Deep breaths. "No, ma'am. My mother has been teaching me to braid my hair since it grew long enough to do so. All members of my family, past and present, wear it similarly. It's a tradition, ma'am." I flinch away from her pinching fingers. "Please don't touch-"

An eyebrow goes up. My stylist gives me a smile, but her eyes don't change. I guess that was the wrong thing to say. I can't resist, but maybe I can negotiate. A question would be better.

"What do you intend to do with it, ma'am?"

We don't even have their 'holo' tech in the Districts, but I doubt my stylist cares, as she carries on where she left off before giving me an answer.

"Megafans, then? My boys often bond over their games, you know. Don't worry, they relaxed on the men's hair rules, so I won't cut it if you won't look right with short hair. So well-maintained, too, I'm impressed. The last boy came in with hair so matted I'd put it outside my door. Disgusting."

I understand more and more why my father's temper is the one thing people were wary of. I used to get comments about how my parents balanced each other out, that my temperance was sweet and a product of my mother. I've seen her calm him down from lashing out at Peacekeepers more than once. Their surprise raids on our landlord's ranch are no accident. My father is fearless and stubborn… people don't appreciate it. I'm sure my stylist means nothing by this, but the disrespect aches in my heart.

My hair is as much a part of my heritage as it is my personal identity. The District schools have already tried and failed to take it away. To silence me and force uniformity. The way they put everyone else in boxes.

I will not let the Capitol do the same, to dress me up in the clothes of a stereotype used against my people.

Now, all I hear are drums. On the streets, in my ears, the blood pumping through my veins and the breath in my lungs. The beats in the crowd. It sounds like a war chant. Nothing else could be so violent and communal. All of the praise is a threat. Coercive. We'll only love you if you destroy the lives of others. If you create a performance, give them your own gloating funeral rites. No wonder the Careers are so beloved here. No wonder they win so often, continuing a wretched, insatiable cycle. You cannot be a person here.

It stinks of evil and feels like the distortion of nature, but not the same way as the Districts do. Most of the time, it's underlying, like the dread you feel when you watch the Games. You find it in the aura which dampened our celebrations during Dallon Stile's Victory Tour. The lingering stench of blood ruins the Town Square for weeks after an execution. It's the worst of District life, of knowing your place. Only here, it's magnified through camera lenses and constant surveillance. To get through it, we adopt tunnel vision when someone is punished in the demonstrations back home. Hurrying along, giving a quiet thanks that it's not you. Silencing the voices of you and yours when resistance is futile, but never once have I known someone to watch and enjoy it unashamedly. I'm not sure anything could have prepared me for this depraved culture shock.

I know how they stand it now. Politicians, Peacekeepers, Capitolites. This is their freedom. Far be it from me, willing to kill to survive, to lecture anyone about the value of life. Even so, I'd never celebrate a slaughter.

I am an eagle in the sky, and I carry my home with me in every step I take, every memory of my sweet mother, my wise father, my dear friends and all I hold close.

Of all things I know… I will not be their sacrificial lamb. Not like those who have no choice. My life is mine, and I will not let the push of a button, the sliver of a chance, be what takes it all away from me.

Flavian Layton, District Two Tribute, He/Him

District Two Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol

You really are nobody till somebody wants you dead. The crowds and screams are suffocating. There'll already be people who have placed their bets, who want me to die, if only for the profit, for the drama. These 'people' beg for blood; how did Herschel ever want this? He lived for these Games and died for them. He could never lie to our parents, not as I did.

The first step is perception, right? He had a way of standing on screen that he didn't do at home. Tightly coiled, from the fists at his sides to the hair he once obsessively straightened. I curl a hand around the prop sword they gave me. The same one they gave him… dug out of some old memorabilia closet. My worst memories are their best merchandise.

He didn't always sell the warrior impression. It made others think they could take advantage of him… and so they did, attacking him in his one moment of weakness when sleep finally stole him.

I can't be weak. It's not viable… it's not the way of a Victor. So. My shoulders are set straight, and my feet match them. Glaring at the mirrored screens until a creature stares back at me, standing restless next to the picture-perfect model who claims the other tribute spot. Nothing like the fearsome, animalistic athlete that sought retribution for my brother last year.

Mentor Juno - I have to get used to calling him that - caught her watching his own tape on the way here, picking from a bowl of fruit with a funny little smile. She couldn't be bothered to prepare and had no training. Typical.

The rain is freezing, and my flinches are barely suppressed. Paint runs rivers down me. Deep, chartreuse red and a royal blue, just like last year's tribute wear. It's all red and blue, blood and bruises. It's my brother up there, in his tent, savagely ambushed by the allies he tore himself apart to hold together. Gore runs down his arms, his hands, god, his face.

It's always what they remember most: the final breath. The way that his eyes were beaten, eyelids swollen and stuck together, the nose ripped from his face, the lips sewn crudely shut with a stolen sponsor gift. Stolen by the one ally who couldn't be there to save him. Eardrums burst and bleeding, lacerations deep enough to glimpse bone. The way his cheeks deflated as death took away the struggle. They're laughing. They plied my brother with joking discussions of a Pack-only finale, saying there was only the Three boy left to get rid of, and the hyenas are laughing at him for bleeding. They do it until he has nothing left to bleed. Until fifth place is finalised. One spits his own blood on Herschel's body in petty compensation for the split lip he left. Going down fighting because he had no other options. Because he didn't know how to survive as prey when our parents had demanded a hunter.

It's in his mouth. He's choking on it, and so am I. I'll survive this and be the Victor he so badly dreamed of becoming. For him, for my life. Any less is death. I no longer have the privilege of having that be a dramatic exaggeration. I lost that when he did. When we both volunteered to win or die here.

I want to go home. I want to be small again, like when Herschel and I were cowering at Mom's skirts because the thunder was growing too loud. I wish the Games never existed… I want my brother back. I want my family back from what the Games have done to it. In a parade filled with caricatures and performers… I almost feel like a bystander. My will is about as false as Bijou's eyelashes. I feel like a nobody amongst murderous careers, vindictive victor relatives, overzealous volunteers, and outraged outliers. A nothing, a nobody… pretending to be someone else. A ghost of a ghost's memory.

"My little shadow… still trailing behind me…" Herschel laughs, reaching up to mess with my hair. Gently, he begins pushing me out of the door, not wanting to see the Peacekeepers remove me by force. "You can't follow me where I'm going… and you'll never have to when I win this thing. Look after Mom for me, okay? You know how Pops gets when he's overexcited."

I hug him tightly, more tightly than I should. He doesn't have to go. As he leaves, I can't help the bile in my throat. Nothing can kill Herschel… but what if something does?

I'll restore his reputation, put him to rest. I have to. He deserves this much.

