TW/CW: Nascha's POV contains pretty brief depictions of animal cruelty. Tybalt's POV contains mentions of alcoholism.
Odicci Harbore, 18
The Kaiya Albacore School of Fishing, Four
D4F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Odicci Harbore might have seemed like she was receding into obsolescence, a has-been of a trainee, but the truth was that she had drawn back so she could gather her strength and punch back stronger than anyone has ever expecting, a tsunami of a girl ready to steamroll her comrades into submission. She was unstoppable, lionhearted, and all in all, the whole package. She was ready to make District Four proud.
Nobody had truly expected her to win the right to volunteer as the District Four Female. There were many talented girls vying for the position, and Odicci was certainly among the more popular ones, but still, not many people had anticipated that she'd win. But she'd won it anyhow. The selection process was simple: every trainee had a private session meant to mimic the Gamemakers' scoring of the tributes at the end of the training period in the Capitol. Every teenager who attended the academy and wanted to be chosen got a few precious minutes in the gym in front of Kaiya Albacore, the Academy headmistress, who was a famous Victor but had returned to assume control of the Career training after earning the right to rename the school after herself.
Odicci didn't know exactly what Miss Albacore had seen in her, but she'd seen something, because she'd announced that Odicci Harbore had been the clear choice. Odicci was a hard worker, yes. And she was a talented fighter, yes. However, when you compared her to some of the superstars, like Sarah Arcadium, who could run a four and a half minute mile, or Zola Moray, who had once beaten three armed trainers simultaneously— barehanded— she couldn't help but wonder why they'd been passed over in favor of her. Granted, Zola was seventeen, so maybe Miss Albacore was saving her for next year, but Odicci's point still stood. There were a few girls whose physical capabilities far surpassed her own.
She was smart, and had traditionally gotten first place in exams. She wielded her trident with practiced skill, sure, but not as much skill as some of her competitors. She didn't have a particularly flashy fighting style, or some secret ability that would give her an edge. Odicci was quite literally just another girl, and she wasn't saying it just to be humble, or to whine that she wasn't like the other, tougher girls. Odicci was good, but not the best. Not really. Except that Miss Albacore had said she was the best, which meant it had to be so.
Odicci could have refused to volunteer, or rather, declined the generous offer Miss Albacore had given her. Miss Albacore wouldn't have been angry, and somebody, more likely than not Sarah, would have been so happy to be the backup who got to go in her place. But Odicci really wanted to go. She had been at the top of her class consistently for more than a few years. She had poured a tremendous amount of work into getting so strong, and she had been waiting a long time for that work and strength to be recognized. Now the opportunity was hers, and instead of trying to surmount her fellow trainees, she could enjoy the ride before sweeping the arena clean of her competitors.
Allium Harbore, her mother, was fully onboard, something that Odicci found equal parts strange and comforting. Allium had never seemed as invested in her training as the other girls' mothers were in theirs. She'd been proud of Odicci and supported her, of course, but she was always distant. She and Odicci didn't talk much, not for any particular reason, but simply because that was the way things were. Allium loved her of course, a rich mother buying her rich daughter jewelry and training equipment and delicious food. They had Gelato Fridays, a weekly ritual that began when Saffran Harbore had served his wife divorce papers when Odicci was thirteen. Odicci had found Allium on the rooftop deck, crying (in a graceful, ladylike way, of course) and eating gelato and staring off into the sunset.
Now they did it every Friday in summer, staying up late and eating gelato whilst gazing out at the flickering glow of the sun on the horizon as it slipped down farther, with orange-sherbert rays dancing in the tides like wildfire. When she was younger, Odicci stared at the sea on those nights and wondered if it made Allium feel more or less lonesome, and if she would ever find love again. One day when she was sixteen, she struck up the courage to ask, and Allium had laughed out to the world, a snicker that had resonated beautifully across the ocean, echoing back, and that told Odicci all she needed to know.
Allium and Saffran were both Capitol loyalists, something that they'd passed on to Odicci. Four had always been the third wheel when it came to Career districts, and Saffran had drilled it into his young daughter that she would be the next to disprove that. When she was eight years old, Saffran had walked her to the Kaiya Albacore School of Fishing for her first day of Career training. He'd stopped her at the terrace by the grand entrance, right next to the bronze statue of Kaiya Albacore as she was when she'd come home after her Victory. "Odicci, this woman is proof of what you can be. Do not let her down," he had ordered her.
And Odicci hadn't. She'd stayed at the head of the pack, and became reasonably popular, but she'd—well, struggled wasn't exactly the right word—but she'd experienced some difficulties making friends. There was a plain glamour to her, an expensiveness, a beauty that the other trainees had latched onto. However, it was a plain glamour, after all. People wanted to be around her, not because of what she had to offer as a person, but what she had to offer in terms of money and social currency.
That was one of the reasons Odicci had been surprised about her selection. To an extent, the tributes were chosen based on who the crowd favorites were, purely for the reason that if the less popular candidate went into the arena, the supporters of the spurned queen bee would be unlikely to root for them, and support the District One or Two tributes instead, which naturally upset everybody involved in the District Four Career system at large, thus weakening the entire district's position compared to One and Two.
Odicci knew that she was the less popular candidate in this instance, and Sarah the spurned queen bee. Come to think of it, Sarah looked downright angry, and Odicci understood why. She was objectively stronger than Odicci, and yet had been passed over. Strangely enough, she didn't feel guilty about it, mostly because the decision was out of her hands. If she applied the same circumstances to the Hunger Games, her muddled feelings suddenly became much clearer. If the Gamemakers scored her higher than the other Careers and they were disappointed and wanted to take it out on Odicci, that wasn't her fault. Perhaps she just had some latent skill that Miss Albacore had discovered.
Actually, now that she thought about it, Miss Albacore's decision for the male tribute had been much less scrutinized. Nathaniel Lewis had, without question, outworked every single other male tribute, many of whom had similar backgrounds to Odicci but had chosen to try to coast by on their family wealth rather than put in any actual work. Sometimes Miss Albacore (and those who'd come before her) had been known to choose one tribute first and then pick the opposite gender tribute based on whomever she thought would best complement their personality. If Nathaniel had been a must-have and Miss Albacore thought that of the top female trainees, Odicci would be the right fit, Four would have a better shot, not a worse one.
It'd been fiercely imparted throughout her training that each of the Career districts had a duty to contribute as much as they could to Pack chemistry, and that meant the tributes had to display district loyalty and look out for their district partners first and foremost. Therefore, although the mentors were largely responsible for encouraging the proper inter-alliances, the people responsible for selecting the chosen volunteers also had to keep that in mind.
Nathaniel was a nice boy, Odicci thought. He'd always been rather quiet, except for the occasional spat with another trainee, but he was incredibly talented and hardworking, and for that Odicci respected him. They hadn't spoken much, but if Odicci had to guess, she'd say that Nathaniel respected her hard work back, although he might have disagreed with Miss Albaccore's choice of picking her over Sarah. Then it occurred to Odicci that Nathaniel was just across the terrace, and she could quite literally just go over, start getting to know him, and find out the answer for herself. The sooner they bonded as a district pair, the better.
