Lost Name

by Kaen Okami

"...Victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two." We all know Haymitch, but who was the other victor? Whose story was never told? This is the Hunger Games of Tirion Sagitto, the first victor of District Twelve. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.

5. Clear The Way

When we have all filed into the underground site, we are greeted by the man who runs the prizefighting rings – a middle-aged man named Reggie Kirain.

"Hey, boys," Reggie says, grinning when he recognizes one of his favorite groups of competitors. "Ya doin' okay?"

I smirk. "Yeah." Reggie's a lesser-known victor. He's maintained his strength and combat skills well despite his age, and he's one of the cleverer breed of Careers, but he pales in comparison to some of the more recent District 2 victors, like Hatalom Galád, the one I may be trying to model myself after. I don't idolize anyone, but I think my subconscious has other ideas.

I notice Daiza turn to the dog lying, relaxed but attentive, at Reggie's feet. "Hey, Hadouken," he greets it. Hadouken, an irascible animal as grizzled and greyed as his master, gives him what can only be described as a glare and a short "Rurf" as an answer, and sinks his head further between his paws. "Glad to see you too," Daiza snickers.

"In top condition for reaping day, are ya?" Reggie says, flexing the metal fingers of his artificial right arm, which he got after losing half of the natural arm in his Games.

Arno slides in front of me, mocking the crazed smile of our Capitol escort. "Oh, yes, sir," he says, sounding like he wants to laugh. "We've got ourselves a top-quality future victor here, everybody!"

His words evoke encouraging cheers from some of the surrounding people, most of them Careers-in-training like me. I'd beaten most of them in fights for the volunteering spot, but still, we do support the ones who are going into the arena. After all, it's the ambition of most of the district, and we admire the ones who are strong enough to achieve it. Of course, getting out alive is the difficult part, but when I think on what I'll fight to come back to, it gives me more of a purpose than most other Careers.

Reggie gives a raspy laugh and gulps down some more liquor from the half empty bottle next to the chair. "Course we do," he says, chuckling and grinning at me. "I stay here from dawn to dusk, watchin' all you kids train, and I see strong young boys and girls, with dreams of glory. All of them are fine fighters, but some of you stick out to me. And I apparently have a knack for picking out good tributes. Most of the ones who make a lasting impression on me fought their way into at least the top three, if they didn't win. But often, I spot victors long before they make their way into the arena. And you, boy, you're a definite one!"

I offer my own grin as the shouts of assent rise up again. My eyes move to each proud member of the gang in turn, and I see that they all have retrieved their weapons of choice from the lockers: Arno brandishes his long and shiny scimitar, which he won in a fight when the person he'd defeated turned out to not have the money to give his own share of the winnings, Girvin smashes his scratched-up, dulled pair of brass knuckles together over his head as Fabron expertly spins his glaive in his hand, Leib holds his claw-shaped blades, calm and intense and ready for battle, and even Renny, who Leib must have found and pulled over to join us, shows off his collection of knives and whirls his silvery, clinking chains. My grin broadens when I see Daiza, clearly enjoying every minute of this praise, even if it's not for him, thrusting his fists out with a defiant smirk on his face. He prefers to fight in the traditional way, with no weapons but his own body and mind, but he does have some skill with short swords which I am working to improve.

Reggie looks pleased by the positive reactions to his little speech, while Hadouken gives an annoyed growl and paws at his ears, trying to get some peace and quiet. He's used to Reggie going on and on and tuning it out, but the din of dozens of aspiring Career Tributes is just a bit too difficult to escape for the old dog.

It's a proud and gratifying moment – the kind that's excellent for self-confidence boosting – when a familiar and very unpleasant voice - smooth and attractive on the surface, but with a cold, mocking undercurrent - shatters it.

"Well, well, everyone's cheering on the triumphant loser? Glad I could crash the party."

Everyone glares in the direction of a smirking Stone Wystan approaching with his own gang of four others, but don't say a word. Despite his fighting skills, no one really likes him, but Stone can command a good amount of respect if anything, and one must tread cautiously when dealing with him because of his tendency to whine to Head Peacekeeper Quille, his trainer and close family friend, if anyone is anything less than reverent towards him. His gang shares his arrogance and self-bestowed superiority, and though I don't know them well and have no desire to anyway, I think they're only with him because they enjoy power like he does.

Stone and his gang are what constitutes as high-class in District 2 - from the Upper Villages, higher slopes and mountainsides behind Mount Nadare, the center of the district - but even his gang looks shabby compared with their leader. Some of the non-Career girls at school whisper excitedly to each other about his good looks, but I think the omnipresent mocking grin and malicious light in his dark bluish-black eyes takes a lot away from any handsomeness. Dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt that's just tight enough to show off the lean, hard muscles of his torso, black pants that looked almost new, a slim belt with an expensive-looking silver buckle, and shiny black combat boots, Stone's very appearance shows his status and his pride in it. But this can only get him so far. Arrogance is a good angle to take in the Games, but it's not taken well here. It doesn't matter who Stone is the favorite boy of or the fact that he's rolling in money almost as much as a low-class Capitolian: those things will never garner our acceptance.

But then again, we don't need to accept him if he's soundly beaten all of us, and he's been doing fine at that.

Stone looks around at the sea of stony faces glaring his way, and he nonchalantly runs a hand lightly through his dark, perfectly combed-back hair. "Aw, what's the matter? Don't tell me you're all still upset that I beat you pathetic excuses for Careers into the dirt?"

He pulls a purple plastic lighter and a cigarette out of his pocket – according to him it's a "special" gift from Quille – and deftly lights it. He inhales a long, drawn-out drag of smoke, as he basks in the glory of every eye on him. His right-hand man, Marley Borough, steps up to Stone's side, offering his own smirk, though his looks a lot sleazier than his leader's.

"Hey, boss, here's a good one," he says, gesturing to me. "Maybe they're all ticked off because they thought Vadállat here was gonna volunteer this year!"

Stone withdraws the cigarette, which emanates harsh-smelling smoke that wrinkles the nose of all present (including Hadouken, who puts a paw over his nose in disgust), and laughs; a short, derisive chuckle that does not seem to leave his throat. "Yeah…" he says, lifting his head to look me in the eyes and flash a challenging smile. "Maybe they did."

