A/N HAPPY REALLY LATE CHINESE NEW YEAR! (The celebrations go on for up to two weeks, though, so I guess this isn't that late.)

Whoops. That was… almost three weeks? On the other hand, this chapter is about two times longer than my regular chapter, so… I should stop rationalizing this. It's still late. On the upside, I have the Pre-Games planned out in detail and the Games planned out loosely, so updates should be faster. And Yes, the victor has already been chosen, and he/she will be the victor regardless if the author reviews. The placement of the fallen, however… let's say that reviews give me an incentive up to a point.

Oh, and the blog has been updated with a few new faces! For those of you who don't know, it's at eccleesiastesverse. weebly. com

Welp, sorry to bore y'all with my mostly-coherent rambling. Here's the chapter. Enjoy!

Pembroke Thompson, 17, District Seven Male

I blankly stare at the abundant food. It should make me hungry, the smells tantalizing and alluring, but right now, I want to throw up. I should be excited, happy to be away from my district, but a sinking feeling in my chest tells me that this was a mistake. Cassia's last words to me ring in my head.

"You won't be getting anything from District Seven this year. I'll be sure of that."

Great. I'm on my way to the Capitol, which wants to kill me, away from my district that also wants me gone.

Minisa seems unperturbed by the depressive silence — or maybe I'm the only one that feels it. "So what's the plan?" she says, directing her words to the two mentors this year.

The older of the two, Aldair Verne, the Victor of the 845th Hunger Games, places his fork neatly beside his plate before replying. He's nearing seventy, "That's up to you," he says, "We can't force-fit you into a plan. You have to make one that fits you."

Minisa sighs. "But that sounds so… idealistic."

Idealistic. That's what I used to be before the world came crashing down around me.

"Yes, yes," Mr. Verne says, "It is idealistic. But it's one of those few things in life that is idealistic. There is a way to win for every set of abilities. It just requires you to make the right decisions."

Right decisions. Decisions I did not make when I let Cassia into my life. How was I supposed to know that she would be destructive? Her face appears once again in my head, and I have a sudden urge to stab something — or someone. I take a deep breath. Calm down.

"So what are these right decisions?" Minisa presses, getting frustrated with the lack of concrete answers.

Keshia, the other mentor, steps in. "We don't know anything about you. How are we supposed to tell you what to do?"

Minisa looks down for a moment. "Okay then," she says, "I've trained for a while, but I didn't expect myself to volunteer until… until I volunteered."

"Why did you volunteer?" Keshia asks.

"Well… it's a long story," she says, silently telling us to leave her backstory alone.

Keshia looks at me. "You haven't spoken at all. What do we need to know about you?"

I clear my throat. Since I'm going into the Hunger Games, I guess there's no use hiding anything. "I'm trained — sort of. I'm supposedly an abusive rapist, but you already know that. And… I guess I'm here because it's no better than Seven."

Keshia tilts her head to the side. That's right, victors don't always keep up with local news. They live up in Victor's Village, often completely oblivious to the world in the district below them. Somehow, that makes me mad.

I push my chair back and stand up. "There's no point in sitting here, so come get me when we get to the Capitol." I leave the room and walk to the next train car, the one with the couch and the television. The screaming colors hurt my eyes, so I turn off the overhead lights and sit down, leaning back onto the plushy pillows.

Was volunteering the right decision? This sick form of buyer's remorse clouds my mind. What was I even thinking? Escape? Some escape. I just chose death. It would've been a lot easier to just kill myself. Heck, I could probably get away with it. We're technically "protected" — even the steak knives given to us will freeze us if we try to stab ourselves — but there are always ways.

I blink. When did I get so dark? When did I completely give up? Was it when Cassia began her accusations? When everyone at school shunned me? When Cassia took me to court?

No. It was when my "father" left me without so much as a glance at me, when my sister Hazel met me at the door to my bedroom and told me that I was as good as dead to her. The people I thought I knew were complete strangers to me. Now even I'm not quite sure who I am. I thought I was "that optimistic guy." I thought I had the hope to overcome my obstacles. So much for that.