Yes, she decided, she should go do that, so she gently shooed away the admirer that had been yapping at her, tossing a giggle over her shoulder and patting his arm, smiling, then held her still-full champagne flute out in front of her, the threat of spillage clearing her a path through the crowd. Allium had told her never to accept a drink she hadn't seen poured, and especially considering the wrath of the other trainees and the hypercompetitiveness over the volunteer spot, Odicci had decided that it would be best to forgo the beverage, even though she was curious about its taste. Allium hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since the divorce, and firmly believed that it was meant for high-caliber celebrations, not as a regular addition to meals. This would be an appropriate event to try it for the first time, but Odicci knew that it wasn't worth the risks.
She made her way over to Nathaniel, who had also chosen to do without the champagne, and was instead nursing a single-serve glass bottle of sparkling water. Smart, she noted, but then caught herself. Probably smart. Maybe he just doesn't drink. Transferring the glass to her left hand, she proffered her right. "Hey Nathaniel! Congrats on getting picked to volunteer! It's nice to meet you. Well, not meet you, but we haven't ever really interacted. Aren't you so excited for the Games?"
He shook her hand. Her parents had always said that a person's handshake told you a lot about them, and she was pleased to discover that it was firm, but not aggressive. "It's nice to meet you. Odicci, right?"
"Yeah!" She sat down next to him on the bench. "I was kind of surprised about getting picked, to be honest. I think Miss Albacore chose you first and decided that I'd get along with you best out of the girls." To her shock, Nathaniel laughed at her.
"No, Odicci, it's not because she picked me first. It's because Sarah Aracadium's got fucking rocks for brains."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, don't look so surprised. Sarah's strong, sure. She can run fast, yeah. But she's stupid. She makes the spoiled rich-girl lackeys do her thinking for her. Goes up to Miss Albacore all the time, whining about her daddy's money and how it's unfair that people whose parents don't have much are using the same facilities as her. She tried to bribe her. Not that nobody else tried, but Miss Albacore wasn't having it this year. Rich girls think they own the world, you know, especially the ones that couldn't find their way out of a wet paper bag."
"Hey, that's not fair. Not every rich girl's stupid and entitled."
"What is it? Did I hurt your feelings? Not everybody gets to go home after training and have dinner waiting, dummy. Money beats hard work every time."
"Not this time. You beat the rest of the boys. And I mean, I'm rich too, but I beat Sarah."
"True. The same can't be said about my sister."
"What year was she?" Odicci asked. He made a face.
"The Quell year."
"It was Victors' relatives, though. That ruled her out, right?"
"Not quite. My family…"
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."
"Thank you."
"But let me get this straight. The other trainees don't like you because you're poor, so they underestimate you, and then when you beat them, they get angry and hassle you about it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not going to make the mistake of underestimating you. In fact, I have a bit of an idea."
"Which is?"
"We should make sure you're Pack Leader. If you get to boss around the other Careers, it'll strengthen our standings."
"Why don't you want to be Pack Leader?"
"Oh, I want to, but I'd never be taken seriously. Blonde, female, all the usual reasons. Think about it, they won't have any idea that you're poor. All they'll know is what you choose to tell them and what their mentors hear from ours, which won't be a lot. Lura and Kaylee aren't the loose-lipped type."
"You're sure?"
"Kaylee's Miss Albacore's niece, and Lura's been helping me with my swordplay since I was eight. I know them. They won't rat us out."
"Good. That makes me feel better about the plan." He checked his watch. "We're cutting it close for the Reaping." Looking up, Odicci noticed that the space had mostly emptied of the other trainees.
"Well, I'll see you in the Justice Building! I'm telling you, Nathaniel, we're taking it all this year!"
"You're damn right we are." He chucked his empty bottle into a recycling bin and took her champagne, upending it over a flower bed and watching as the blossoms immediately shriveled and browned. "It's poisoned," he commented. "You were smart to avoid it."
"You were too. Sealed bottles are harder to get into than open glasses."
"I think we'll work together just fine, Odicci."
"I think so too."
Orpheus Adello, 18
The Burnish Institute, One
D1M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Orpheus Adello lived and breathed love. There was something about it that had always captivated him, and now, as he stood above the other male trainees, behind a lectern on the auditorium stage of the Academy, getting his hand shaken by Griffin Cadbury, he knew his dreams were going to come true. He had trained hard for the privilege of being selected as the District One Male, and now his wildest fantasy, one of danger and devotion, was finally coming to fruition.
Orpheus had always possessed a certain star quality to him, and even among all the brilliant constellations in the indigo sky that was the Burnish Institute, he'd always managed to shine a touch brighter than the rest. In regards to his district partner, Nascha Eirena, similar things could be said. Although she'd never been able to dazzle like Orpheus, she had a sagaciousness, a quiet intensity, a commitment to her goals that eclipsed the other girls entirely. They weren't just the best, they were the most interesting to boot, and Orpheus took that as a good sign.
Each of the twenty-four tributes would be interesting, Orpheus knew, but like the characters he'd penned in romance novel after romance novel, they tended not to appear that way at first. There had to be a catalyst, and Orpheus had resolved to be that catalyst. He was going to find his soulmate in the Hunger Games. He was sure of it. He would have the fame, the glory, the picture perfect meet-cute, and then his life was going to be perfect.
Orpheus's parents were glassblowers. Andromeda and René were the sort of practical people who'd decided that their three children ought to ignore all of the Hunger Games clamor and pick up the family trade. None of them had done so. Perseus, older than Orpheus by four years, had left to become a Peacekeeper, and after his training, had been sent to some outlying district. Seven, Orpheus remembered, or maybe it had been Ten? He wasn't exactly sure, and he didn't particularly care. Perseus was brutish, stupid, and had never been kind to him, so Orpheus didn't concern himself with his whereabouts any more often than was necessary.
Eurydice, his junior by one year, was different. She shared her name with the First Lady of Panem, something that Orpheus was rather proud of. Orpheus was proud of her for many reasons, actually. She was incredibly intelligent and had begged her parents to send her to the Rubellite Conservatory, which was the all-female equivalent of the Burnish Institute, except instead of entering its most popular program for Hunger Games preparation, she chose the medical track. She'd outclassed the abilities of her peers in short order, and after skipping two years and graduating early, the government has authorized her for travel. She had packed her things for District Three a few months ago, where she would attend a graduate program and then become a physician in the Capitol, with visitation privileges to One. She and Orpheus hadn't really been close, but they had always gotten along. In fact, it was Eury's decision to go to Rubellite that convinced his parents to let him start training.
He'd tricked them, was the short answer. He lied and said he was interested in medicine also, and that they should also send him to the gender-appropriate finishing school, and then he'd gotten himself into the training program. He'd had a disadvantage from the start, because he was fifteen when he joined, but he'd been training independently prior to being in the running officially. He'd long ago decided that the way to fulfill the yearning for his one true love involved the Hunger Games, and he'd obtained books on theatrical swordplay from the school library, dropped all the optional classes he could, and spent hours a day practicing in secret. When he was accepted to Burnish, he knew that it was his ticket to the future, and he'd thrown himself into his training.
The hard part had been the bookwork. To earn the private session with the selection board, he'd had to score in the top five on his Exam, but to even be eligible to take that, he had to be in the top thirty of class rankings, and that was tough. Taking notes in lecture halls, pushing through practicals on hunting and shelter-making, and being forced to memorize every recorded Hunger Games Victor, their age of Victory, weapon, and strategy, had never come as easily as the actual fighting. Quick, agile, and wily were all fitting adjectives to describe his fighting style. Orpheus was theatrical. He could put on a show, and that was exactly what the Capitolites liked to see from the Career tributes.