After that… with a little wishful thinking… maybe I'll live to see the Capitol reduced to rubble. The underground rebellion is a shameful, deadly secret… but it's there. Lurking under the surface and in our mines.

These are dangerous thoughts to be having at a time like this. The horses slow for a circuit, and I refuse to look up immediately. Already, I know who I'll see. The President, Gamemakers, Government officials… the ones who took away my brother with propaganda and plied him with promises. At least his betrayers found comeuppance in death, the Four girl killed by Manila's hands… and the One boy was eliminated in the finale. By Three of all people, the last outlier remaining. It was too close. Gaining second place is as close to living as dying. I could thank him at some point. Kelvin, that's his name. It's the only chance I could get. When he came to Two for his Tour, my father wouldn't let me meet him. It all worked out for him in the end, though. Maybe that luck can carry over?

There's no knowing now.

All I know is to keep a brave face and stand still. Let the people know I am my brother's ward and keep my treasonous truths hidden.

Hali Bourne, District Four Tribute, She/Her

District Four Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol

There was a time when I thought the only way I ever got here would be through Peacekeeping. Now I get why my sister said it'd never happen. I'm far too tempted to melt down and cry. That's what you do in the games, right? Fight, scream, cry, cause a scene, or pray your allies will help you. Never show them how you really feel. At least behind a visor, I could be impassive. Kill out of duty, not for show. Earn a living wage someplace far away from Four. Maybe I could come back to see Amelia once in a while. This is what I get for optimism. You can give them your odds, but they're the only ones breaking even.

But this is life. This is Panem. This is my chance to survive, and I won't blow it because I'm scared. I'm better than that. So I smile as best I can and hope it's not taken for a snarl, wave with fishnet gloves and shell nails, knowing at least I'm not the one they'll be looking to kill. I mean, really, my chances are okay. I've had time to think it through since last night. Career District? Check. Trained? Check. We haven't had a Victor since Annie. Surely that'll give Jimmy and me some weird number luck. I didn't volunteer, but maybe that'll be even better for my game. I'll be a wildcard that way. It could compensate for our lack of volunteers in the past few years. I'm younger than most, but everyone knows better than to count that too highly anymore.

I'm not doomed, not by a long shot. Not if I can make myself the perfect fit. And then, who knows what I could do. If I win this and take the crown back for Four, that could be the last time I know my regular life. And if I lose, then the same applies, but the time to think about that is long past. It's game time.

I've… never felt this much love before. A lot of it is Games euphoria, the adrenaline of the crowd. But even beyond that, I know Amelia's looking through the screen and cheering me on. Maybe if I win... I could finally tell her. I could confess why I kept every shell she gave me. About how when I sleep, I can still feel the weight from where her head rested on my shoulder just hours before. The way she seems synonymous with the words home and hope and life.

If I'm lucky enough to become a Victor, I could be lucky enough that she might love me back. Stranger things have happened.

Mom… even as out of it and self-absorbed as she can be, I know Abby'll be making her watch, that they'll send what they can now that they have the money once used to feed me. I can get us out of the hovel, get Mom a cleaner and a doctor, and my sister a recommendation. Our family could be a home of its own. It seems so simple: if I break some bones, then I can fix everything. Twenty-three opponents. Not me against the world. Not quite.

And even though Three's cheating, the aftershocks of the show are to our advantage. The thundering of horses' hooves and a synthetic sky… we look like warriors of the deep. The kind of chaotic trench beings that Abby would tell me when we stayed up too late and told scary stories. Everyone else's misfortune is our success. My success.

My District Partner slings his arm around my shoulder, and I hear him laughing. This is what the Hunger Games is all about when we're on this side of the screen. We can get serious when the time is right. This whole country knows my name and what I'm here for. They're even pronouncing it right. I don't know what force of nature put me here, but I can be one on my own. Knives, nails, faces, speeches... we all know how these things go. I'm the deciding factor in my life. No matter what anyone says or does to the contrary. I only need a little more luck. First order of operations: fooling my way through the Pack.

Staying isn't safe, and there's a hellish difference between the screen, the crowd, and a personal interrogation. But I've gotten this far, so nothing is impossible. The Academy thought I'd never get here. My mom thought I'd never leave. I thought I'd be an apprentice rather than a tribute. Never a tribute... or even a potential choice. It was almost a duty to take the chance to get out of there. I didn't think it'd happen like this, but circumstances change, and so do people.

I could never understand why people would willingly punish themselves like this… but I don't need to. I only need Jimmy and my team to show me the ropes and then get off my back. Things are looking up, so what choice is there but to do the same. I'll ride that wave for as long as it stays unbroken. We round the final corner and come to a halt. I'd almost forgotten about the speech. President Snow, in the flesh. I feel like a hologram… his eyes seem to bore right through you. His face is broadcast across the screen and twists into a glare.

My wave of confidence is broken, and all I know is dread. One move. One chance. To be a Victor. To go home in a box. It all starts here. It could all end in the next five minutes.

The choice is mine. Suddenly, I don't want it anymore. The worst that could happen is already staring me in the face, and it'll be a blessing if mine doesn't end up in the sky. I'm waiting for a miracle. Isn't that the story of my life?

Mira Elswyth, District Eleven Tribute, She/Her

District Eleven Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol

The whole place goes hush when Snow steps up to begin his annual speech. Not in fear or disgust but in awe and respect. Something like that in our District would be unthinkable. I guess it's a product of the environment. On a base level, it's not so different… we are who we are because of our surroundings and how we navigate these worlds we've been thrown into. It just so happens that our circumstances are worlds apart.

Everything is of a higher grade here. Even the things made to look low quality. We passed a storefront on our way to the Prep building promoting the very thing… tasteless 'District garbage' made fashionable. Advertisements for thrifting diamond rings.

It makes you wonder why they need Twelve or Five when they could power the city by burning the money they have. Or feed the country with the amount of waste produced. I'd hate to have that job in a place like this… but who knows if any of them would stoop 'low' enough to do it? It gets outsourced to avoxes, probably. That sounds fitting from what I've heard and seen. Or left to automation from Three's patented inventions. The only work you ever hear of Capitolites doing is in creative trades and personal passions… no labour to be seen unless for a photo op. My prep team said they leave the outfit sizing up to automation. That no one gets their hands dirty unless they feel like it.

Grievances aside… I must confess that I feel beautiful here. Never had that back in Eleven. I was too busy for beautiful, too shunned for pretty, too passed over for even passable. After the prep team… as bad as it sounds, I've never felt so sure of myself. They were all so lovely to me… if a little odd, with outlandish compliments and extra details tailored to me. Even the dress feels like it was made for me… not just a random throwaway tribute. Of course, I know that's not true... but it's like a dream. Blue cornflowers are woven into twisted ivy, cool and green against my skin. Fluttering in the wind, moving with me, creating a shimmery dewdrop effect.