The blaring lights come back on, and the brightness causes me to squint as my eyes adjust to the light. Who came in? Time for the recaps?

Keshia sits down on the other end of the couch.

"How are you?" she asks innocently.

"How am I?" I say. "Not good. What did you think?"

"I expected nothing less," she says, "I got the basic rundown of what happened."

"You did, huh?"

"Yes. I'll be your mentor."

"Did you draw the short straw?" I say.

She snorts. "I volunteered."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why not?"

I laugh. " 'Why not?' My district is convinced that I'm a rapist and will refuse to support me. The Capitol doesn't think any better of me. I don't have any reason to win. 'Why not?' "

She presses her lips together. Regretting her decision? "I know. I still wanted to mentor you." She takes a deep breath, as if choosing her words carefully. "Trust me. I know more about rejection than you think."

"And how would you know that? You're a celebrity."

She sighs. "You really don't know anything, do you." She begins to raise her voice. "You think being a victor is easy?"

"Of course it is! You never have to worry about money! You get the best treatment, the best food, the best houses, the best everything! You never have to worry about your life because everything is provided."

She opens her mouth, but I keep going.

"And the whole d*** district treats all of you like heroes because, well, because you are heroes. I'm done for. The Capitol wants a good story, a hero to root for. I'm nothing but a criminal — pretty much the villain. It doesn't matter if I'm innocent or not. I'm as good as dead."

"We're not heroes," she says.

"But-"

"Hear me out! If anything, we Victors are just a whole lot of murderers. Especially me."

"...What?"

"It wasn't even until the final few. I killed my district partner, as well as the rest of my alliance though there was no reason to do so."

"People still respect you, though."

"Not the people that matter the most."

I can't think of anything to say to that. She takes my silence as permission to continue.

"My parents disowned me as soon as the flashbacks began. My sister refuses to acknowledge my existence."

"I- I didn't know."

"I know more about rejection than you think I do. A lot of us Victors are like that. We're all broken people, rejected and betrayed by the people we thought we could trust." She places a hand on my shoulder. "I understand."

I blink rapidly as I feel a tear coming on. Why am I so emotional?

"Now come on. We've got a lot of work to do. If you ever need someone to talk about, I'm here for you, okay?."

Ryzee Fleet, 15, District Nine Female

Allio and I sit on a couch, facing the television, waiting to see the competition for this year. Rusk Flanders, one of the mentors this year, turns the television to the right station and leans back. Though he mentored last year, he was unlucky enough to be drawn in the "Reaping" for mentors.

So far, Allio seems like a fun person to be with. He's not too talkative, but he smiles and talks and keeps the conversation going — not that I need any help doing that. He's pretty much all I ever wanted in a little brother. It's a little puzzling, though. He has an older brother that didn't volunteer. I really don't get why. If I had a younger sister — I wish I had one — I'd volunteer for her… would I? I hope I would.

All of a sudden, the television blares the Capitol anthem, and I jump. Allio smiles. Jovian Vermillius' loud, booming voice blares in my ears, and Rusk quickly turns the volume down, apologizing.

"It's okay," I say, smiling at the mentor before I turn my attention back to the screen. The two from One seem average. Absolutely nothing makes them stand out. Besides, it's rainy, and I have trouble keeping my eyes off of the vibrant furniture and on the dreary town square of District One. Allio shudders beside me and presses a bit closer. All the fancy luxuries of the train have distracted me from the fact that in all probability, I'm going to die.

I'm a lot more focused now.

In District Two, the guy is apparently the son of a victor. Not good for me. He has extra popularity, and he'll have leverage that none of us do. Districts Three and Four go by quickly without a hitch, but the guy in Five is large and muscular. This time, I shudder. The guy from Six is dressed in almost rags and is smoking a cigarette, and the crowd jeers at the guy from Seven, even though he's a volunteer. Eight goes by and I look away from the Nine reaping. I don't want to relive that moment. Both from Ten are reaped, though I'm sure they're both trained. There's a volunteer from Eleven this year. Once again, Twelve has two starving kids. Jovian gives a few ending remarks, and them the anthem plays and the broadcast is over.

Rusk has a firm look on his face.