It had been an uphill climb, but it was so worth it. Orpheus almost couldn't wait.
He'd been looking for love forever, and plenty of people had fallen in love with him, but nobody had ever felt quite right. He'd know it when he found his person. He believed in love at first sight, and when he met the other tributes and found the right one, his life's mission would finally be underway. Of course he'd found people attractive. Of course he'd found those with the kind of temperament he desired in a partner. They just weren't perfect, and Orpheus Adello truly believed he'd find that perfection in the Capitol, or perhaps even the arena. The prospect of death did not concern him. First of all, he wouldn't die, because he'd trained too hard for that. Second of all, if his lover died, coping with it would be so tragically romantic, and if he died to save them, that'd be even better! Not as fantastic as winning, obviously, but there was something beautiful about strife and sacrifice and only one person making it out alive.
Jewel disagreed. "You have a problem, Orpheus," she'd said the first time he brought it up. "I get the romance; why the death?" Jewel Vermeer was Orpheus's best friend, a girl with similar romantic aspirations. They'd never actually considered one another as potential love interests, but they bonded over romance novels and dreams of finding the perfect someone. Jewel wanted to become a children's therapist, and had always worried about Orpheus's ambitions of winning the Hunger Games.
He hadn't seen her in a while, but that was okay. They'd stayed in contact after he'd left their old school to join Burnish, and besides, she was sure to show up at the Justice Building for the Goodbyes.
"Congratulations," someone said. With a start, Orpheus returned to the present moment. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts and for a moment, had managed to forget that Griffin was at his side.
"Thank you."
"It will be an honor to mentor you on your journey to Victory." Those were words Orpheus liked to hear. He knew that at Rubellite, Nascha was going through something similar with Admira, who would be her mentor. Burnish and Rubellite weren't boarding schools, but due to the gender separation, the male and female volunteers rarely got to know each other prior to the Reaping. Orpheus knew who Nascha was, and she knew who he was, but they'd never actually come face to face.
They would soon. Orpheus wasn't a big fan of gossip, but even he'd heard the story of Nascha Eirena Czarin. Who hadn't? She'd been accused of hacking the Career system to ruin her brother's chances of being selected as tribute, and had permanently disfigured his girlfriend, earning Nascha a permanent black mark on her record. Then the girl who'd been the shoe-in for volunteer was found murdered in the woods, and Nascha had stumbled across the corpse and reported it to the Peacekeepers, who'd found evidence that the girl's boyfriend had killed her and been plotting rebellious activities, and Nascha rose to grace again for catching him.
It had been a terrible scandal. The Peacekeepers had even gone so far as to investigate the original accusations against Nascha, and had found them to be false—she'd never hacked the system in the first place, and the Rubellite trainers had confirmed that Nascha had acted in self-defense. As it turned out, her brother's girlfriend had tried to kill her under the guise of sparring, and she'd been forced to act drastically in self-defense.
Orpheus, truth be told, was excited to work with Nascha. He was excited to work with the other Careers in general, but even that couldn't compare to his excitement for finding true love.
Once the ceremony ended, Orpheus headed home to change for the Reaping. He dressed in a black sports coat, which he considered a staple item in the wardrobe of anyone who considered himself a romantic, and a crimson tie, which he favored due to red's connotations of theatricality and literary conflict. He knotted it with a full windsor, dimpled in the center, because he felt it looked particularly sharp against the pure white and jet black surrounding it. Besides, a sports coat wasn't as formal as a suit, so stepping up his tie game allowed Orpheus to maintain his carefree style without overdressing.
His hair was wavy enough that he could usually count smoothing down his bedhead with wet hands as styling it, but that wouldn't work today. He maintained the usual furl, but ultimately decided that the special occasion was worth busting out the pomade, which he applied tactfully. He didn't want his hair to look stiff or flaky, after all. He made sure to tuck his token into his coat pocket, a feather quill that he sometimes wrote with when he felt like going all-out. To him, it was tremendously dramatic and exceedingly snazzy, and when his future lover saw it, they would have something witty and complimentary to say about it.
Orpheus was, in general, a frequent purveyor of both the witty and the complimentary, and he knew his partner would be too. However, he also knew that if he was late to the Reaping, he'd never get the chance to meet them, so he hurried up and hustled himself outdoors, where his father was waiting to accompany him to the Reaping. René looked him up and down.
"Dressed to kill," he said.
"Thanks, Dad."
"May the odds be ever in your favor."
"They already are." Orpheus had no great love for either of his parents, but he had much more in common with his father, who considered himself more artist than artisan, than his more business-minded mother.
The walk passed quickly. They quickly arrived at the square, where the Peacekeeper who checked Orpheus in congratulated him on his selection. His father left to join the crowd watching, and Orpheus walked to his pen, at the front, on the left. Eighteen-year-old boys, who, in Orpheus's opinion, were typically stubborn, rude, and selfish, stepped aside to give him the right of way. Many of the boys had spent years bullying Orpheus for his femininity and obsession with romance, but today, they did nothing of the sort. As the chosen tribute, Orpheus had become untouchable, and even the cruelest among his peers respected the sanctity of the position.
The escort, Ariadne, took the stage. "Good morning, District One!" she cried, to thunderous applause. The mentors were seated onstage nearby, and Orpheus looked at Griffin Cadbury, the man whose job it would become to help him escape the arena, who, alongside Ariadne, would chaperone him, answer his questions, help him strategize, and create deals with sponsors. Exactly a year ago, Griffin Cadbury had been in the same position as he was now, and Orpheus knew that he would follow in his footsteps.
Ariadne did all the usual escort things, like making a speech and showing the annual film, but Orpheus was too giddy to pay attention to anything but his own pounding heart. "And now for our first tribute," Ariadne announced, drawing closer to the bowl with the male tributes' names in it. "Helios LaValle!"
Orpheus allowed the name to hang in the air for a moment, then languidly strolled out of his pen. "I volunteer as tribute!" He walked luxuriously, taking in the beautiful summer weather, and his practiced beam gave way to a toothy smile. He resisted the urge to laugh out loud, unable to express all the joy and pride he held, but hoped to convey it to all of Panem anyway. He'd been waiting for this moment to come all his life, and now that it had finally arrived, it was unquestionably, without a doubt, one hundred percent as he'd always imagined it.
"What's your name, dear?" Ariadne asked.
"Orpheus Adello, ma'am."
Haylia Boaz, 17
Floy Academy, Two
D2F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Haylia Paria Boaz was prepared. She had been training for years in order to earn the position of District Two Female, and now, having been selected as one of the finalists by Ethan Floy, the headmaster of Floy Academy, she had only one test left to go. The headmaster of each of the five Academies, all former Victors who'd devoted their adulthoods to training Two's children for glory in the arena, selected two girls and two boys for the final competition bracket, and Haylia had worked hard enough to be one of them.
Haylia wasn't much for celebrations. People in District Two tended to make a massive deal out of them, but Haylia could have gone without the mandatory parade lap around the Floya Academy gymnasium with the other trainees who were closing in on the Volunteer spot. It was Floy's turn to host the championships, and so the other four Academies had been bussed in so that the finalists, in a combination of boxing and wrestling, could compete to winnow down the field until only one male and one female remained.