They like me. They really like me! The shouts and screams strain my ears, but I don't care. How could I? If this is one of my final days on earth, I want to enjoy it for all it's worth; if it isn't, I'll strive to feel like this every day. A teenage heartthrob who gets stares filled with awe rather than scorn, like the pretty girls in school. Maybe… this can be about me for a bit.

"You've got a natural beauty, Mira… and we're going to help you find her. Bit by bit. And if you like," Alexandria pulls out a vacuum-sealed bag, zipping it open to reveal the most expensive-looking dress I've ever seen. "This old thing… then I think we can help you enjoy your time here." Her eyes sparkle. "Not to mention what I have planned for your interview."

"I… Thank you, Miss." I can't stop grinning as I step into it.

"Close your eyes… we need some ambience for your big reveal."

An old classical piece plays around the room, with verses about love and all things pure, a star with the world at her feet. High-energy dance music. The type you hear from Peacekeepers' personal radios on their breaks.

She hums along, and I can feel her swaying to it behind me as she fluffs out my curls for volume, pulling my hair upwards into silk ties. Pinning something above my ears and looping it around my head. A ribbon, I think. Selby had some like it. I could spend hours messing with her hair. Momma was always out working, and Dad couldn't keep up with her energy after the accident, so it went to me. I wouldn't trade those precious memories for all the glory in the world. Even now... I imagine her little afro puffs bouncing up and down as she runs at me.

I miss her so, so much. She spent so much of her little life knowing me as someone else. As soon as she understood, it was all taken away.

"Give us a smile for me, Mira." My stylist adds finishing touches and begins spinning me around to the beat, breaking me out of my thoughts. I'm giggling like a child and beaming brighter than in years, but every time we stop dancing, I see my sister's heartbroken face.

As much as the Capitol can do for me, her suffering is something I can't forgive.

That brings me back to earth. As beautiful as the dress is, the confidence of the lights and the praise… the stark truth remains. To love someone and yet love their death… that's net hatred. I'm not even the one in trouble, but the truth is as clear as Latanier's cursing. He only has one hand free while the other is cuffed to the hand railing to prevent his escape. My heart breaks all over again. They don't love us. Guileless ignorance may fool the audience, but the directors know what they're doing. They always have.

The Capitol sent the work that left my father quadriplegic. The Capitol sent the Peacekeepers that killed Latanier's parents and brutalised him. They made him into a scared young boy, who I can do nothing but apologise for in case they target me too. They mutilate us before making violent voyeurs out of the mindless masses. Them, them, them. It's all about them.

Them against me. Gamemakers against tributes, tributes against me. Competition has never been so close to slaughter.

I'm not dead yet. If that's the only ideal I have left, I'll cling to it for all it's worth. My family doesn't deserve another tragedy. I don't deserve another tragedy. All I can do is stay resolute because I can't get through this without belief. I'm not incapable. I'm as strong as I must be. As Emmer said, I'm stronger than they know. I have a chance, and I'll stay thankful for it.

Lucilla Chasson, District Six Tribute, She/her

District Six Chariot, Miracle Mile, Central Capitol

I inch away from Saturn just a little more, knowing he won't notice. He hasn't paid attention to anything but himself since he got here. Let the saviour complex get to his head. There's nothing else of worth in there.

"What would happen if one of us betrayed the other?" Saturn's voice is muffled but intelligible through the door. What a prick. I'm gone for ten seconds, and he's already talking shit.

"It'd mean you're more helpless than I thought. What, you're so childish you're scared of a kid like her? Come off it, boy. I don't know what you had running through your head when you saved that random, but clearly, you were dropped as a child. First, you want to give me nothin' to work with, and now you're accusing her of somehow plotting. I meant to be vigilant, not paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid, she's-"

"Enough." Levi's voice lowers in annoyance. "I won't do this with you, Brunn. I'm not spending my time arguing with a kid who screwed himself and then looks for favouritism. The more you talk, the less I care. Make yourself useful, or at least find a reason to suspect her, and then we'll speak on this at a later date."

"But-"

"I said enough. You have people who provide for you back home-" His voice wobbles. "You both have people who love you, who need you. I never had no one, but I knew better than to begrudge other people for decisions that I made. That's the difference. You chose this. Worst case scenario, you live to regret it. So unless you're looking to be another sacrifice, focus on your chances of survival. You're not special enough for the world to be against you."

I hear boots and the slam of a door. Levi sighs outside, and I hear a thud against the panelling and a quiet hiss.

Now, I'm not one for conspiracy, but I guess Saturn is. Playing nice, only to turn around and accuse me. Well, he'll be getting no help from me. It takes two to play this game, and I'll apologise to his parents when he doesn't make it, but I won't take this lying down.

If I had to pick one word to describe me: it'd be opportunistic. Even in our District, few people would directly approach a porter when hearing about an opening for a runner. It's undeniably foul work, and if he knew, I wouldn't be surprised to hear he thought I'd play dirty.

But before the Reapings, I'd never seen this boy. And you have to remember a lot of faces and places, lest you end up in the middle of a knife fight. Never the same person, never the same place.

This leads me to one conclusion: he's a self-serving bastard who needs to be knocked down a few pegs. Where my face is painted green, all I see is red. He thinks he's above me when he doesn't even know me. Not the first, and hopefully not the last. But in times like these, I have neither the time nor patience for the moral high ground.

Maybe I shouldn't be tuning out the most powerful man in Panem, but it's not like the speech ever made much of an impact. Empty words don't feed you when you need food. Actions do. So who can blame me for blending in when he finds it impossible not to stand out.

If you play stupid games... you can only win certain kinds of prizes. Like glares from the Head Gamemaker while I hide in his shadow. To be underestimated is safer. Being overestimated only means you get attacked by those brave or stupid enough to believe in their own luck. It fluctuates over the years, but acting like you're easy pickings can get you further. People think you're sick or insane and go after the bigger, more dangerous targets.

Underdogs aren't marketable, but strategists are. So while I won't hurt his chances, I'm not willing to help them either. If he can be selfish, so can I. Clearly, that's what he expects. Careers are vicious, outliers are fake, and I'm… me.

Dressed like a traffic light, manufactured in Six but never used there. Maybe this will be an opportunity to do what I've never done before: to be noticed for my skills rather than conceal them. This could be my final lifeline, and I'm hanging on for all it's worth. It's wrong, but there's no rest for the wicked, and I'm in a city that doesn't sleep. I can't lose who I am if I don't give them anything.

If all goes to the worst, Tyra will look after my siblings. Someone else will take up the Morphling runs, and the Capitol will bring another District Six girl here next year. I'm replaceable, but I don't want to be.