I don't speak, just glare like everyone else as his gang gives sycophantic hoots of laughter. Stone's laughter and grin fade and his expression changes to a cold, hard one. "So what are you going to do, Rakhir?" he asks me, a taunting tone in his voice. "Refuse? Run? Give it all up? What, huh?"

"I think none of the above, Stone," I tell him, keeping my voice even and only letting a trace of how much I loathe him show through. "I think grinding your face into the floor sounds much more appealing."

"He'll do it, too," Reggie puts in. "You've got no chance, pretty boy."

Stone turns and glares at him, his intense dislike for the elder fighter made very obvious, the way I suspect he's been taught to do by Quille. Reggie and Head Peacekeeper Quille were rivals as young men almost the same way Stone and I are, and according to Reggie, Quille never liked that victors like Reggie got more respect than important authority figures like him and passed it on to his student.

"Oh, you think so, old man?" Stone hisses. "I heard you going on about how you pick the victors before they even reach the arena. Rakhir's the next great Career, hm? Well, I don't think so."

"Don't tell me you think it'll be you, Wystan?" It's not Reggie who speaks now, but an angry-looking fifteen-year-old boy that I've noticed it pretty good with an axe; I think his name is Serke, and he's from the Lower Villages like my gang and I, from the lower classes that live in the stone mining territories at the foot of Mount Nadare. "What makes you think you'd survive in the arena? Did you realize that if you're fighting in the Games no one cares who likes you? You'll have no influence there."

Stone's irritated glare turns to Serke. "Shut up, kid," he snarls, even though the boy's only a few years younger than him. "I don't think you want the Head Peacekeeper after you and your family for disrespect, do you?"

"Oh, is that your big strategy for the Games, Stone?" drawls an older Career girl, one of Renny's acquaintances, named Kess. "I don't know if you knew this, and it may come as sort of a shock, but the other tributes won't care if you threaten to go whine to Quille if they come after you with big swords and spears."

Stone snaps at her, "You too, shut up! I think you should start caring about what I can do here, to all of you, even if I can only get rid of one of you in the arena."

"I'd like to see you try it," Fabron snorts.

"And I'd be happy to oblige," Stone says, gesturing to two of his gang members to move forward. Inwardly, I smile, knowing that my gang is different. They aren't obedient puppies who robotically follow the orders of their leader. They act on their own, most of the time without any instructions from me. And that's what they decide to do now.

Just as the two of Stone's gang members – a tanned, burly guy named Tudor Black that it's widely agreed has anger management issues, and a lean, not very clever boy named Joel Kummele - start to advance toward us, Leib shoots out from behind me with Arno and Fabron close behind, ready to attack.

Leib, his expression hard and unreadable but his fierce golden-brown eyes blazing, strikes at Joel with his knives. He's held a grudge against Joel even since he mugged one of Leib's brothers and left him bleeding in an alleyway for most of a night. Leib's slashing is fast and ruthless, but Joel is very quick with his hands. His thick, gray-black leather gloves, studded with numerous small, sharp spikes, flash out to try and hit Leib's hands, wrists, and forearms and knock his expert slices away. It's difficult to see who is winning, though, they are both fast and fierce fighters and I'd say they're evenly matched.

Arno and Fabron are having a slightly tougher time with Tudor, Stone's powerhouse. He's smaller than both me and Girvin, but he's still huge and strong, destructively so. A hard, disdainful smirk is spreading on his face as he takes huge swings with either his heavy club, which is wood enforced with metal, or his left fist, which is free. Arno is fighting furiously, slicing and stabbing with his scimitar, keeping Tudor occupied from the front as Fabron attacks from the back, trying unsuccessfully to lodge himself on Tudor's massive back, while in the meantime cutting at every area he can reach, only making smaller cuts, though, as he thinks it's tinier cuts that bring the sharpest pain of ordinary wounds. But even though my boys are skilled fighters and it's two on one, Tudor still manages to give them one hell of a hard time, flailing every limb and appendage on his body with hopes of slamming them into Arno and Fabron with the force of a dozen sledgehammers.

I narrow my eyes slightly, knowing what kind of damage Tudor can inflict with those blows; Joel as well, with his spiked gloves and deadly speed. I've seen Stone's gang in battle before, and I've seen firsthand the things they've done to those they defeat. Even if an opponent of theirs comes out on top, they usually don't look too good, to make a tremendous understatement. But my internal smile doesn't falter. Because I know what my gang is capable of as well. And I have faith in them to take Stone's lackeys down.

Beside me, Girvin grinds his teeth and clenches his fists, clearly itching to join his brother in battle. I remember him once mentioning that he'd like to fight Tudor on his own, if only once, and show him what real strength is. In fact, he seems to have made his mind up to charge into the fight, and he takes one determined step forward. I turn halfway to him and raise my hand to stop him. The look of surprise and disappointment on his round face, so like a little boy chastised when he thought he was doing good, brings a small smile to my face.

"Head in if you want to," I tell him quietly. "But I don't think they'll need you quite yet. Watch," I say, and gesture to the fighting pairs.

Leib has taken the upper hand in his fight. Joel's left arm is bleeding profusely from a long, relatively deep cut running down the inside of the arm, and well-placed kick from Leib has left his right wrist bruised and not as useable. His punches aren't coming as fast as before, and Leib is still going strong. In no less than a minute later, his powerful and flawlessly executed moves have knocked Joel flat on his back on the hard, rugged stone floor. Leib wastes no time; he is on top of Joel in a moment, pinning his opponent to the ground. Joel struggles angrily, but his light, thin frame is no match for Leib's strong, muscled body. Leib positions one of his knives at the base of Joel's throat, and he lowers the other to where the older boy's thigh and hip meet. "Give it up," he growls.

Joel looks furious, but he has no choice. It's one of the rules of the fight: If an opponent holds you immobile for more than ten seconds, you have lost. And the large knives at two of his most vulnerable areas don't leave Joel much room to argue either. With what looks like great effort, he relaxes his body, gives up the fight.

"I yield," he breathes, and it sounds like the short sound is being forcibly, painfully dragged out of him. Leib releases him and stands up, but not before getting another slash and kick to the ribs in as Joel tries to get up, knocking him back to the ground.