Haylia knew how the bracket worked. Everyone did. The headmasters were, at the moment, squirrelled away from the trainees as they gathered privately to create the fairest tribute pairs possible among those who had been chosen. There were ten boys and ten girls total. The boys would be paired off with each other, and the same with the girls, and the field would divide in half for ten tributes total. Then one girl and one boy each would be randomly picked for a bye round, while the other four tributes of each gender were split off, thus cutting out another four tributes. Lastly, the three remaining tributes of each
gender would be put in the ring all together, and one would emerge as the Volunteer.
Haylia expected that it wouldn't be easy, so she ordered herself to go on autopilot. She was more competent than everyone else at Floy Academy by far, and she just needed to utilize the skills she'd taught herself, which would give her an edge compared to the other trainees. When she'd first joined Floy as an eight-year-old, she'd learned quickly, and by the time she and her girlfriend Brianna were thirteen, they had grown bored of lessons that didn't delve deep enough into the material for their tastes, and began using an old, uninhabited Peacekeeper training facility to improve independently, cutting the Academy classes three days a week and going there instead.
At first, Haylia had been met with scorn, which wasn't entirely unexpected. She understood why some of the trainers were dubious of her, but they tended to cross the line. They had directed cruel jabs at her and Brianna, had told them that girls like them wouldn't get the chance to Volunteer. At some point, Brianna had suggested something shocking in a stroke of genius—Haylia might never get picked for the bracket, but she didn't have to get picked to Volunteer; she just had to beat out the girl who was chosen and say those two words before anybody else could. That had become an occupation for a while, but then, after Petra Floy won the Quarter Quell and came back from her Victory Tour, she began working at her family's Academy, and she instantly took a shine to Haylia.
"Ditch the Academy system," she'd advised. "They give away your spot if you don't come for three months, so come once every three months. If you can train better on your own, do that. Becoming a rogue volunteer is out of the question, though. If you want a shot at Victory, you need to be a real Volunteer. When you're sixteen or seventeen, I'll arrange a meeting for you with my father, so he can see your skills and make you one of his picks. Don't even worry about it."
It had been comforting to have someone (well, not just someone, Brianna was someone, after all), but someone powerful who believed in her. The first session in front of Ethan Floy, when Haylia was sixteen, had gone startlingly well. He'd wanted to choose her as one of his finalists immediately, but Brianna had backtracked. She'd been so worried, all of a sudden, that Haylia would die in the arena, and begged her to wait one more year, and Brianna had been happy to oblige.
It wasn't that she shared Brianna's fears, but, well, she understood where she was coming from. It had to be scary, knowing that your girlfriend of five years was going away and might not be coming back. This year, though, Brianna had zero qualms whatsoever, and to be honest, neither did Haylia. The other Floy finalists, Agate, the girl, and Manuel and Palladius, the boys, seemed both very impressed and a bit fearful of her, as opposed to the majority of the other trainees, who had never liked her. Haylia had come to terms with that long ago, because she knew they mocked her because she was stronger than them, not because of any real or perceived weakness. They were just trying to get in her head, and it hadn't worked. It wasn't every day that Ethan Floy granted a trainee special privileges, so Haylia was a rare, very justified exception, and that was okay with her. She had no doubt that all three of the other selections were talented, but the truth was that Agate in particular was out of luck.
Haylia's physique was something she took deep pride in. She was broad and muscular from head to toe. She surpassed the other girls and many of the boys as well, and she liked to keep her body in top condition, wrestling often. In her independent training, Haylia had lessened the focus on her weapons, but had devoted significantly more attention to survival skills, conditioning, and weaponless combat. In her opinion, raw physical strength was incredibly valuable, and survival skills were both a strategic move (if the supplies were stolen or destroyed, she wouldn't starve) and an insurance policy (the other Careers would be less likely to betray her if she alone held the knowledge that would save them in an emergency).
Thus, a mixed boxing and wrestling competition was exactly her game. Haylia eyed Agate, who was slender but strong, with bobbed black hair. She knew there was no way Agate would win if it came down to the two of them. Palladius and Manuel, who were both tall and sturdily built, stood a better chance. All three of them had been nothing but kind to her, which Haylia took as a positive sign. They had also never been among the group that had hassled her when she initially broke away, and she reminded herself that this was an example of good triumphing.
The bracket was revealed. Haylia's first match was against a Grant girl named Danica, who boasted to her friends that she was sure to win, but as soon as Haylia's cloth-wrapped fist collided with the bridge of her nose, it became instantly clear that she couldn't walk the walk. Danica put up a decent fight, taking Haylia down by the knee with her when she crumpled, but Haylia quickly wrenched her into a brutal crossface hold that finished the bout.
The second match was against a Treek girl named Leto, who managed to get the first hit in, but Haylia toppled her quickly with a snap-kick to the jaw.
The final, three-person match was between Haylia, Agate, and a Slate girl named Violet. Haylia and Agate made an unspoken agreement to take her down first, which they did in short order, and then faced off against each other. Haylia immediately learned why Agate had made it to the finale. She was quick and agile, ducking Haylia's first few blows blindingly quickly, so Haylia changed her strategy from a boxing-focused one to something a bit more direct.
She hurled her full body weight at Agate, head-on, and executed a chokeslam, instantaneously establishing herself as the winner. When Agate had recovered, she congratulated Haylia, because she was a decent person and believed in sportsmanship, which Haylia respected, but right after shaking her hand, she'd gone to watch the final match for the boys, who were running a few minutes behind. Manuel was still in the running, unsurprisingly, alongside two other brunettes. She watched as he dispatched the first easily, then as the second had a go at him. It was a messy battle, sweaty and time-consuming, and Mauel began to tire, which was when the other boy lashed out and pinned him. As his supporters cheered, she learned that he was from Treek, and his name was Tybalt Alistair Martell.
She didn't know quite what to think about her district partner, but she already admired the way he'd fought. They'd fought on the mat, which was always risky. It was easier to come at your opponent from a standing position, especially if you had a height advantage, which Tybalt did. He had wormed his way out of a highly unfavorable situation, won, and, Haylia observed, was speaking to Manuel in a respectful tone and shaking his hand. He did not seem to gloat, so, having seen all she assumed she needed for the time being, returned to Ethan Floy. "Nice work," he said.
"Thank you. Do you think I went too hard on Agate?"
"You did what had to be done. She'll recover." He looked from side to side, as though to ensure nobody was listening in on them. "Look, you need to be mindful of that district partner of yours. Antonius Treek wouldn't tell me much more than this, but he's a good man, and he thought you deserved a warning: Tybalt Alistair will try to manipulate you, and he is not above sabotage or dirty tricks. I instructed Manuel and Palladius to have a word with him about it, since I wanted to return Treek's favor, but you need to be careful. You have the best bullshit detector I've ever seen, and I don't doubt that you can put that rich brat in his place if he tries to pull anything on you, but you must not get complacent. He cannot get in your head. Nothing's ever gotten in your head before, but it can't start happening now. You and Brianna need this. Martha too."
"I understand."
"I'd tell you to make me proud, but you already have. It's time to make you proud, Haylia. Go out and win these Games. You've got Petra at your disposal. You're a repository of knowledge. You've got this."