There are a hundred other people like me, but I'm the only one here now. We all deserve to live, but I deserve it just a little more. I can take the suffering. I'll only have to outlast those who can't.

But I'm not playing their sick game until I absolutely have to, so until then, I lie in wait.

Hal Walker, District Three Tribute, He/him

Ground Floor, HG 87 Tower, Central Capitol

5:00 pm, Procession End, June 23rd, HG 87

When I notice my stylist's presence as I dismount, it takes all my willpower not to jump him. There's movement behind me, and Nerva lunges to catch something. I'm more concerned about his stunt with the lightning. I didn't realise the performance cue would include a simulation of being electrocuted.

They're mocking you. How your father died, how they killed him, pumping inventions out of him until his brains and circuits fried. They took him away and never gave him back.

"You have two seconds to explain this." I hiss, conscious of the crowding of the other tributes and their teams. "One, the electricity thing? Are you insane? Two, the weather machine? Are you insane?"

A hand nabs my collar, and I swing on reflex. Hertz tanks the hit, glaring down at me. Ed clears the way through the crowds, Kelvin carrying my District Partner. When we pile into the elevator, I'm finally released.

"Since when could he get permission for that, or even come up with it?"

"He can't, surely. To get this kind of thing approved… you'd need far more reach than a stylist. Nerva would have told you beforehand if he knew about it. He must have been gagged." My cousin's tone is short, glancing around with a hand on Angela's forehead. Temperature? Hypothermia? "Keep it down."

"Then who?" The Capitol loves irony, but this was short notice for me to be targeted before the game started. I haven't pissed anyone off yet, surely.

"He would have warned me. Is there…- there!" I find a button on the small of my back, next to a keyhole. "That was the cue to start the performance. He gave something to her, it would've been the keys. Then… why-"

"It was me." Ed steps forward, guilt splattered on his face. "I confiscated them."

He holds up two fake keys, one covered in cosmetic rust.

"To sabotage me? This is fucking low, Edison, even for you. Couldn't take the spotlight away from you, or did it not occur to you that it might be important since you can only think with the brain down there?" I snipe at him, angry and confused. "That's one mystery down, but that's too much of a coincidence."

Angela stirs on the floor, and my cousin props her into a sitting-up position. I slump against the wall, playing with the numbered buttons. Going up.

"Most people don't even know us like that to organise it. You guys never mentioned it in interviews or anything, right?"

Kelvin shakes his head, still crouched on the floor.

"It wasn't my story to tell. I respected Uncle Charles too much to do that to you. Outside the family, it's not public knowledge. Not even this one knows." He strokes Angela's hair gently. "C'mon… wake up… where's Ada when you need her?"

"Getting ready for an interview, like Ed was meant to be until he backed out." Hertz's eyes swivel towards my triplet. Surely not… The three of us glance at the elephant in the room, staring out the glass at the city below. We're at the top of the building, trespassing on Floor Twelve. Going down.

"Ed?" My voice softens without my choosing.

"I got permission. It's perfectly legal… just never done before. I had to make sure that no one was going to forget about you. Keep you one step ahead." He sighs heavily. "Once I found out what Nerva planned for your outfits, the whole… clockwork wind-up toy thing… I got the idea. I knew it'd be more eye-catching than the keys. Spent all of last night negotiating for it on the phone. Got all the way up to the slimy bastards at the top."

"You…" Hertz's voice and body are trembling. "Ed. You better be lying. So help me, on Snow, you better be full of shit. This isn't funny."

"Yeah," he spits. "That's why I did it. Because this is real, and it isn't funny, and it's happening, no matter what I do. Least I can do is soften the blow. He needs the guarantee. If it went south, only I would get in trouble. So I made Nerva promise not to tell you beforehand."

"Wha-"

He ploughs on, regardless of my words.

"I had to show them you were going to cooperate. That you were going to play the game, and you weren't gonna fuck it up and have your death certificate signed before you even made it in. And they… it worked. They loved it. Tesla…" It's been years since I've been called that to my face. Dad was the only one who would. I always made sure people called me Hal. Even during the interviews, they knew not to address me with it. "I… I'm sorry, okay? For everything. If I'd've known you'd do this… I don't know," He shakes his head. "After my games-"

Can't even apologise correctly. Pathetic. You always were the better brother, even when no one saw it. But we were right. They're looking now. Everyone is.

"Ed. Cut the shit." I swallow down all that I want to say. "It's okay. I don't care anymore. You didn't have to pull this just because you feel guilty. The fighting, the lies, Ford-"

"This isn't about Ford!" He slaps a hand on his forehead. "It's about you, you dumbass, okay? I fucked up once, by disobeying Hertz and going in. I fucked up twice, by setting a precedence for Legacies and making them punish Kelvin for it. I fucked up a third time, by pushing you too far. And…"

He brings his head up, jaw tensed and eyes watering. Twins, but still, he looks so much older than me.

"I can't fuck up again. There's so much going on. This is about not failing to fulfill the one fucking thing Dad made me promise. That we all promised. We were going to look after each other. I can't do that if you're dead. We can't go home to Cora without you. I… I can't carry your coffin knowing it should be me, knowing that the last time I did that, it was for Dad. We used to be so close… and this is my last chance to make it right. I don't care about anything but keeping you safe. Nothing else matters here."

Radio silence prevails until it's broken by a soft scoff. My District Partner is good at that, making me forget she's even there. Our heads whip around as she uses the emergency buttons to force open the doors.

"Angela-"

"Save it." Her voice breaks from emotion and disuse, interrupting her mentor. "I don't care about you people either. I'll get myself killed on my own, I don't need you to do it for me."

She flies off like a shot, and no one is willing to follow. What could we even say?

That's one less thing to worry about.

Caesar Flickerman, Hunger Games Host, He/Him

Commentary Box, Hunger Games Headquarters, Location Classified.

3:15 pm, June 23rd, HG 87

"Ladies, gentlemen… and those who know better, welcome to the Opening Ceremony of the Eighty-seventh annual Hunger Games. Where does all that time go?" A wink and a flourish. Capes have been in fashion recently, which adds to the effect. Wonder how that happened.

I say it every year, and it's almost always true. This Hunger Games is sure to be a better treat than the last. A mandatory requirement, but who's complaining?

"Stay in your seats, my friends, the show's about to begin with everyone's favourite: The Tribute Parade!"

There's the end of the autocue. It's mostly improvisation from here. My visual feed cuts to the show, and the editors are on the ball with the drones above the Miracle Mile. It's all me since the stress was too much for Claudius after the Quarter Quell. A quiet retirement. You don't hear much about those anymore. He's taken up gardening recently. What a quaint idea. We have twenty-four seedlings waiting to sprout, whether into a funeral bouquet or a victor's laurels. That's an arena concept in the making. Who said an old dog can't learn new tricks?