"That was for Ethon," he snarls, reminding Joel of what made Leib hate him.

Joel doesn't seem affected by it much. He quickly gets to his feet, still on guard, and slinks back over to where his gang waits, with disapproving faces. "Gutter trash," he hisses at Leib over his shoulder as he retreats. Leib stares after him, with a look in his eyes so fierce I'm almost surprised they don't burn holes in Joel's back.

Emboldened by Leib's victory, Arno and Fabron press harder in their attacks on Tudor. The big ox isn't giving them any leniency though. Angered by his friend's defeat, Tudor is fighting as ferociously as ever. All of us stand silently and watch, like the wolf pack lying in wait for one fighting dog to go down in a book that we love to badger Leib's eldest brother Beltrán into letting us borrow. But despite Tudor being a flailing tower of fury and brute strength, Arno and Fabron are starting to look like they might come out on top. A triumphant grin breaks onto my face when Fabron finally gets in some excellent hits to Tudor's head.

"Nice!" I hiss under my breath.

Girvin still looks like he thinks he should help. "Are you sure that'll finish him?" he asks me, with a note of doubtfulness in his voice I can tell is intentional. "It's enough to daze him a bit, but mostly it's just riling him up."

"Trust me, Girvin; Fabron and Arno know what they're doing." I assure him. "Again, go and try to help out if you want, but if I know those two, they've almost got the big oaf down for the count."

"Yeah," mutters Renny, chewing on his lip and watching the fight uncertainly. "Course they do. Because that bear'll be so easy to take down. Bet they come out without a scratch on 'em, too."

I frown at him. Out of all the gang, Renny is the most pessimistic and cynical, and out of all the gang, he's had the worst encounter with Tudor. About ten months ago, Tudor was angry that Renny had been on a winning streak at the prizefights – actually, he's angry at just about everything – and he decided that Renny must be cheating, because to his mind, that's how fighters raised in the Lower Villages of the district operate.

Like most people raised in the higher-class Upper Villages - which is populated by more weapons factories and Peacekeeper training facilities and, of course, the technicians from Mount Nadare, and less stone miners, though both regions of the district have all these things - he and the rest of Stone's gang believe that they're the better Careers, although it has been proven that Careers from the Lower Villages tend to do better in the Games. We might be one of the more prosperous districts, but the people of the Lower Villages don't exactly live the perfect, cushy life. There's more and fiercer fighting among the Lower Villages, where if you run into hard times, you're less likely to get help than in the Upper Villages, so whether you're well-off or not, here you're taught early on how to fend for yourself. Which is fine with me, it's better for the arena. But I digress.

Tudor took Marley and Joel to follow Renny home from a fairly successful night at the prizefighting arenas. For the record, he hadn't been cheating at all, just perfecting a new move he'd learned from a friend of his. There are so few rules in the prizefights - such as not severing limbs, cutting arteries, or breaking more than two bones – that it's nearly impossible to cheat without making it glaringly obvious. And though Renny's methods are, more often than not, questionable, he's a fair fighter when you come right down to it. But Tudor didn't seem to think so – he caught Renny behind a Peacekeeper training facility and attacked him. At three on one, caught off guard, and far from help, Renny didn't have a chance. Marley and Joel wrestled him down and held his arms behind his back, while Tudor beat the living hell out of him. He doesn't remember how long they beat him for, couldn't tell how long Tudor kept on punching him, one body-crushing blow after another. All we knew was one of the worst damage we'd seen done to one of our gang.

It had been pure luck when Leib and I had found him, a good while after Tudor and the rest had finished beating him, and in a moment of pure cruelty dislocated his right arm, and then dropped him to the ground and left him there. Leib had been walking with me back to his house, since it had been such a nice day and I didn't want to ruin it by going back to my own sorry excuse for a home, when I heard a somewhat familiar sound: A moan of pain. I wasn't sure if I should pay attention or not, but when Leib, being Leib, did not deliberate and ran straight off in the direction of the sound, I didn't have any choice but to follow him. I don't get affected much by scenes of blood, pain, or other general consequences of battle, but my stomach churned when I saw Renny lying there, his face contorted with pain and marked with bruises and swelling wounds, just like the rest of him. He didn't say anything as Leib and I carefully lifted him up and took him as fast as we could without hurting him more to a different destination than we'd planned – to Girvin and Fabron's house, to their mother, who worked as a nurse in Mount Nadare. She's the best at her work I've ever seen, and although by the next afternoon Renny was still in a good amount of pain, confined to a spare bed, and looked barely any better, both nurse and patient agreed that he was going to recover just fine.

When we visited him the following day, Daiza was confused. "Why'd they do this to him?" he'd said, his small fists clenched tight. "If they'd thought he was cheating, why didn't they do what everyone else does? Take it up with Reggie? Why'd they have to go and beat him up?"

"Because they're not like everyone else," I told him, my voice coming out rough with repressed anger. "At least, they like to convince themselves that they aren't."

"A Lower Villager…getting the better of Upper Villagers," Renny murmured, through the bandages that covered much of his face. "That's what they get so bent out of shape about. They just…can't stand the idea…that we can be better than them. I was beating a lot of them…and they couldn't take that. They wanted to… to teach me some kind of a lesson. To show that they were better…than me…and the rest of us."

"Class warfare." Fabron, always the slightly scholarly one, defined our problem. "That's what it is. Class warfare."

"What?" Daiza said, stunned with the reality of our situation. "And the other districts think we have it easy because…?"

"They don't know us, and we don't know them, and nobody really cares to remedy that," I informed him simply.

"And it doesn't matter if we do," Leib said firmly, his hand tightly holding the sheathed knife on his belt. "With the circumstances being what they are, there's no reason for us to care about the rest of the nation, we just need to focus on taking care of ourselves."

And despite Renny's doubt now, since after his experience with Tudor he regards him as almost impossibly strong, I think my boys are doing just that. They know Tudor's a raging beast in battle, but between Arno's skill and Fabron's sharp mind, I believe they'll figure out some way to beat him. In fact, I think they've already got it.