When Haylia got home, Brianna was in her bedroom, with Martha, Haylia's cat, on her lap. "How did you do?" she asked.
"I won! Can you believe it?" Haylia was surprised to find all the pent-up thrill bursting out of her. Of course she'd won, but it hadn't quite sunk in.
"Oh, babe, you're going to do the best. They're going to love you!"
"You're sure?"
"I love you." Brianna bumped noses with her, smiling up through her chestnut bangs. "Trust me, it's not that hard." Martha, ever judgemental, gave a rumbly mrrow of disapproval and turned her head away.
"Tch. Fickle kitty," Haylia mock-scolded. "Don't you believe in young love?"
"I do," Brianna announced, leaning in for a kiss, which lasted a while, because Haylia liked to take her time, but eventually her father, Dylon, knocked on the door and they broke apart.
"Hey honey! Did you win?"
"I won! I really won!" She ran to hug him. Of her parents, both of whom Haylia loved very much, she'd always had a particular soft spot for her father, who tended to preserve her feelings more than Greta, her mother, tended to.
"Good for you! I know you worked so hard to get that Volunteer slot." He smiled at her and pulled his hand out from behind his back. "Here, I bought a little present in your honor."
She greedily tore open the parcel to reveal a new Reaping dress. "Oh, Dad! Please tell me you didn't spend too much on this. I'll only wear it once, and we could really use the money for something else–"
"Oh, pipe down. I'm the parent, the family budget's my responsibility, not yours." Haylia held the dress up to her front, admiring it in the mirror. It really was perfect. It was more of a tunic than a dress. It looked like it had been specifically made to show off her muscles rather than her figure, which was what female Volunteers were generally encouraged to go for.
"Dad…it's perfect."
"Hurry and go clean up and put it on before the Reaping comes and goes without you. Remember: check your teeth for spinach; check your nose for boogers; slouching is for losers."
That was the classic Dylon Boaz advice that Haylia had received prior to every important event in her life. "Thanks, Dad."
Hustling to the bathroom, she showered faster than she ever had in her life, dressed, and rushed down to the district square with Brianna by her side, and when those fateful words passed her lips, the "I Volunteer!" still fresh on her tongue, she walked up to the stage like she was the goddamn President, because she'd worked too hard to make a poor first impression.
Her family was counting on her.
Nathaniel Lewis, 18
The Kaiya Albacore School of Fishing, Four
D4M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Nathaniel Lewis had trained for ten long years not just because he wanted to enter the Hunger Games and bring glory to his district, his country, and his family, but because he needed to prove a point. Specifically, he needed to prove that poor trainees were equally as good as rich trainees, and he was tired of dealing with the rich trainees who disputed it. Nathaniel Lewis was diligent, and unstoppable, and he refused to be underestimated any longer.
One day, a note had been placed into his training locker. It read "You will never be as good as us and will never amount to anything," and he had carried it with him ever since as a reminder of what he had to overcome. He planned to take it into the Hunger Games as his token, just to remind himself not to think too lowly of the outlying tributes. Too many Careers assumed that the scrawny stock from poor, starving districts stood no chance, and while Nathaniel would be the first to admit that he and the other Careers had a significant advantage, he had made it a point to never underestimate anybody. After a lifetime of being overlooked and ignored, he had learned that granting other people the respect of recognizing their potential to do great things was a surefire way to make sure he didn't receive a nasty surprise after getting cocky.
Nathaniel had always thought himself lucky in regard to one thing, though. A surprising number of the Academy trainees came from abusive or otherwise unhappy homes, and even though Nathaniel hated their guts, he wasn't cruel enough to find any pleasure in it. His parents, Damion and Rachel, had always provided him with love, support, and comfort, even when they couldn't provide much else. He remembered one time in particular: it had been winter, and his mother had no other choice but to stiff the heating company, because she hadn't made enough tips to afford both food and warmth. All four Lewises had been forced to make do with candles and blankets, and when Nathaniel had hoofed it to training despite being frozen to the bone, some of the rich boys had stolen his coat because they thought it'd be funny.
Nathaniel's family was one of the poorest in the district. Instead of a house, they had a shabby tackle shop that had long ago been abandoned. It was right on the water, which Nathaniel admitted was pleasant during the summer months, but during winters like that particularly rough one, harsh winds blasted across the breaking waves and lashed through the thin walls. When there were squalls or even just rough, high waves, Nathaniel and his family had no choice but to pack up all of their belongings and move inland, sleeping outside on the sidewalk for the night and praying that the waves wouldn't smash their home into smithereens.
The cold and the fear and the hunger all bothered Nathaniel, but even worse than that was the taunting. Every day for the past ten years, he had gotten out of bed, walked to training on an empty stomach, fought as hard as he could to prove that he deserved his place whilst receiving almost intolerable amounts of bullying, gratefully eaten the free lunch that was provided to the trainees, shamefully asked for seconds and bagged them up to take home to supplement the meager dinner spread, fought as hard as he could again whilst dealing with the same amount of harassment, walked home again, bathed in the ocean with cheap whale fat soap, eaten a terribly scant supper, changed into threadbare pajamas, and slept between two blankets on the floor.
They were perpetually one storm away from homelessness, and yet they'd survived. In some years, it had always seemed to Nathaniel that the Academy had been bribed to choose a richer, if less qualified tribute. It had happened to his sister, Sofia. Even if she was a real piece of work, he still felt bad for her. She'd been passed over at age seventeen, and then when she was eighteen, it had been the Quell, and she didn't have a chance in the first place. She'd been at the top of her class at seventeen, though, first in all the exams, and she hadn't gotten picked. The wealthy had been favored once again, and when Nathaniel looked at their waterfront homes, practically beachside palaces, he couldn't help but resent the richer trainees, even the ones that were nicer.
Like, for example, Odicci Harbore, his district partner. To her credit, she'd worked her ass off for her position, and she really did deserve it. As he looked across the terrace, he saw her with a full champagne glass, socializing. He liked the look of the full glass. Unpopular designated volunteers sometimes got offed by their classmates. Nathaniel hadn't seen her take one sip, so he experienced the pleasant realization that she was smart about safety, in addition to being smart in training.
At some point, she drifted over to him. "Hey Nathaniel! Congrats on getting picked to volunteer! It's nice to meet you. Well, not meet you, but we haven't ever really interacted. Aren't you so excited for the Games?" She'd extended her hand, and he shook it. Compared to the other, preppier rich girls he'd been forced to interact with, she seemed refreshingly normal. He was beyond grateful that Miss Albacore had given him a good district partner.
Not wanting to make waves, he gave her an equally polite response. "It's nice to meet you. Odicci, right?"
"Yeah! I was kind of surprised about getting picked, to be honest. I think Miss Albacore chose you first and decided that I'd get along with you best out of the girls." Nathaniel tried to stop himself, but he couldn't. He laughed, because that was so, so clearly not why Miss Albacore had chosen her. It was obviously for a plethora of reasons. She had been scoring first in exams since forever, she had the cleanest trident throw in the whole Academy, and she was smart as hell. Since smart people usually were aware of their intelligence, he chose to explain himself with that.
"No, Odicci, it's not because she picked me first. It's because Sarah Aracadium's got fucking rocks for brains."