Seventy-five years of order before the chaos, only for the country to be redefined by our principles. Underdogs die, and bloodhounds thrive. After all, it's how they're bred and trained… but the house always wins. Especially when the cards are down in a Quell. We're halfway to another of those. How very exciting!

The tech crew checks my mic and adjusts the monitor for a clearer view. Nico is waiting in the prep room for a post-ceremony insider view. Audience reactions, current sales, stylist portfolios, we know the drill by now. As long as my husband and I don't get too off-topic, and we have no unexpected gatecrashers like last time, all will run smoothly.

The stable doors open. Lights, check. Camera, check. Clapboard? Unfortunately not, although I keep asking for one. We have a big enough budget, and it would add such a lovely vintage look to the studio. Action!

"We are off! As always, the wonderful District One has its horses smothered in glittering jewels, fit for the knightly King and warrior Queen that command them! Panem, I give you Paladin Greyfang and Regina Alameda of District One! My word, hasn't she grown? And, as we heard from that heartrending speech from One's son, the once-Whitefang is carving his own dynasty into these games and beyond. If you're interested in a pair so regal that they make royals look droopy, then let your voices be heard!"

It's a strong image, stained by their ignorance of each other. This is not a house united; the chariot holds an internal schism. Unsurprising, given that such strong personalities seldom make a united pair. Either way, Regina has the crowd in its prime. Screaming, crying, and in awe. Paladin soaks himself in the adoration, the wholeness of the moment. Entitlement in spades from both of them, and for a good reason. The outfits are as beautiful as always but not stunning enough to break any records. Capes and crowns are no novel concept for One. Even so, you'd be hard-pressed to find a more receptive crowd. I've never seen a parade where One didn't get cheers. It's the novelty of going first.

"Of course, if you've been up to date on the whys and whens of Panem's favourite children, you'd know that five of One's Victors are here to shine once again. Candida Lux and Taaffeite Spinel are this year's mentors, and you'll get all the scoop from the team tomorrow! With any luck, Quintus Almeda will have a few stories to share a picture of what his baby sister has been up to. Excellent work from Janus and Jana Arcadia, as always. Keep an eye out for escorts Siam and Burma if you want to place your money on District One and give them the luxury of another victory."

I take a breath. No time for breaks. Busy, busy, busy, all the time.

"Rounding the corner right behind is our always tenacious District Two. Put your hands together! Horses as white as… limestone, and their passengers are just as pure! There have certainly been some interesting developments here! I'm sure it's quite a story to tell for Flavian Layton and Aurelia Bijou! Another Victor's sister. I ask you, where does the time go? Flav, of course, visits right off the heels of last year's 'most robbed competitor' Herschel Layton. Now isn't that a blast from the past? So long ago, and yet it seems like it was only yesterday. So many familiar famous faces! We'll be keeping you posted tonight with all the interconnecting drama. I mean it! Our poor logistics manager had to draw family trees for this year's cast of characters."

They show two pictures of perfect tropes, a far cry from what we expect, but just the same as they once were. The editors will be having a field day finding comparison photos. Both were involved in Final Ten interviews. They aren't the only ones. I make it a point to memorise every face that appears on my stage, at least for a few years. Both are performing as expected, but they're stark opposites in persona. A chiselled block of marble preaching violence against a painted Grecian statue. Or… well, there's more of a Roman influence at play from the team. The fearsome gladiator overshadows the poised spectator, who waits in the shadows of the colosseum audience.

"Look at that hair too. Tiered towards the heavens! Take notes because jewel pins are back in fashion. While you're at it, bring your compliments towards Idabelle Orero, and I'm sure she'll send Pertinax and Julianus your love. Make some noise if you think these two have a shot!" I can hear the laughter from here. That one never gets old. "Of course, their District's shining stars accompany them for mentor duties. Be on the mark. Enobaria Romas and Etruscan Juno may be on the prowl for your support while I'm sure Imogen Bijou's family resemblance will have some heads turning. Remember, height and hair if you're trying to separate these sisters!"

It's started to spit against the window; that wasn't planned. We're forecasting a sunny day… I can't think of why that would change. The sky's still blue enough, and the sun still shines. No rainbows are to be found.

"Hot on their heels is a pair that should prove to be truly electrifying in the coming events. Intuition, intelligence and inventions are sure to come. It must've been a lightbulb moment for Tesla Halden Walker when he took the stage after last year's family triumph. After all, we are all one big family here. And that's not to forget Angela Bellsand, hidden away like the tricks she has up her sleeve! Look at that poise. No autographs please!"

Hal Walker cries for no one. He never has. Grown from a terrified triplet into an impressive teenager, he's possibly the most well-known District citizen of the past ten years. A mix of luck, reaping rigging– it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see through last year's lots– and genetics brought him here. The whole country has effectively watched him grow up. No doubt it'll serve him well, but you never know. He could play the crowd the same way his brothers played their games: either with vitriol and confidence or the primal desperation that made them kill when they had nothing left. Maybe he thinks the same way as his cousin, with anger and denial, never acknowledging anything but his own survival goals, not even his female companion. I couldn't blame him. None of them ever seemed to have much time for their counterparts. His partner ducks and covers her eyes from the flashing lights as a storm rolls in, the constant, conceptualised chaos of overstimulation. They all treated their partners the same way, as lost causes. Angella Bellsand is small and fragile, a stranger to the crowd's proclamations. An unwilling tribute brought quietly and without complaint, like a lamb headed to the slaughter. Not even my optimism can stop that from being true. Catatonic, while young Hal is so unashamedly electric. I'm surprised the sparks flying off of him aren't real- there it is.

"Once again, Nerva has told us no lies! We have a living lightning rod in this up-and-coming stylist. Their motions may be robotic, but their personalities surely aren't! Questions go to Otho Cremona in case you're looking for some shocking intel. I'm sure it runs in the family, and what a family affair it is! With Edison Walker and Kelvin Data mentoring, it's quite the reunion. I'm sure Angela is delighted to be accepted into the fold. Our always-ambitious Ada Binaire must have her hands full with this royal flush of redheads. Make no mistake, District Three is fully prepared, and the whole team is at their best, ready to rain on this parade."

There's lightning, and it must have been a prompt because they begin to perform robotic motions. I'd hardly call them mechanical, given Angela's nerves and fear against Hal's rather furious glare. It must've cost a pretty penny to put on this light show, with the rain and all. But I'm out of time to talk about them. If that's the lightning, then I can only guess about the…

"And to thundering applause, out into the spotlight are the seahorses of District Four, and I'm not just talking about the tributes. Cool as sea cucumbers and ready to wave goodbye to the competition- fine, I'll stop!" My director has never known the value of Four-based puns. "'Just-call-me-Jimmy' Marsh seems to float above us all, where Hali Bourne keeps us anchored to the earth. Barnacles, shells and seaweed galore! Naiads or Sirens, who's to know with this pair of tributes?"