Arno is slashing relentlessly with his scimitar, but Fabron is strangely less active with his glaive, and operating more around the sides than the back. They might have won the fight by now, if not for the rule against too-severe injuries. But if Tudor is in agony now from the multitude of cuts on his body, he sure doesn't show it, as expected of a top Career wannabe. But I can see he's running out of steam. And as I notice what Arno and Fabron are trying to do, I see exactly how he's going to crack.

Tudor doesn't realize it, but Arno and Fabron have been slowly but surely pushing him backwards. This wouldn't be a problem normally, but they're maneuvering him towards the locker pit, where we all keep our weapons, a change of clothes, and other miscellaneous possessions. It's the worst kept of all the areas of the prizefighting grounds, and it's full of hard, jagged stone that would be hell to take an unfortunate fall on normally. But for some very convenient reason, the stairway that leads down into the pit is unusually long and very steep. If someone were to crash down those stairs and land hard on the stone…Well, I think I'm about to see what would happen.

Arno continues persistently attacking, the blade flashing in the bluish-white electric light of the grounds but not seeming to do much damage if you look carefully, moving the unsuspecting Tudor towards the edge of the pit. Any other trained Career would probably have noticed this and torn apart their plan by now, but Arno and Fabron are playing on Tudor's tendency to go berserk and beyond reason in a fight. He's so fired up; he can't tell he's being led into a trap.

I look and see Stone grimacing. He's seen through the plan, too, and I can tell he wants to scream his lungs out at Tudor right now, but can't because it's illegal to sabotage a fight. Hey, that's what you get if you're only going for power and skill in your outfit, instead of a balance of both like mine. Stone only keeps Tudor around for his strength, but in many ways, he's more of a hindrance than a help.

Tudor's only a couple of steps away from the pit – so close that if he goes back any more on his own even he'll figure it out – and so the boys make their move. Fabron, who was making himself virtually unnoticed throughout this, dashes in behind Tudor just as he takes a step back and goes in low, hitting the back of his long legs and knocking him off balance. A split second later, Arno charges, throwing himself at Tudor and slamming shoulder-first right into his abdomen. Tudor's huge, but he's also been caught by surprise and off balance, and Arno's a pretty strong guy despite his average looks, so his final attack sends Tudor down hard, his body just barely scraping the first few stairs, landing hard on the middle ones with a loud crack that makes a few spectators wince, and finally tumbling down and landing on the rugged stone at the bottom.

When he doesn't come back up, raging and howling, Stone gives a yell of frustration and runs to check on his Goliath. I don't concern myself with him right away, just assess the damage of my own gang as Arno and Fabron come back, beaten and bruised, but triumphant and grinning. Arno has taken the brunt of the battle, but he was too quick for most of the punches, and so a purplish-blue black eye and a badly split lip are about the worst of the damage. Fabron's back and shoulders were hurt when he went under Tudor's legs, but aside from that and a few scrapes and bruises, he's fine. They're both going to feel it all tomorrow morning, though.

Stone comes back up the stairs, fuming at the defeat of his most powerful lackey. "Boss!" calls the youngest member of his gang, a thirteen-year-old named Tobin who's on the smaller side and not a very good fighter, but very clever and all around brilliant, very good at formulating plans for battles he can see coming. To me, he always looks like he's thinking hard, as if playing some kind of intense game. From what I've seen of him, he's a pretty nice kid who Stone only lets hang around him because of his smarts, which his gang is severely lacking in, though he'd never admit it. Tobin only got mixed up with Stone because he was being tormented by other, stronger kids his age, the Career type, and he was seeking either a way to fit in so there'd be no reason to pick on him or else a method of protection so everyone would be too scared to pick on him. Stone saw him try to talk his way out of a beating from the kids who'd been bullying him, and thought that he might be of some use to him, so he went and scared the other bullies away from Tobin, and then offered the kid a place in his gang. Ironically, Tobin accepted an offer to join with the guy who goes to great lengths to be the biggest bully in the playground (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally, and I should know) because he hated the other ones for tormenting him. I don't understand how he can't see that Stone is of the same mold. Maybe he's like Daiza without the spirit – a scrawny outcast in need of some help, and idolizing the one who gives it. Daiza found me, and Tobin ended up with Stone.

"Boss!" Tobin cries, with a look of worry on his face. "Is he gonna be okay, boss? He didn't land on his neck, did he? They didn't kill him, did they, boss?"

"Relax!" snaps Stone harshly, and Tobin instantly shuts his mouth. "He cracked his head, all right? Just knocked out, is all! No need to get so worked up!"

His gang quiets down, having no wish to evoke their boss's anger further. Stone glares furiously at our gang, his blazing dark eyes trained on my face. I work to maintain a calm but determined expression, the kind of 'camera face' Careers are taught to do for the Games. My hatred of him I can hold inside until the time is right to unleash it in a fight, but Stone doesn't care for restraint of his emotions. His unbridled fury at being shown up by a gang of Lower Villagers, after years of bragging that his gang and Upper Villagers in general are superior, is plain for all to see. Looking around him and seeing everyone's reactions to his humiliation only fuel the flames. Nearly everyone is watching with suppressed laughter, small smiles, or a knowing look in their eyes. Reggie, who isn't one for subtlety, is having a victory drink and cackling away, happy that he's got something to brag about to Quille at the tiny bar our district has – that the gang he's always favored just got the best of a gang backed up by Quille. Even Hadouken has a vaguely taunting expression on his aging canine face.

An animalistic growl comes from Stone's throat, and he yells, "Enough!", silencing everyone but Reggie, who smirks and gives one last chuckle before returning to his liquor. Striding forward with an expression that promises payback, Stone snarls, "Think you're so great, Vadállat? I think you should stop letting your gang fight for you, and let me show you just how a real warrior fights!"

"All right then, Stone, I'd be happy to help teach a lesson," I say coolly, leaving my encircling gang to face Stone, matching his icy glare with my own steady, burning gaze. The tension and anticipation of our audience is almost palpable in the air, as they await the outcome of the biggest fight of the year – the battle that will decide who wins the honor of competing in the Hunger Games; between two old rivals, no less.