"The odds aren't good, are they," I comment.

He shakes his head. "No, they aren't. There are a lot of threats this year, even more so than most years. You are the youngest tributes, so if you even want to consider winning, you'll need some help. Consider splitting up; that way you'll both have a stronger ally."

Splitting up? He looks at Allio, and I know our mentor thinks he won't make it. He thinks that I have better odds if I distance myself from Allio. I want to argue — tell him that he's wrong — but I can't. In the hundreds of Hunger Games, there have only been less than ten victors that were twelve or thirteen years old — and most of them won by pure luck, with easy competition and a lucky break in the arena. This year, the competition is anything but easy — even with a favorable arena, he isn't likely to win. For the first time for as far as I can remember, I'm at a loss for words.

"You guys decide what you'll do," Rusk says, standing up. "I'll be back soon, and then we can talk." He leaves the room, leaving behind a heavy silence.

After a few moments, Allio speaks up. "I'm not stupid."

It takes me aback. "Why would you say that?" I say, "Of course you're not stupid! That's about as random as I am."

Though I smile, he's deadly serious. "I know what he meant. He wants you to find someone to help you because I'm a lost cause."

"No! Don't-"

"I can take it," he says, more serious than I've ever seen anyone at his age. He looks me in the eyes. "I made my brother promise not to volunteer for me if I was reaped because I wouldn't be able to take his death and because he's more useful than I am." He gulps. This isn't easy for him. I open my mouth to protest, but he goes on. "Don't ally with me just because you feel that it's right. Go ahead. Find someone else. Maybe District Nine will get another victor."

"Allio…" That's all I manage to croak. He's breathing heavily, as if it took a lot of strength to get those words out. The irony of the situation strikes me. Everyone around me seems to think that I need to do everything for my own survival, to focus on yourself and accept the reality. But Allio… he isn't thinking about himself. He's thinking about me, about the District. In this case, I'll honor his wishes.

But no. I can't. If he's can choose to think about others over self, I can too.

"No," I say. I feel the determination creeping into my voice. "I'm going to stick with you."

"But-"

"I'm not taking no for an answer," I say, "No buts."

"Fine, then," he says. "Fine."

Rusk appears in the door. "Have you made a decision yet?"

"Yes," I say, "We're allying with each other."

"You know that that'll increases the chances for death for both of you, right?"

"Yes," I say. "But I've made the decision."

Rusk looks to Allio for confirmation, but he just shrugs. Our mentor sighs as we pull into the Capitol.

"Okay. I'll do my best to help."

Serge Foulard, 18, District Eight Male

Livienna, my stylist, loops the scarf around my neck and drapes the end over my left shoulder. She turns me around to face the mirror. Surprisingly, it isn't that bad. The tips of my hair have been dyed a flaming crimson; well, everything I'm wearing is some vibrant shade of red or orange, from the scarf to the cape to the shirt with really long sleeves. Even some red designs have been drawn on my face. Compared to our usual pile of quilts, this isn't that bad.

Livienna stands eagerly, waiting for my reaction.

"Wow," I say, "This… isn't bad. But…"

"But what?"

"What am I supposed to be?"

She laughs — a loud, full laugh — before pulling herself back together. "You must be jesting!"

"No… I'm not."

She stops laughing. "Of course you wouldn't know. Scarves are so in right now Since you're from the textile district, you and your partner will be the most stylish tributes this year!"

"Oh," I say, forcing a friendly chuckle. "Thank you." Scarves? In the middle of summer? Who decided that that was a good idea? Whatever reason, I prefer this scarf to whatever the previous District Eight stylists came up with.

"Now come come. We mustn't be late!"

She grabs my wrist and pulls me along, going faster than I ever thought possible in her heels. I catch a passing glance at a clock as we rush down the halls. If the parade begins at five o'clock, we still have an hour. Some people just have no chill.

When the elevator doors open and we arrive in the holding area for the chariots, I see that though we're "dreadfully" early, a few other groups have already arrived. Perfect timing to begin executing my plan.