I do love the drama… but this doesn't seem right. The procession trots along as planned, but the rain is growing heavier by the minute.

Lee and Jimmy are much more friendly than you'd expect. He slings an arm over her shoulder while yelling jokes to those lucky enough to hear from the front rows. She rolls her eyes the same way a disgruntled sibling would, waving a little more reluctantly. The extrovert has adopted the introvert. That's good. Dynamics to play off of are always more fun when unprompted. Gives me less work to do. At least these Careers acknowledge each other, unlike the other pairs. Most of the other Districts aren't much better. But they're thriving where the rain and wind are drowning and almost displacing some of the others, so to call them avatars of the storm wouldn't be too far-fetched.

"Get some umbrellas, folks, because it seems they've brought all of Four's water supply with them. From beachside glamour to seafloor composure, it seems their team values both versatility and victory. Do we expect anything less from the District that brought us mentors Cordelia Swash and our favourite Captain Reef? Didn't think so! Typhoon season is on the way, folks, you'd better be ready for it. And if you are ready, then grab your conch shells and cheer so that Mare Marina knows where to find you under all this rain! No need to spam Albula and Tiberis' messages, they can hear you from here. After that lovely display, say hello to the powerhouse of District Five!"

Colten Lux dances on the edge of something odd, and I don't think he quite realises, even though his counterpart shies away from him almost instinctively. He's unassuming but has the same hint of danger about him that most quiet tributes do. Top knotted hair, skinny wrists, a typical teenage boy. Except this is the Hunger Games, and this scrawny lad volunteered, eerily quiet. A noble standalone action, but we know better than to take anything at face value. No volunteer has ever been truly honest, and he has a plan. He has a purpose in his movements and the way he stands, calm but alert, shows confidence. He's not being hunted. He doesn't fear the crowd itself, whereas Lily looks poised to run, eyes darting between cameras and screens that are bigger than the houses in five. Survival instincts. Obsessed over living. Taking them at face value: they seem like polar opposites, but I can't foretell what that might mean in the arena. Food for thought.

"Both fashionable and practical, though I'm sure none of us can say we were dressed for this kind of weather. Just wait, we'll have snow in August- don't clip that, the prediction compilations are numerous enough- before these two are done showing us what they have on offer! Colten Lux and Lily McNormand have taken our stages with grace and geniality. The lad will certainly have something to offer as another volunteer for the records but Lily's not out of the running yet. Five's never been one to turn down providing us with fan favourites, so let's return the favour with some fanfare. "

Their outfits are ruined, like most of the pairs' are. What is genius to one is disadvantageous to another. The sponsors will love it, but I'll likely hear some choice words from the stylists on the show tonight. They're able to air their grievances with the operation far more freely than these tributes can or ever will. Hard to speak when you're dead and even more difficult when you're a Victor. Oh well. We'll get good ratings from the inevitable cat fights. Better for stylists to be calling favouritism than the Gamemakers. Snow knows how volatile that got last time. There's a reason we have security on hand when we do those interviews.

"Regardless of our weather, District Five are showing once again the power their tributes hold. From hydroelectrics to stunning solar capabilities, they're sure to give another kind of spark to this years' Hunger Games. They're used to weather powering them through, so adaptability will surely be their staple! And don't they have such stunning examples! Father-daughter duo Aron and Therma Dynamo are seeking your support as some of the brightest sparks we've ever seen. Speaking of bright, Dela Moonbow's hair is probably the only thing you can see through all this darkness! She'll be your guiding light to finding cousin duo Melissa and Clemens to give them their well-deserved dues. From power to petrol- only old-timers will get that one- District Six!"

Equally dripping with water and paint, the two are barely visible but for the headlight on Saturn's chest. There's a joke to be made about lights at the end of tunnels, but I won't make it out loud. At least the two still have some colour, with the stoplight headpiece complimenting her green face paint. Traffic lights? I can't remember the last time I saw one of those. Why have them when your routes are automated? And our conductors are usually more… anonymous. The stylists must have decided to have a vintage year.

"Lucilla Chasson and Saturn Brunn are our newest arrivals, it seems it took the train a while to arrive. Don't be fooled by her composure, that green isn't from envy, it's her war paint! With the classic prowess and speed of District Six, these two are sure to transport you to a world of wonder this year. As we know, a little rain has never stopped our nation from moving forward, but this pair of innovators is sure to keep you glued to your seats! Grab yourself a ticket, or Saturn Brunn will be forced to kick you from the train, and you won't want to be missing out when they leave their track marks in the arena ground."

Lucilla Chasson has a thousand-yard stare and keeps that same distance from her District Partner. She's frozen in place against the crowds, social suicide. Let's hope she's more talkative in a few days. Then again, we do like some stubborn tributes here in the Capitol, but not too spicy. Just enough of a shell to crack for us to feel like we've learned something they'll forget by the time the lights go down. Enough of a firecracker to explode but not to burn. There's been quite enough of that. Saturn Brunn may as well be a pop star with how he's soaking up the attention. Every so often, a sleek sunbeam peeks through the storm cover and illuminates them, though the shadows cover his face. An omen, perhaps? District Six's golden boy had noble intentions in his volunteering, and that never gives a happy ending. Volunteering for a stranger isn't a first, but his Reaping reasoning was sweet enough to watch. However, like with Colten, it can't be the whole story.

"Mediola Notitia is, as always, the driver of the District Six train, and will be more than willing to take you on a tour of her plans to secure your sponsorships. Your first platform will be the CC boutique, where Commotus and Caracalla are probably already whipping something up, just for you! Levi Termini's sure to be punching your tickets on the way, especially as we speed through this parade! Now, as we travel on through, turn your eyes upwards, and I do mean that, to District Seven!"

Little Oliver Bold. The youngest and most marketable of the year, he even brought his own niche. He's an advertiser's dream, even if he's headed for death. It's only a matter of who bites the bullet. More valiant victors have killed the innocent for a shot at victory. Azmia already stands firm with him, holding him aloft- not like she has a choice- mouth moving with words of concern. Poor thing seems to be at the bottom of the pole here. His ratings are far more favourable than hers, and we know little about her life… I'll need to change that. There's a sibling in the mix. I know that. The parallels are so easy to make.