Excuse me?" Odicci seemed surprisingly…surprised. He had to get on stable footing, fast, so he spouted off a bunch of reasons why she was better than Sarah (all true, but he had kind of panicked and probably sounded like an idiot.)
"Hey, that's not fair. Not every rich girl's stupid and entitled." Oh, good gracious. He'd already gone and ruined their rapport. Nathaniel knew that he could be hard to get along with, but he'd decided to give Odicci the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately, his mouth worked faster than his mind.
"What is it? Did I hurt your feelings? Not everybody gets to go home after training and have dinner waiting, dummy. Money beats hard work every time." Fortunately, Odicci didn't seem angry, and took it in stride.
"Not this time. You beat the rest of the boys. And I mean, I'm rich too, but I beat Sarah."
"True. The same can't be said about my sister." Sofia had probably been the worst of his childhood tormentors, if he was honest. She'd reminded him that she'd lost out at every opportunity, that nothing would come of his hard work since nothing had ever come of hers. Rachel and Damion had always shushed her, promised him that it wasn't true and he could do it, but even despite her treatment of him, he still pitied the way the Academy had treated her in turn.
"What year was she?" Odicci asked. He made a face.
"The Quell year."
"It was Victors' relatives, though. That ruled her out, right?"
"Not quite. My family…"
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it." He wasn't sure why her saying that surprised him. Maybe because the rich boys had always liked to rub salt in that wound. Maybe because he wasn't used to being treated kindly outside of his home.
"Thank you."
"But let me get this straight. The other trainees don't like you because you're poor, so they underestimate you, and then when you beat them, they get angry and hassle you about it?"
"Yeah." To his utter delight, Odicci didn't challenge this. So many of the supposedly nice rich kids had shut him down and told him that he was imagining things.
"I'm not going to make the mistake of underestimating you. In fact, I have a bit of an idea." That first sentence sent chills up his spine. He was so used to being underestimated, but the promise of being recognized for all that he was had come unexpected.
"Which is?"
"We should make sure you're Pack Leader. If you get to boss around the other Careers, it'll strengthen our standings."
"Why don't you want to be Pack Leader?"
"Oh, I want to, but I'd never be taken seriously. Blonde, female, all the usual reasons. Think about it, they won't have any idea that you're poor. All they'll know is what you choose to tell them and what their mentors hear from ours, which won't be a lot. Lura and Kaylee aren't the loose-lipped type." He could reinvent himself. He didn't have to be the Academy's unwanted stepchild any longer. He could just be a Career, like he'd always wanted. It almost didn't feel real.
"You're sure?"
"Kaylee's Miss Albacore's niece, and Lura's been helping me with my swordplay since I was eight. I know them. They won't rat us out."
"Good. That makes me feel better about the plan." Noticing that people were clearing out, he consulted his watch, which was terribly tarnished, with several plates of the band missing. Odicci didn't seem to notice." We're cutting it close for the Reaping."
"Well, I'll see you in the Justice Building! I'm telling you, Nathaniel, we're taking it all this year!"
"You're damn right we are." He threw away the bottle of sparkling water, and then, curious about the champagne, dumped it out in the garden, where it instantly began killing the plants."You were smart to avoid it," he said, referencing the poison that had clearly been put in it at some point.
"You were too. Sealed bottles are harder to get into than open glasses." So she had noticed.
"I think we'll work together just fine, Odicci." He smiled. It was his last day at the Academy, and the best day, by far. He certainly didn't want Odicci's pity, but her loyalty and support would prove to be critical in the arena. As far as he was concerned, the Hunger Games were a team sport.
"I think so too." Odicci disappeared, and Nathaniel was left to go to the Reaping, since he knew he didn't have time to go home and come back. He was dressed in the most formal outfit he could find, his father's only button-down and a pair of black work pants that had once belonged to his sister. They were women's pants, but they came the closest to dress trousers that he could find, and his mother had modified an ancient, faded hair bow to become a passable bowtie, even if it was powder blue.
He checked in, and eventually, the Reaping began. The escort, Sterling, whose blue hair clashed violently with his green waistcoat and neon pink nails, began the ceremony, first delivering a speech about the honor and perseverance of District Four that made Nathaniel puff out his chest a bit, because hell year he'd persevered, and then showed the video. The video always made Nathaniel a little bit sad, mostly because it featured a scene of a woman in a shack awfully similar-looking to Nathaniel's as she clutched her two children, a boy and a girl, while bombs rained down on them. Something about the symmetry of it, a poor woman up against all-powerful circumstances out of her control as she did her best to shelter them anyway, hit a little close to home for him, but he shoved the thoughts out of his mind, taking a deep breath.
"Ladies first!" Sterling said, drawing a slip out of the first bowl.
"I volunteer as tribute!" Odicci replied. She wore a healthy smirk as she walked up the aisle in a dress that was worth more money than his parents had ever had in their lives. She radiated confidence even without the dress, and that soothed Nathaniel's nerves a little. Then Sterling reached for the second bowl, and Nathaniel volunteered in a voice that sounded bold, even to him, so he chose to walk calmly, with a smile. He wanted to have some grace to him, but more importantly, he wanted to feel like himself. He was Nathaniel Lewis, and he was officially in the Hunger Games.
Nascha Eirena Czarin, 18
The Rubellite Conservatory, One
D1F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Nascha Eirena Czarin knew that she was going to win the Hunger Games. The trainers, former Victors who'd mentally prepared her and the other trainees for the turmoil of the arena, had always said that the first kill was the hardest, and luckily for Nascha, that was behind her. She'd murdered to restore the rights that her brother's treachery had stolen from her, and she'd gladly do it again. If she hadn't countered Armani Czarin's terrible dishonesty with a little dishonesty of her own, she'd never be standing where she was right now, in her Reaping dress in the district square, replaying the morning's events on a loop in her mind. "Anadyr chose well," Admira had said. Admira, who, in just a few minutes, after she volunteered, would be her mentor.
"I won't let our district down." There had been a polite smattering of applause, but the girls of the Rubellite Conservatory made it no secret that they were displeased about the selection. Nascha's supposed loyalty meant that they had to respect her, at least outwardly, but they didn't like her, and they took every opportunity to remind her of it, which, when Nascha thought about it, was sort of weird. Most of them hadn't even been able to earn a private session with the selection committee. Really, only the handful of other girls who'd been beaten out by Nascha actually had a right to be upset about the decision.
The committee's composition changed every year. Different trainers and Victors served on it, and the chairperson was chosen randomly, a mini-reaping of sorts. It could grow as large as fifteen members or as small as three, and it was famously incorruptible, although the decisions in regards to the volunteers were not always unanimous. Nascha's patriotism made her easy to support, although it was really something of a sham. It wasn't as though she was disloyal to the Capitol. She liked it, and she was pleased with the state of its rule over the districts, but she wasn't as blindly adoring as some of her peers. She saved her adoration for more important things: birds.
The last time Nascha had gotten along with her human family, she had been five years old. Her parents had gleefully announced that they had another baby on the way, and Nascha's place in the household was taken over by the newcomer, a little sister. It was never Navarice's fault, which, subliminally, Nascha understood. It was just that she quickly became the golden child in the Czarin home, and Nascha was replaced with someone younger, bubblier, and in her parents' eyes, more worthy of their love and attention than the dutiful middle child.