The one thing I noticed while watching the Reapings was that we have an awful lot of untrained fighters. The guy from Five — Aaron? — could take down any of the trained girls and even some of the boys. Tyson from Eleven is a volunteer. Usually, outer-district volunteers are a major threat, and he doesn't seem to be an exception. Of course, there's Taffeta and the Nines, who don't seem to have much hope, but if I can form a central core of a few strong tributes, any help will be good. Once we take down the trained tributes, the playing field will be a lot more even for us untrained tributes.

Livienna helps me onto my chariot and adjusts the scarf again. I tap my finger on the edge of the chariot. Come on… I'm wasting time here.

She steps back with an assured sigh. "Perfect. Now just stand right there until the parade begins."

She hurries off, probably to get Taffeta. Just stand here? I don't think so. I have to make my move before the trained tributes arrive. If they don't know what's going on, they can't prepare for it.

I jump off the chariot. There goes the perfect scarf position. Oh well. She'll live. Aaron from Five is standing on his chariot, drumming his fingers on the wood. When I approach, he turns around before I say a word.

"Nervous?" I ask.

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. I'm not… good with people."

I shrug. "Not like you'll need that," I comment. He'll gain sponsors regardless of his people skills. "But I came over to talk about an alliance."

"Alliance?" He rubs his neck. "This early? Why?"

I look back to verify that the trained tributes haven't arrived. The coast is clear. "Well, you know how the victor is almost someone from one of the trained districts?"

He nods.

"Well, I want to change that," I say, "I was thinking that if the rest of us banded together and focused on taking out the biggest threats, we all might increase our odds."

He narrows his eyes. "All will increase our odds? How do I know that you're not subtly trying to benefit yourself the most?"

He's smart — a valuable trait. "I'd be lying if I said that I'm not benefiting myself," I admit, "But this benefits all of us."

He rubs his neck again. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking for." Someone behind me yells my name. Livienna isn't pleased. "I have to go. I'll talk to you in training."

The moment I turn around, I'm being pulled by Livienna back to the chariot before I convince her that I do have the capability to walk back without support. Still, this went better than I imagined.

I step onto the chariot — Livienna is fussing again — and smile at Taffeta, who's dressed similarly to me. Soon, the chariots begin to move, and we're taken into the streets of the Capitol. Crowds of people line both sides and loud drums and fanfare sound as the horses clop clop clop down the road. Things are going beautifully this year, and if everything continues to go well…

Let's just say that the hunters will become the hunted.

Delmar Martin Jr., District Four Male

After dinner, I let the shower wash away everything — all the face and body paint, all the make-up, and pretty much everything my prep team put on me for the chariot ride. From everything I'd heard about the showers in the past, I expected a nightmarish panel of buttons, but it's quite simple in reality. There's a button to start spouting warm water, and then two arrows beside it change the temperature. Of course, there's still a complicated mess of buttons for different perfumes and bath washes, but those are beside the point. I think I'll stick to plain water. There's no need to make life any more complicated than it already was.

I step on the drying pad, which immediately sends a small shock through my body and somehow dries me off (I don't get it), and I dress in loose, comfortable sleepwear. I can't help but wonder how much these clothes would cost at home. I don't know, but it'd definitely be more than I would ever be able to afford.

I exit the bathroom and enter my room. Like almost every other room, the walls are painted ocean blue — the color of District Four. I lie down on the bed, but though I close my eyes, I can't sleep. It's fancy; I'll give it that much, but it's not home. I roll over and give up. It's not a battle worth fighting.

When I enter the television room, I find Harbor, curled up on the couch with her hands around her legs, watching the reruns of the parade. She glances at me to see who came in.

"Don't feel like sleeping?" I say.

"No," she says, her voice much softer than before, "I tried. It didn't work." She takes a sip from a mug of…

"Is that chocolate?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "You can order it from an Avox."

I glance nervously at the silent servant standing at the door. As much as I can approve of some things the Capitol does, such as the free public education and the move towards increased self-governance, I will never understand why they create Avoxes.

No, I won't go down that track. Even if the Capitol deserved to be burned down and all the residents massacred, I refuse to follow that train of thought. The only thing that can come out of it death, and I'm positive that death is a fate I want to avoid. I gulp and request a mug of hot chocolate, and the Avox hurries away. Still, I can't help but follow the Avox with my eyes.