"Oliver Bold is our youngest and boldest competitor this year, sure to be a favourite of mine and yours, but I didn't tell you that! He must be the youngest boy in our history to spark his own fashion trend! Alongside, or rather, below him, Azmia Plammen makes her burden look effortless. Together, this tower of tributes will make beating them a tall order, I can tell you that. As you can see, there's been no deviation from the status quo where outfits are concerned. If it ain't broken, don't fix it! District Seven is mixing tradition and modernity this year, no one ever does it like them."

Ah, Sprucie. Maybe one day, she'll learn to tone it down with the trees. Nah, who am I kidding? She'll go until she dies, probably getting turned into a tree, getting the last laugh. Nico will probably throw a party. I'll make sure to put palm tree straws in the drinks.

…Where was I?

"Of course, we have Sprucie Root to thank for that! Our most recognised and esteemed stylist has never strayed far from her roots, and why should she when her tributes get to leaf the others in the dust? That's not to say she'll get all the credit, since mentors Helena and Farren will surely be searching our jungle of a city for some aid from you. Completing this team of… six, damnit, is escort Marcellinus Diocletian, who's searching through the jungle for you as we speak. But until then, we must pay tribute to the District that inspires this event. Here we are, District Eight!"

Regal and poised, Lysanne Shantung doesn't seem to bend under the lashes of the rain and wind. Like a cliff face, unwavering against stormy conditions. Her smile stays affixed. It's baffling. Even when her District Partner clowns around in the rain, she opens her arms, words reflecting off her like a mirror. Acceptance. The reaction of someone who could walk through fire. A witch they couldn't burn. A ruined dress, running mascara with the same trance-like stare, like a saint blessed by the daytime moon due to come when the storm clears. Where Harlyn is all sharp edges and points, almost shielded by the needles.

"Of course, without District Eight's dedication this whole event could hardly be possible. We have their tributes, in part, to thank for that! Like the Capitol and the Districts, a needle and a thread, you can't have one without the other! Lysanne Shantung and Harlyn Jute embody their Districts spirit of aesthetic and quality intertwined. Soft and sharp, these two don't need to vie for our love when they're already prepared for the tribulations ahead! Though quiet and mysterious so far, its clear this downpour isn't even an obstacle to Lysanne, and Harlyn is revelling in it, it's always good to see our tributes having fun, isn't it folks?"

They are both unnatural in their own way. Lysanne is more subtle, a refreshing shower of rain rolling slowly across the sky, where Harlyn seems to be the lightning she accompanies. A presence that should not bring fear but commands the room in the simplest of ways, a boy who will soon die out in a burst of light, with only one thing to be seen: whether or not he burns everyone else in the process. Never striking twice.

"It takes a special kind of tribute to weather this kind of rain, and we're lucky enough to have a perfect pair of them! With Hattie and Calico as their mentors, this pair of opposites will be more than prepared for the arena ahead, but of course, they'd never turn down some help from the fashionistas amongst us. Speaking of fashion, Venice and Leiden have, once again, completely elevated their work, but we've never expected anything less when they're paired with Taylor Textor, who herself has never heard less than a yes from her sponsors, be that on the runway or the Miracle Mile. And coming up on our beautiful circuit, District Nine is next!"

The ladies of District Nine appear as two peas in a pod. Similar age, same height, with different stories to tell. I'm sure Victor Nezovic must be on both of their minds. He did well on the pageantry side of things. A polite, charming mother's boy. A loving family and a sister he would walk through fire for. Always a hit. It didn't matter. There were better performers found in those who both won and lost. There's a reason the movies never focus on Bloodbath deaths. If a tribute cannot live, most at least want to be remembered. Most barely get that courtesy. Indeed... the best chance comes in being one killed by the winner.

"Arla Nezovic refuses to fade into obscurity among our cast here, and who can blame her? Look at that smile! Something familiar about it? I can't just reveal all of my secrets, but the superfans will know. Sadie Colon may have no such secrets around her, but who needs them when she's so obviously wonderful? Brown is the new beige, and they both wear it wonderfully. Who knew grain was so versatile as a material? Like a pair of needles in haystacks, tributes of this quality are hard to find, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved to find them!"

So it makes sense that they are both giving grins and waves, attracting attention by choice in the way that Reaped tributes seldom do. Social creatures, social chameleons. Bright smiles, practised, staged. And I know a little about performances when I see them. Placing flowers in their baskets and throwing seeds to the crowd like flower girls at a wedding. Who knows if this is what Dora was actually going for, but I'm not complaining. Better than just covering them in mud like Nine did my first year of commentating. Eugh.

"How this team has grown too! Since the addition of Agri Trivate as a mentor over the past two games, their numbers have gone up to four, though Hector Einkorn must feel a little out of place in this group of girls! Dora is a one-woman team of her own, prep team and stylist in one for a pair, and with those results, you'd never know it. But the Metamorphagus will make sure you do! After a swap from Eleven, this escort has already been making her rounds to make sure you know exactly what this team has to offer in the coming weeks. Look out folks, she could be anywhere, anyone, and she's looking for you. But it's time for Nine to pass the stage to our next District, number ten!"

District Ten has never gotten much applause, but these two likely won't need it. Both tributes are tall and well-built. Good posture, despite being soaked to the bone. Photogenic, though that's neither here nor there when the biggest worry from the tech team is whether or not the cameras can withstand this torrent.

"Gaia Minnitown and Pariah Locklear come representing our not-so-wild-or-west of District Ten! As these two can tell you, they've come prepared to give us a showdown we won't forget in a hurry! Intimidating as they are, we've seen these tributes on stage, polite as can be, so it's only a matter of time before we find out what other facets we can uncover. Farmhands they may be, but they're sure to feed us one glorious performance!"

They aren't playing the crowd, but it's not like anyone needs to know that. There's fury in their eyes, shown in how they're acting. Gaia instinctively blocks as much of Pariah as she can from the cameras. Within another pair, this would be seen as camera hogging. If Paladin did that to Regina, there would be blood on screen before the Games could properly begin. It'd be a first, I don't think I've ever heard of death during the parades, but I digress. This is protection. This is what a quiet revolt looks like in a year full of retaliation from the likes of Eight and Eleven. Ten's pride is bruised. With this sort of immediate synergy, they're certainly a package deal.

"This pair have already saddled up to fight their way through the competition, but it's yet to be seen how far their strengths will take them in a year of surprises! Then again, District Ten does have quite the tendency to come flying from the woodwork when we need them. Case and point: their mentor Dallon Stile is waiting for you to seek him out, as he's busy imparting his wisdom onto his new proteges. Stylists Furtuven and Canaria, fabulous as they are, have never waited for their praise, so get it sent their way. While Antonius Maxi is new to this District, he's no stranger to many of us and the industry as a whole, so if you're looking for someone stable, who's adaptable and good with money… well that's not your man, but it is District Ten's escort! Before you ask, I'm not allowed to say if he's single."