Reggie gives a grin that exposes his yellowing teeth, marred by alcohol and a matter of little importance to him. "Excellent," he says, relishing the impending fight as much as everyone else. "Get in the ring, boys, that'll make it official." He turns to Leib, Arno, and Fabron. "You boys' fights may not have been official, but I'll still give you a little something for it, just 'cause I like the lot of ya. Come here, we'll discuss it…" The three go up to Reggie with eager smirks on their faces, but no one, least of all Stone and I, is paying them any attention. We go to the center of the grounds, and enter from opposite sides into the biggest ring in the place. Plenty of empty space to battle it out, a high cement floor emblazoned with the seal of the district, and no boundaries to keep us from getting knocked off to a nasty landing. In other words, a fine place for a good fight.

We stand on opposite sides of the ring, for any opening words to be given by either combatant. I don't intend to say anything; I'm dying to finally get this final fight under way. But Stone apparently wants to get in a bit more boasting before the fists start flying.

"So, Vadállat, we have a fair fight. No weapons…save for our own bodies," he declares, showing off his fists, clad in fine black leather fingerless gloves. "Now," he says, lowering his fists, his voice, and part of his arrogant demeanor. "I'd like to ask you something, Vadállat. My gang and I…We are the stronger, better warriors. We were raised to be better. I can't speak for the rest of them, but for me, at least, my entire life has been devoted to it."

"That's because you're a megalomaniacal, power-hungry prick," Arno snaps, holding an ice pack retrieved from the area's infirmary over his black eye. His crude but accurate statement evokes chattering and shouts of assent from our Lower-Village audience. Stone shoots him an ugly look, and then turns back to me.

"Upper Villagers like us are superior to you Lower Villagers by birth. And we work to prove it to you over and over again," Stone says.

And we prove you wrong, I think. Over and over again. Renny backs up my thoughts. "I think our rough raised Careers are far better than your well-bred shit."

Stone tries to ignore Renny, but can't resist giving him a poisonous glare. "So I have to ask you this," he says, his eyes narrowing. "How is it that your gang of lowlifes beat mine?"

"Because your gang of lowlifes couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag?" Fabron offers, before resuming a whispered conversation with Renny, which, judging from his eyes and hand gestures, involves Renny introducing him to his friend Kess, and Fabron possibly getting a back massage out of it for his sore back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Fabron knows full well there are medications and hot pads for an aching body in the infirmary, but he just wants to take advantage of his situation. Stone shoots him a glare identical to the one he gave Arno, and then continues.

"What is it about you, Vadállat? You're from the lowest of the low here, and you've piled together a gang of messes just like you. A bunch like you shouldn't be able to get anywhere in a place where the strong prevail. Strength, you see, is in your blood, and we Upper Villagers – "

"Blood?" I interject. "Where did you get that from? What difference does your class or your blood make? The way I see it, blood is blood, and I'm about to spill yours all over the floor, Wystan."

Stone's glare turns icy and unforgiving. "All right then. I see how it is. You think your class makes no difference. That you can become powerful whatever your heritage or how you were raised. You think you can prove me wrong, that you can prove the whole Upper Village wrong. But wait. You think it depends on the person, don't you?"

I shrug. "Aren't all Careers trained to be the best?"

"Okay," he says, sounding somewhat thoughtful. "I've got an idea," he declares.

"Well, great for you," I say mock-cheerfully. "What do you want, a medal?"

Stone goes on, too happy with himself to be stung by my insult. "I think," he says, "we should raise the stakes of this fight a bit."

"Really?" I say, making it sound like this is of little interest to me, when actually I'm a little surprised and more than a little curious about it. This is already the biggest fight of the year, where the winner gets the prize of going to the Capitol to compete in the Games. There is no higher honor than that. "How so?" I ask.

"Care to make a personal wager, Vadállat?" he says, with an evil grin. "If you win, I'll admit, once and for all, that I'm wrong and Lower Villagers like you are capable of being great Careers, and I will never say another word against them. But if I win – "

"Let me guess," I say dryly. "I have to admit Upper Villagers are superior and you're the supreme god of all Careers?"

"I was thinking of making you do that, but how uncreative would that have been?" He licks his lips and looks positively, disgustingly devious. "If I win…You have to tell me how you got that scar!"

A collective intake of breath through clenched teeth comes from my gang, and I narrow my eyes, feeling very conscious of the long, prominent knife scar that runs from the middle of my forehead over my right eye to the end of my cheek. I have never told anyone how I got the scar, not even my gang, and certainly not my mother; because doing so would be revealing my darkest secret. Not only that, but the scar is useful for being a Career as well. People here wonder where and how I got it, and it's actually quite a debated topic among the people who think I can't hear them, and people in the Games will see it and know that I'm a fighter that can take anything, and wonder, perhaps, what happened to the other guy who gave me the scar. My eyes narrow at the memory. Even though I had been no older than eight years old, I can still recall perfectly the agony of my father's blade tearing through my face…and I can also recall how his still, paling, bloodied body looked after I retaliated. It almost brings a grim smile to my face to remember how he looked when I took the knife and turned it back against him, how I finally got back at him for all the thousands of times he'd caused me pain. It hadn't even been on purpose, at least not completely. Even when everything else is so clear, I can't even remember what I was thinking at the actual moment. All I can call up is just a blur of rage, hate, and red haze. I'm not sure how much of my father's death was an accident, but I did my best to make it look that way afterwards, and it worked. One thing I know for sure is, I never regretted it.

"So, Vadállat? Ready to wager a little more than money or position on a fight?" Stone challenges.

I take about a moment to deliberate. I know I can beat him, I'm certain of it, but on the off chance I lose…I'd have no choice. I can't back out, and I'd have to divulge the truth of my father's death for the entire district to hear. Not only would my ambitions of becoming a victor be crushed, but my whole life along with it. It's a dangerous risk to run, but…

No. I won't let Stone win. No matter what the cost, I'll beat him. I've already chosen to fight in the Games, where the cost of losing is my life. This isn't too far off. I take a battle stance. "Ready when you are, Wystan," I say, forcing more confidence than usual into my voice and assuming my usual combat stance. My acceptance is met with a round of appreciative whoops from the audience, whether they're rooting for Stone or me.