Nascha's resentment began to germinate. She tried to think hopefully about the situation. Armani, her older brother, had always seemed to love her. Together, he, Nascha, and their parents had always been a team. They'd stood by each other, had fun as a group, and Nascha had never gotten the impression that she'd taken his place. They'd been the picturesque nuclear family, even as the construction of the wall between Nascha and the others commenced.
Armani had never been as good as Nascha in training. They were both hard workers, sure, but Armani's industriousness was tainted by his hedonism. Craving both the fast life and the good life, Armani didn't understand that he could only have it one way. Deep in his delusions of grandeur and egged on by his girlfriend, some cattish floozy he'd met at a party who took a dislike to Nascha, he had made the highly questionable decision to get drunk off his ass the night before the most important exams in his entire Academy career. These were the exams that would determine if he'd earn a private session in front of the committee, and, ever immature, he'd refused to accept the fact that he'd flunked them. It was an irreversible mistake by every account, at least until he'd dipped into Nascha's savings (she'd been scrimping to find enough to buy another bird at some point in the future) to bribe a trainer into teaching him how to hack the network in order to fudge his exam scores.
Only two days prior, the girlfriend had traded spots with her friend in order to spar against Nascha. District One had a "tough luck" approach to sparring, and even though the trainees were made to wear padding to protect them as much as possible, they still used real weapons, and people still got injured from time to time. The girl had picked up her spear and gone for her throat at once, pressing the tip up against her neck, digging it into the skin just enough to produce just a trickle of blood, taunting her. Then she'd gone for the deathblow, but just before she could thrust it in, Nascha managed to coil her rapier around and get a clean shot at her wrist, praying that she'd make it before the spear punctured deep enough to be fatal. Acting in desperation and self-defense, her Hail Mary had worked. She just hadn't predicted that it'd sever the girl's hand.
Armani had been furious with Nascha, and when all evidence had pointed to him hacking the network, since the admin editing log had indicated that the network had been accessed from the Czarin family home, it had been all too simple to lie. He had blamed Nascha for trying to sabotage him, in addition to trying to ruin his girlfriend's life, if not outright kill her, when in fact, the opposite had been true.
It was a betrayal of the worst kind. If she couldn't rely on her human family, Nascha realized that she'd have to rely solely on her avian one. When Nascha had been twelve, her parents had gifted her a hunting bird, a young hawk named Madden, to train, both as consolation for Navarice's increased replacement of her and as a way to stave off the isolation her parents feared would sap her love for training. Nascha had proceeded to train Madden, and later Gilbert, a falcon, and Angelo, an owl, in the woods. Together, they hunted and explored, something that had enhanced Nascha's own Academy training. The girls at Rubellite would probably gasp indignantly at the very prospect of spending a night in the woods. After all, it'd muss their perfect blond updos. Nascha, on the other hand, understood that the Academy was very theoretical in its instruction. Practicing making camp on a manicured lawn in broad daylight, with all of the necessary supplies laid out for you, and not having to actually spend the night there, was enough to impart the general idea of how to make camp, but it gave a false impression of the simplicity of the task.
Nascha had camped in the woods with nothing except her birds and the things she could fit in her backpack. They weren't little backyard woods either; she had been known to hike out late on a Friday night, make camp, spend all of Saturday on a leisurely hike out, make camp again, and pick up the pace on Sunday so she'd make it home by dinnertime. She brought plenty of water, a thin blanket or two, a firestarter, a rapier, and whatever her birds needed. Together, they hunted for their food. The birds, and the trips to the woods that Nascha took with them, taught her many valuable lessons that she'd never have gleaned from Rubellite alone. Spending time with her birds in the wilderness was Nascha's favorite thing in the world, but that wasn't the only good thing that happened in the woods.
Well, Nascha supposed, whether or not it was a good thing depended on how you looked at the situation. Ever since Rubellite had blacklisted her from selection, due to the widespread success of Armani's lies, Nascha had needed an in. If she could prove her innocence to her district, she could get her spot back, but it had to be something massive enough to demonstrate so much loyalty that it'd render Armani's accusations completely useless. She needed a lie, a magnificent one, and then, one day when she was out in the woods, she had the misfortune of encountering Erila Palmer, who was in the process of doing something truly wicked. Prior to witnessing it, Nascha had thought that the torture and killing of baby birds was something relegated to children's storybooks, to demonstrate just how evil the fairytale villains really were, but Erila's boot had toyed with the baby mockingbird anyhow. The bird was making the most distressed noises, but by the time Nascha had gotten her rapier in hand and prepared to rescue it, it had already been crushed under the metal treads. Erila managed to disappear, and Nascha spent the rest of her trip giving the poor bird a proper burial.
Then she immediately began plotting her revenge against Erila. As luck would have it, Erila was the top student in Rubellite, and Nascha a close second, but despite her high class ranking, she would never win the volunteer position, even if she could outwork Erila and move into first. Once Nascha saw Erila in town, bragging to her boyfriend, Fontanier, about the incident, and he laughed along, all her guilt dissipated. They deserved this, both of them.
Nascha had forged a note in Fontanier's handwriting, instructing Erila to meet him at a particular trailhead for a romantic nighttime hike. Since Fontanier had never particularly flourished in the Career system at Burnish, according to Armani, and he seemed to make plenty of loud speeches about favoritism and unfairness in the Academies, Nascha came up with the bright idea to bump off Erila and frame him for it, spinning it as a rebel's scheme to maliciously cripple an institution that he'd become disillusioned with, which she knew the Peacekeepers would snap up right away.
Nascha had been extremely careful. She watched Fontanier and Erila carefully, and, learning that he often left his axe at Erila's house, when they practiced together in her yard, Nascha's plot was complete. After leading Erila to the trailhead with the note, Nascha dropped by her home to retrieve the axe, with gloved hands to make sure there were no fingerprints except Fontanier's. She took a shortcut through the woods and jogged to make up time, so she could ambush Erila when she arrived. Erila died from an axe to the back of the neck, still clutching the forged note, and then Nascha laid a piece of standard Burnish loose-leaf on Erila's back, with a pre-written message, again in Fontanier's handwriting: THE ACADEMY IS RIGGED. NO MORE CAREERS!
Nascha had gone home, put her used rubber gloves down the disposal, and pretended that she'd had a perfectly normal hike in a completely different part of the woods. Once or twice a week, she didn't take the birds out with her, so it wasn't suspicious that she'd left them at home on a Wednesday. When Erila hadn't shown up to Rubellite the next day, there were questions, of course, but not many. Since the stomach flu was going around, the adults at Rubellite had assumed Erila was sick and staying home. Erila often slept over with friends without communicating with her parents, due to her recent eighteenth birthday and the privileges that came along with it, so they assumed she'd just had a slumber party and gone straight to school the next day in something from a friend's wardrobe, which was not unusual for her. It wasn't until the attendance office called home that anybody realized Erila Palmer was totally unaccounted for.