I don't believe the words coming out of my mouth, but luckily I don't have to. That's the audience's job. Hearing is believing. I don't mention Buck Caprine's death, the victor who was so beloved this time last year. The words of wisdom, his warning. The bullet. The legacy he left, fulfilling District Ten's mentoring curse. They've already forgotten him. The camera moves on, and I have material on hand. I was right in thinking I needed it. Autopilot me wouldn't have the right words to save Latanier from his rebellious actions.

"Second to last in the line, but not in our hearts: District Eleven! Look at them, they make it look so natural, but I'm sure many would kill to get their hands on what Mira Elswyth is wearing. Latanier Alma's already shown to be quite the fighting spirit, which will serve him well in the competition to come. Once a fighter, always a fighter, and our boy has made it quite clear he knows who he is and what he wants from this event! While Mira doesn't appear quite so fearsome, we know from years past how deceptive appearances they can be! Mysterious as she is, there's no saying how she'll wow us next time we meet."

Latanier has a fighter's stance and a sailor's pottymouth. He's not pledging any allegiances to the crowds. Luckily, we have the swear bleeper. There'll be online compilations by the end of this. Mark my words. Mira is more demure but still reluctantly showy, blowing kisses and absorbing praise. She ignores her partner's antics, which I understand completely. No one ever wants to babysit a rebel. It's a tried and true method of assuring your own destruction. A good fighting spirit is always beloved... but if you push it, the audience polls will start biting back. Mira is much more Capitol-friendly. Seeing their outfits, it's no surprise who got the shorter end of the stick. He's much less palatable and will likely rely on kindness from those with money to burn, whereas Mira is a much safer bet. She's doe-eyed and timid, yes, but not helpless or cliche. She's the last of a dying breed in that respect. The Games are no longer an outrage. Instead, they're a spectacle. Every year they're more prepared and resigned to drawing the short stick.

"Regardless of what is to come, the here and now shows us our pair at the beginning of their journeys here, and I, for one, will be following their stories closely. Equally, so will Emmer Triticale and Tilly Croft, their mentors and guides along this adventure we share, who will be glad to quest for your support. We could never forget stylists Alexandria and Ravenna, who I'd bet money on whom's designs are already sold out. Alongside those two, Firenze is on standby to rein them in if things get too wild, but we know better than to call them a party killer, especially when the greatest excitement of the year is merely days away!"

It won't be long until apathy becomes enthusiasm for many in the nation. Although there are just as many hurtling to the other natural extreme, it's little reason for concern. We've had better, but we've had worse. We've had games of full career finales and alliance witch hunts. Victors like Imogen Bijou and Dallon Stile still get social credit for wiping out any signs of District Twelve's strength, purposefully or not.

"Last but certainly not least, rounding our final corner is District Twelve. Though dressed as such, they're no tools! Jet Elster is our man with a plan from our smallest and scrappiest District! Speaking of scrappy, we mustn't count out Cassandra Melner. That missing finger isn't stopping her from stealing our final spotlight any time soon! Joined at the hip, these two are a double threat to any other pairings hoping to shake things up."

Oh, District Twelve. They've been reduced to the muck under an expensive shoe, just as the upper circle like to see them. Lined up like Mockingjays to shoot down at a children's school fete.

"Minnie and Minor follow their formula to the letter, and who can blame them when they get such results? They may have blown us all away with this final display but we must remember not to forsake the rest of the team! Send a message in a bottle to catch Haymitch Abernathy in good spirits, and you'll be able to show your support to this adorable pair. Of course, our lovely Effie Trinket is likely looking for you, yes you, so make sure not to miss her!"

The two are joined at the hip, smiling like their pre-execution is a mere wedding rehearsal. They're doomed. Worse odds than Oliver. The broadcast odds used to be based on popularity and general surveys, but now there's a science to it all. There's an entire department that only pops up this time of year, who crunch numbers and compile data from available footage. They're the ones that run names through databases and trawl through information to create the story ahead. These scientists show what can and cannot be allowed to keep the integrity of the games intact. After twelve years in the running, they've only failed once. After the Eightieth Games, they started keeping track of the in-Capitol activity.

Jet is someone ensnared by young love. Someone needed to talk some sense into them. They found love where it wasn't supposed to be, in the depths of the most loathed District. It was smuggled right into the heart of the Games itself. The very place we have watched love die over and over again. The greatest stories always end with a broken pair, and not since the Games That Never Was has anyone let two Victors leave.

"As we roll down towards this year's tower and say goodbye to our tributes, for now, I ask that you put your hands together for our reverent resident President Snow!"

This year is shaping up to be quite interesting. Of course, we expect nothing less. I'm interested to see how these fresh new authorities will tackle the challenges coming their way. So many changes and variables to mismanage, although I suppose it's better to be outrageously bad than boring.

I'm not listening to the speech. I could recite the points of it in my sleep. There's little point in listening when a sage nod of the head and a knowing smile will do.

What matters is the carefully constructed presentation. The Ones remain beautiful, the Twos remain fearsome, the Twelves remain pitiful, and so on. It's our show before the show. It is the way of our world and can only die out when we do. Given the circumstances, that day may come sooner than I would want to think. Factions close in, and the power struggle grows day by day. The president grows visibly frailer, even through acts of concealment and careful editing. Soon the Games will not be the only example of bloodshed for the sake of Panemian stability. I dread to think of the inevitable fallout. Until then, I can only do what I have made a livelihood off of. What these tributes in their gilded cages can no longer do.

"After that riveting speech from President Snow, we'll take a quick break. I know you're all simply dying for the chance to share your thoughts."

Laugh. Bid the audience adieu, take a break, and recuperate.

"Make sure not to take too long! After all, we will soon be in the magnanimous presence of our brilliant stylists for their in-depth analysis and Head of Department Nicomedes is sure to enjoy answering all the questions he can from the fan pages! Make sure to stream the new release of Hunger Games themes with a few special songwriting guest appearances. Our schedule is chock-full of fun, and it only gets busier from here on out. Until then, this is Caesar Flickerman, your ever-friendly Games correspondent."

I get to return home to my husband, my children, and the life I carved out from under the thumb of vicious conductors. Call up some old friends and ignore the antics of new enemies. To me, this is just another day.

To the tributes, it's the beginning of the end, but in the Hunger Games, death is a luckier fate than living. We can only wonder who will draw this year's short straw.

AN: heyyyyyyyyy

uh. sweats.

so. the writers block has been conquered, finally! im back! gonna be trying to post on a fortnightly schedule if possible, but this is me so take it with a grain of salt por favor. anyway. im never doing parades again 3 uh. bye!

Next chapter: Training Day #1