Stone smirks, and raises his own fists. "That's what I like to hear," he says, then wastes no time in dashing straight for me. I dodge his lunge, and as he's spinning around to face me, I slam the first punch of the battle into his chest. The brutal blow would have knocked anyone but Stone breathless, but he's trained for this too. He's not all just talk, he really is strong. He recovers quickly and comes out fighting, in a torrent of quick blows that I start off blocking and parrying. But after a bit I start truly fighting myself. I knock aside his blows and send my own flying into his body, in a barrage of powerful fists and vicious kicks. Stone fights in a cold and calculating manner, always trying to search out weak points and exploit them. But his relatively logical approach to battle is no match for the style of a true Career: Well-honed ferocity and a complete lack of mercy, combined with the fighter's own techniques and preferences.

In the storm of savage blows and well-executed martial arts, it's hard to figure out when you can get a truly devastating strike in, one that will turn the tide of the fight in your favor. But after about five minutes of battle, I spot an opening. At one point of the fight, I delivered a few good solid kicks to Stone's ribs and side, and judging from the way he seems to be lagging a little on that side, I may have done more damage than I originally thought. As I've broken a few ribs before – both mine and others' – I think I can recognize an injury that's definitely an advantage to me. Stone's been doing a good job of not showing the pain he definitely must be feeling, as he's been trained to do, but it's not enough. I allow a smile to slowly spread on my face. There, let Stone try and figure out what I've got in mind for him.

Stone aims a fierce punch at my throat, but I catch his wrist and jerk it viciously to the side, throwing him off balance. He tries to recover, but he's not fast enough to avoid a solid kick, with all my power behind it, directly into his ribs. I am rewarded with a shout of pain and a rush of satisfaction flows through me, as I take the opportunity to launch a hail of ferocious blows to his chest without any letup. He's trying to retaliate, but a few strong strikes – the kind meant to inflict injury to the bone – to his arms and legs slow that. I know that I'm pushing it, that I may be closer to breaking the rules than is good for me. But I don't want to stop, I want to keep going, I want to keep fighting. For a moment, I forget where I am and what my limits are; almost like I've fast-forwarded my mind into the Games. Stone is my enemy, I have to keep on him until he can't fight anymore, can't try to destroy my dreams with his arrogant wishes anymore. Stone's looking a lot less prideful and confident now, I think sadistically, with his body bruised and bleeding. His eyes are blazing with agonized rage, and he's trying his best to get himself out of this predicament and reenter true combat instead of being pummeled relentlessly, but he can't. It might be just my fired-up imagination, but he's starting to look scared; and this sends another fierce rush of satisfaction through my veins and gives even more strength to my attacks…I'm so blinded by my fervor for battle that I don't know what I might have done to Stone – not that it matters – if I hadn't been broken out of the confining haze.

"Rakhir!" Daiza's call stands out from the audience, who roars with approval for their apparent winner and drown out the few who must be yowling for Stone. It surprises me enough that I pause for a moment. I worry Stone might take advantage of this, but I've come back to my senses enough to realize that I'm practically on top of him, with my knees digging into his thighs and my fists pressing hard into his shoulders. Funny; I don't quite remember jumping on top of him. Even if he had decided to try and get up, he couldn't, but I don't think he will just yet. He looks stunned and dazed, the worst of the cuts on his face – a long gash across his forehead, probably caused by the studded silver wristbands I'm wearing – slowly trickles bright crimson blood down his temple. I've fought him before, but he's never seen me so battle-crazed and the look of surprise in his eyes proves his feelings. I'm aware of the change in the crowd. They are tense as they wonder what I'll do next.

"Relax, Rakhir!" Daiza calls. "I know you want to be a tribute, but don't go so far just yet! You've practically won already! Everyone already knows you're the best!" A collective shout of assent backs up the kid's words, and he breaks into a gratified smile. "Besides," he goes on, the smile morphing into a smirk. "While you're away winning the Games, we'll take care of them for you. If he doesn't keep his side of the bargain willingly, we'll make sure he sticks to it. And we'll make sure everyone knows that Lower Villagers like us are given the credit we earn!"

To illustrate his point, he pulls off some of the martial arts moves the gang has taught him, which brings a mixed reaction of laughter and smiles and whoops that are only half-meant as encouragement. I try to hold back a small smile of my own. Daiza means his words and his actions seriously, but he's hardly ever taken seriously. I guess it comes from being a tough but scrawny little guy with a fiery spirit. Nevertheless, he's liked by most of the Lower Village (while the Upper Villagers either jeer at him or pay him no attention at all).

One person, however, is not happy at all about everyone's actions. Stone has gotten over his surprise and is struggling unsuccessfully to unseat me. His pitiful attempts to resume combat appear so comical that I can't hold back a chuckle. "Give it up, Wystan. You should have realized by now – I've beat you because that's how it should be. You weren't made for the Games, I was always meant to take this spot. I've earned it now, and now you are finished."

Stone's face contorts into a look of pure hatred as his eyes burn with fury. "It's not…over yet…" he grinds out through clenched teeth.

Reggie guffaws as though this is the joke of the century. "Actually, it is, pretty boy," he says, with obvious satisfaction in his voice. "Rakhir had you immobile for well over ten seconds. Count yourself lucky he just did that, or else the fight'd still be on and he'd still be beating the crap out of you." Reggie grins. "The look on your face, boy…" He starts laughing again, full of glee at Stone's misery.

For a moment, Stone looks stunned, in disbelief; as if he hadn't thought it possible for him to fail, then his fury rebounds fiercely. "No…" he snarls. "No!" And the next second I feel a sharp, unexpected pain sear my calf.

I reflexively jump back, and Stone scrambles up from the floor, which is now spattered with drops of both our blood, and he wildly brandishes a knife he must have had hidden and ready in his clothes. The blade is dripping bright red, and the same stuff is slowly soaking through my pants leg from the cut. All right, I assess the situation. He's got a knife, I've got nothing. But I can still take him. To be honest, I'm not that shocked or nervous. I should have known Stone would pull some dirty trick like this, and maybe I'm caught unprepared. Maybe I'm a bit outmatched. Maybe the crazed, wild look in Stone's eyes unnerves me a little. But according to the undisputable code of our district, I am this year's male tribute; the reward for my many victories. And a tribute has to fight his way through anything anyone can throw at him.