"Fascinated with Avoxes?" Harbor says.

I swallow and force a smile. "No. Just thinking."

She doesn't seem convinced. "Fine, whatever you say."

"Mind if I sit down?"

"No. Go ahead."

I sit down on the opposite end of the couch. The Avox quickly returns with my mug of hot chocolate, and I thank him. He looks confused, but he quickly hurries away before I can ask any questions, though I doubt he'd give me any sort of reply if I did ask.

Harbor grabs the remote and changes the channel. It seems to be some sort of cooking show with a man and a woman dressed in clothes as red as the meat they're preparing. And is that… blood? They drink the blood too?

Harbor changes the channel back to the the "Official Games Coverage." She didn't seem like the type to enjoy cooking. Right now, Jovian's on the air again, talking with some "experts" about the tributes.

"...Five is a major threat this year… Peacekeeper..."

This could actually be useful for me.

"...tributes don't actually know this information, so we'll have to watch how everything plays out…"

I look at Harbor, who seems unperturbed by the fact that we're illegally watching this broadcast. She notices my disapproving look.

"Gah, don't ruin the fun," she says.

"How'd you do it?" I ask.

She bites her lip. "I have my ways."

"Next on our district-by-district analysis are the tributes of District Four: Delmar Martin and Harbor Douglass," Jovian says, "Let's start with Delmar." My face appears on the huge screen. "What are your thoughts?"

One of the experts — a bubbly lady — stares at the picture of my face for a few moments, as if a picture of me could predict my fate.

"Ah…" Harbor says, chuckling. "They're clueless."

Or maybe I'm that forgettable. I'm not exactly a charismatic guy. The so-called expert rattles off some pre-memorized bullshark crap about how I do have some "fighting chance." She really just has no idea what to say. Another guy says something about "advantages in an aquatic arena." Of course I'd do better in water, it should be a given. The third guy mentions that I seem like an observant thinker. Okay, not too bad. It could be a lucky guess, though.

They quickly move on. "Now Harbor… What do you say ab-" He's cut off by an assistant that waves a clipboard in his face, which changes colors several times. Harbor seems to find it funny. I take another sip of hot chocolate.

The assistant hurries off stage, and Jovian turns back. "Well, well, well! We've just received some reports on the districts on quite a few of our tributes! And my… it's juicy! Miss. Harbor Douglass…"

Harbor drops her mug with a clunk, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the screen yet trying to muster the strength to go.

"...let's say, sells her body to other men."

Harbor buries her head in her hands with a soft cry. I reach for the remote and turn the television off. So her secret is out.

"Hey," I say, trying to come up with something to say. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

Shoot, that sounded horrible. She lifts her head. "It is that bad! Who'd want to sponsor a slut?"

There probably are people who'd do it, but I keep my mouth shut this time. There's a right time for everything, and this isn't the time to remind her that there probably are twisted Capitolians that would sponsor her to get a night with her when she returns. I hear that the forced prostitution isn't a thing with Romulus Snow anymore, but the wealthy always manage to find a way.

"Look," I say, stumbling over my own words, unsure of where my words are coming from. "Harbor. I'll stick with you."

She looks up at me. "Thanks," she mumbles.

"I'm not much," I admit.

"Better than nothing," she says. She smiles weakly.

I stumble out of the room and slam against the hallway wall. Where did all that come from? I wasn't thinking — I really wasn't. As if partnering with her would help my odds!

I get back to my room, feeling light-headed. Maybe sleep will help. But whatever I decide to do, I've got a whole ton of problems.

Somehow, I feel that this is only the beginning.

Questions:

1. Pembroke… Thoughts on Keshia? Pembroke's situation?

2. Ryzee… How do you feel about her? Her actions?

3. Serge… How successful do you think he'll be? How do you feel about it?

4. Delmar… What do you he'll end up doing?

5. Predictions on the placements? Story arcs?

6. What could've been done better in this chapter?

That's all. Please drop a review! Aiyah, they make me so happy.

See y'all!

~Joseph