I waste no time, I don't want Stone to be able to get the upper hand; though in this insane state he's in, I doubt his mind will work normally and formulate any sort of plan. I charge at him intending to take him down again, and his reaction is animalistic, howling with rage and aimlessly slashing the air with the knife, the blood from his cut forehead running profusely from the wound and streaming down his flushed face. If he makes contact with me, it'll be completely by chance. I, however, am entirely in control of myself. I don't hesitate; it will only take one attack, a final exploitation of a weakness I discovered in my very first fight with Stone Wystan. I pull back my fist and summon up all my power into one vicious punch to Stone's jaw.

Stone's glass jaw is his literal downfall. The crack echoes throughout the stone room, even louder because of the rounded ceiling, and I see his jawbone move under his flesh, snapping out of its socket. On a whim, I deliver a hard kick into his ribs, and it's satisfying beyond belief; hearing a couple more cracks of bone as my boot hits his chest, sending him crashing into the floor where his skull slams into the stone, knocking him out cold.

Tobin and Marley rush forward toward their defeated leader. "Boss!" Tobin cries, reaching him first and shaking his shoulders. "Boss, get up!" Marley roughly pushes him out of the way and examines Stone, swearing under his breath when he deems him okay, but unconscious. "Help me with this," he hisses at Tobin as he loops one of his arms under one of Stone's. Tobin follows the example and does the same. Marley turns and yells at Joel to take Tudor. Joel takes one look at Tudor's massive form in comparison to his rail-thin one and shouts angrily at another gang of Upper Villagers to come and help him, which they hasten to do, not wanting to cause trouble for themselves with Stone's gang despite their defeat. Together they take the fallen members of their gang and quickly vacate the premises to hide from their humiliation.

My own gang is bursting with pride and excitement. They crowd around me with unending praise and congratulations, as do many other Lower Villagers, and some of the more decent-mannered Upper Villagers too. It's only polite to acknowledge the triumph of the one Career out of so many that was able to fight his way through the year for the volunteer position. Some of them bring over wet cloths, ice packs, bandaging, and other necessities for my wounds and bruises. But I don't feel I need it. My body may ache and sting, but that pain will fade, and I'm not so banged up that I won't be fine by the time I'm in the arena in a few days. I know I'm cut and battered all over, but I feel just fine. I only need to see Arno shouting, "You did it, man, you freakin' did it!" and pumping his fist in the air, Reggie cackling like a madman with pleasure and downing gulps of alcohol like there was no tomorrow, Girvin letting out primal victory whoops and pounding his chest, Renny explaining to his friends how he knew all along that I'd get this far, despite all the times he'd declared he hadn't believed it, even Hadouken, the old, irritable thing, hoarsely howling his lungs out. And Daiza, especially Daiza; hopping and dashing around like a squirrel, punching the air vigorously and yelling nearly unintelligible words of excitement.

This is all I need to see to send revitalizing happiness rushing through me. They are what I'm fighting for, and it gives me an extra burst of strength knowing that the whole of my district will be behind me. How, I wonder, do the other tributes, from other districts, not understand it? Why can't they get that to be a Career is not an arrogant or brutish thing to do? Is it so hard to see that we are not monsters? That what we do is not only for the pleasure of the kill, but rather for the ones we leave behind to take our chances and put our skills and strength to the ultimate test, in the Hunger Games? The winnings of the Games will support a family, but I have none to speak of; save for my mother, who is too despicable for words in my opinion, and doesn't count. No, my real family is the gang I plunge into battle with, roam the streets with, brag with, joke and laugh with, truly live with: Arno Ferox, Fabron Saxum, Girvin Pugni, Leib Seco, Renny Ossa, and Daiza Javelin. In these Games, I will fight to bring them the lives they deserve to have, because although our district is reputed to be one of the wealthiest, pampered by the Capitol, quite of the few of the Lower Villagers' lives stray far from that reputation, including me and all of my gang. I've resolved to change that for a long time, and now I finally get my chance to take action after all my talk.

All of a sudden, though, I realize that the cheering has died down somewhat, and I look to see that the crowd has parted to let a girl a couple years younger than me through, followed by a small crowd of her own. I stand up straighter and look at her closely. I recognize her; she's a Career like me. Her name is Ühel Dragul, and I remember seeing her training with the other girls. She's like an icy windstorm, a particularly vicious thing. You'd never see it by looking at her, or even by seeing her fight. Ühel is always cold and calculating, and it is reflected in every movement and word of hers. I've seen this kind of meeting before, on reaping day. If my guess is correct, she's the one who's fought her way into the position of girl's tribute for this year.

Her dark blue eyes regard me with distaste. "Hello, Vadállat," she says curtly. "I see you've been busy. Volunteer for this year, I suppose?"

"That's right," I say, with a distinct undertone of venom to my voice. "And I suppose you're the other one?"

She nods. "Your fellow Career." Her eyes move slowly over me, sizing me up. "Well, I suppose you're competent enough. About as strong as expected of a tribute from Two. A bit husky, but maybe you're fast. I've seen you have a decent style of sword fighting. All in all, fine for a well-trained Career."

"Who are you, Claudius Templesmith?" I say irritably. "You don't see me going over every quality of yours."

"Yeah, save it for the Games, darling," Reggie says, smirking.

Ühel's eyes narrow at him. "I've heard you going on and on about how Rakhir Vadállat is our district's next great victor. The greatest Career ever to emerge from the hopeful masses of District Two, that's Rakhir, is it?"

Reggie's smirk falters, and he looks at Ühel curiously. "What are you getting at, miss?" he demands gruffly, accompanied by an equally gruff sound from Hadouken that sounds somewhere between a snort and a growl.

"Oh, nothing important," says Ühel airily. "I just remembered the last Careers that you went on about like that, is all. Such a shame it would be if, after all that wasted breath, brilliant Vadállat here turned out to be just like Ember and Blake Valaki."

Her words are flippant, but the meaning behind them is not. I grind my teeth in anger, as I hear the collective intake of breath from the audience, who all remember the district's greatest failure. It's particularly cruel to me, because nearly everyone knows Ember and Blake, the Valaki twins, were my trainers and best friends before I had officially formed my gang. The brother and sister team were the most admired in the district, the strongest and most skilled of all the Careers-in-training; and as Ühel reminds us, everyone talked excitedly about their new great victors, especially Reggie, the biggest windbag of them all. But nine years ago, both of them were reaped into the Games. Neither had really wanted to compete against each other.

They had always wanted to go as tributes, of course, but not with each other. As for how it happened, the system was not as fine-tuned as it is now. Mistakes could be made, and as in the case of the Valaki twins, they could often prove fatal. The code of the district had ensnared them, and they were trapped. They had no choice but to go to the Games, and as expected of them, they performed above and beyond in their battles. Before they went, their last time speaking to me, they told me that they would not let their family ties prevent them from being the tributes they were always meant to be. They implied that they had understood that one of them would be lost in the Games and only one would come back. Perhaps, I thought, they had decided among themselves what to do. But whether they had a solid plan or not, their Games did not turn out the way anyone expected or wanted them to. By a cruel trick of the Gamemakers to ensure a dramatic finale or just by pure horrible luck, Ember and Blake were left as the last two tributes standing, forced to fight. We didn't like it very much, but we accepted that it was what they had to do. But Ember and Blake didn't. Instead, they disregarded every existent rule of the Hunger Games, and turned what could have been a monumental final battle into the greatest failure in the Games that ever came from District Two.

I send my fiercest glare at Ühel, who is pretending to examine her nails and doing a very good job of feigning unawareness of the weight of her words. But she knows exactly what she's said. Her uncaring words, the implication that I, after all my training and effort, will turn out as nothing more than a failure, forgettable and unworthy, not to mention dead, turns the blood to flame in my veins. Does she think for a second that I will turn my back on everything I've lived for, ever since I was a child? Does she think I'd let everybody that has held their faith in me down, whether I did it like the Valaki twins or not? Well, if she does…

"You're dead wrong, Dragul," I hiss at her, and she raises her head and stares into my face. Her expression is bland, but her eyes are alight with malice. Everyone, including me, knows that this girl is not one to be messed with, and she knows it too. It's no mistake she's the one to volunteer this year, I can see that. She'll be strong competition, no doubt, with her steel-trap mind always working like it is now. She is trying to play mind games with me before the Games have even begun, before the reapings, even. I'm almost certain this is the way she will play her Games out, quietly, logically, always plotting against us and trying her hardest to be one step ahead of the rest of the Career pack. She's definitely a sharp one, one to look out for. But I know how to deal with her kind. I have before. And I certainly will again.

"Oh? I'm wrong, am I?" She speaks lightly, but there is venom in her voice. She narrows those dark blue eyes, with the machinations of her mind working just behind them. "Well, we'll just see, won't we?" She turns and begins to saunter off. "Good luck, Rakhir," she says over her shoulder.

I pause for a moment, and then call after her. "And may the odds be ever in your favor, Ühel."

~0~

Well, that chapter turned out longer than I thought. Anyhow…Musical themes!

The theme of Rakhir's gang is 'Fighting', the battle theme from Final Fantasy VII, and this is also the theme of Leib and Joel's and Arno, Fabron, and Tudor's fights.

The theme of Stone and his gang is the Turks' Theme, also from Final Fantasy VII. That music is badass.

Stone: Yeah, makes me feel boss!

Stone's Gang: *fist pump* Yeah, boss!

The theme of Stone and Rakhir and Stone's fight is 'Those Who Fight Further', again, from Final Fantasy VII.

The theme of the Lower Village is 'Mining Town', and the theme of the Upper Village is the 'Shinra Corporation Theme', both from Final Fantasy VII. Come to think of it, Shinra's theme would also fit very well with President Snow…

I own none of this music, credit and copyright goes to their amazing composer: Nobuo Uematsu. Ah, Uematsu-san is truly gifted, to create all the incredible pieces of music from the Final Fantasy games for the world to enjoy!

I thought I'd give the meanings of the characters' names, so…here goes.

-Tirion's name is made up, like Rakhir's, but his last name, Sagitto, is Latin for 'I shoot arrows.' A hunter's name…Subtle, no?

-Kaia's name, based on my Google searching, has several meanings, but the most common is 'from the earth.'

-Rakhir is a made-up name, but his last name, Vadállat, means 'beast' in Hungarian.

-Arno means 'eagle.' His last name, Ferox, means 'warlike' or 'arrogant' in Latin.

-Girvin means 'small rough one.' His last name, Pugni, means 'battle' or 'fist' in Latin.

-Fabron means 'blacksmith.' His last name, Saxum, means 'rock.'

-Leib means 'lion.' His last name, Seco, means 'cut', 'carve', etc. His brothers' names, Beltrán and Ethon, mean 'bright raven' and 'fiery eagle', respectively.

-Renny means 'small but mighty.' His last name, Ossa, means 'bones' in Latin.

-Daiza Javelin is a name I made up. No meaning.

-The meaning of Stone's name should be obvious, and his last name, Wystan, means 'battle stone.'

-Marley and Joel are named after cigarette brands. What? Bad guys = named after bad things. Tudor's name is derived from the word 'tüdő', meaning 'lung.' Don't judge me for the reasoning behind their names. And as for young Tobin…There's a subtle hint in the chapter as to his name. A batch of virtual chocolate chip cookies to the reviewer who figures it out!

-Mount Nadare is the Nut from Mockingjay. Nadare means 'avalanche' in Japanese, and if you've read Mockingjay, you'll definitely know why it's called that. *wink*

-The name Reggie means 'king,' and his last name is derived loosely from the Hungarian word 'király', also meaning 'king,' referring to his status as a victor. And as for Hadouken…Okay, do I even need to explain him?

-Ühel Dragul…First off, let me make one thing clear; because I know somebody was thinking it. (I know my spellcheck was.) I did NOT name Ühel after Dracula. Ühel means 'death' in Mongolian, according to Wiktionary. Her last name, Dragul, is derived from the Slovene word 'dragulj' meaning jewel. So Ühel Dragul means 'death jewel.'

And so ends chapter five. Next chapter, we're off to District Eleven to meet two more tributes. After them, we're headed to the Capitol for the Hunger Games to begin!

~0~