It was well-known that Nascha hiked, and the trailhead she'd led Erila to was the one she walked every Thursday, so the very next day, when Nascha set off with her birds and discovered Erila's body, it didn't raise suspicion that she had discovered the corpse. She'd gone running for the Peacekeepers in a manufactured panic, and the Peacekeepers, quick and professional, had taken over from there. They'd discovered Fontanier's weapon, with his fingerprints on it, in his girlfriend, and then the notes with what appeared to be his handwriting on them, and the case was all but closed. Nascha had to admit to herself, after the fact, that she'd felt a bit guilty about Fontanier. Only seventeen, and falsely executed in front of the district on counts of treason and first degree murder, it seemed a little unfair, but Nascha reminded herself that he had been a bad person, and so what if she'd pointed the rebellious note out to the Peacekeepers in false distress when she'd showed them where she'd found the body, telling them she was scared that One would become a rebellious district like Eleven or Twelve, because she loved the Capitol! She couldn't imagine what kind of traitor would write something like that!
Needless to say, it had worked. At eighteen years old, Nascha Eirena Czarin's reputation was restored. The Peacekeepers had also reminded everyone that they could only determine that the hacking of the school network had been done on the Czarin family computer, and that Armani very well could just have been diverting attention from himself, because Nascha, loyal Nascha, was obviously not responsible. She'd won the designated volunteer position, the ceremony that morning at Rubellite, all in her honor, and now, she prepared to take it all.
First, Ariadne chose the male name, and Orpheus Adello volunteered as planned. They'd never met, but Nascha assumed that the selection committee knew what it was doing when it paired them up. Orpheus's reaction seemed to be mostly joyful, with style, but it was obviously spontaneous and unpolished, which Nascha knew was very different from what her own walk would be. She steeled herself for her moment as Ariadne unfolded the female slip. "Grace Aguilar!"
"I volunteer as tribute!" Nascha glided down the aisle, and as she turned, climbing the stairs and facing the crowd as she looked out from the podium, she made ruthless eye contact with Armani. She had accomplished what he couldn't, and despite his attempts at winning her forgiveness, she refused to give it to him. He did not deserve it.
Tybalt Alistair Martell, 18
Floy Academy, Two
D2M
July 1, 329 AEDD
For such a short, slight man, Antonius Treek had one hell of a backhand. Tybalt probably wouldn't have been laughing if he'd been the one on the receiving end, but the Victor for whom Treek Academy was named had been backing up Tybalt's selection as nominee—one of the four that came from his Academy.
It was early on Reaping Day, which meant that every trainee from the Treek, Aragon, Slate, and Morrow Academies had been bussed to Floy Academy, whose turn it was to host the selection ceremony. Each of the five Academies had produced two males and two females to compete for the final prize of being the Volunteer for their group. The younger trainees filled the large, hexagonal gymnasium, each Academy taking a wall, where the eight-year-olds stood on the highest risers and the eighteen-year-olds, whose original class had been whittled down over the years, were in a relatively small concentration on the ground. Ethan Floy, flanked by Dana Aragon and Grant Morrow on one side and Polyhymnia Slate and Antonius Treek on the other, formally submitted his four tributes.
Then he passed the microphone to Aragon. When it was finally Treek's turn, the first name out of his mouth was Tybalt's own, and he'd never felt prouder. The crowd roared for him, a heady combination of war cries, shouts of encouragement, and chants of Tybalt Alistair! Tybalt Alistair! Tybalt Alistair! that began to fill the air and threatened to drown out the three other trainees Treek had selected. The gymnasium rearranged itself around him, the oldest trainees cycling back to the top level of the risers, the younger ones coming down, ready to surround him (and, he supposed, the other nominees) on their his victory lap, or rather, pre-Victory lap.
The Academy headmasters, all five of them, made their way outside to draw up the bracket, but on their way, one of Milos's old cronies heckled Tybalt a bit too close to Treek, and well, Tybalt wasn't going to shed any tears over the blooming handprint that'd been laid down right over that stupid smirk. Serves him right, he thought spitefully. It's my day, not your dead friend's. Milos was long gone, rotting in both the Caballero mausoleum and Hell, or wherever else terrible people went when they'd been put down like a sick dog.
The pairings came back. Tybalt Alistair Martell (Treek) vs. Erasmus Sindony (Slate), read the board. By sheer luck, his was the first bout of the day, a huge advantage. The adrenaline from being chosen would boost his fighting ability, which was already considerable. This kind of match appealed to Tybalt—never one for sneakiness or bad faith combat (But what about Milos? You know, you did…you know what? Fuck Milos! If Milos could beat you in a fight, he'd be here and you wouldn't, but you won, and that's what matters. He cheated to try to get selected, you had to cheat back to even it out! But still, you…You've got thirty seconds until you have to fight, and you cannot afford to be distracted. The entire Martell bloodline is counting on you!), he liked knowing that he was guaranteed a fair fight, where nobody could whine about bias and he didn't have to worry about an ambush, not that worry was an emotion Tybalt Alistair was accustomed to.
Treek approached him as he stripped off his shirt, earning a wild cheer. He held out his hands, where Treek took care to properly wrap them with the thick padding. If he fought truly barefisted, in this combination of boxing and wrestling, he was liable to cause unnecessary harm to his opponents, or worse, cause unsightly bruises to form on his knuckles. Across from him, the other boy was doing the same thing, as Slate offered him some parting wisdom and a pat on the back. Treek shot Tybalt a quick two-fingered salute and receded back to the judges' box, ready to watch what he knew wouldn't be much of a spectacle. Tybalt was comfortable with showiness, but he wanted to conserve his strength and energy in case he needed it later.
It turned out to be a short fight, if you could even call it that. He'd feinted right and delivered a clean uppercut left. The feint had positioned the boy's skull exactly where Tybalt most wanted it, and in less than five seconds, he was one step closer to winning. After a short period of waiting and observing the other matches going on, none of which exceeded about a minute in length, the next round began. This time, the board had decided to pit him against Davy Menahem, the Aragon boy, who, once again, fell in short order. The next round was the three-person finale against two other boys, the first of which was knocked out quickly by the third fighter, Manuel, of Floy Academy, who had the home team advantage and whose classmate, a sturdy girl the board identified as Haylia P. Boaz, had won the female slot only a few moments before. Tybalt decided to think about his district partner later, since they'd have plenty of time to get to know each other in the Capitol, but from what he'd seen, she got along well with Manuel. He wondered idly if she'd be upset with him for triumphing over her friend.
It took him upwards of three minutes to beat Manuel down to the mat, and when Ethan Floy ordered the fight over, Tybalt realized that he'd finally done it. Two murders down, at constant threat, whether it be of avoxing by the Capitol for disobeying its direct orders or of disownment by his parents for failing to become the Volunteeer, he'd at last fulfilled the covenant of his birth. Manuel, who he'd been able to pin, but not knock out, shook his hand and gave him a friendly smack on the chest. "Congratulations, man. That was a tough one, yeah?" Tybalt was tempted to reply with a nonchalant not really, but it occurred to him that sportsmanship and honesty were probably the better choice.
"For sure. Longest fight all day." The words felt strange coming out of his mouth. Humility was not a pursuit of his, but he supposed he could play nice for a few moments more.
"Haylia'll like you."
"Most girls do." Screw that, humility was for chumps.
"Not like that, moron. She's got this girlfriend, Brianna. Wants to win so she can go buy her a big ol' house out west. She's never even looked at anybody else the whole time I've known her."
"Oh." He had to admit that he was not expecting that.
"She's smart as hell. She ditched the Academy when she was thirteen, came back just often enough to keep her spot open, and managed to convince Floy to nominate her. You seem like a hard worker. She'll like you. And she's loyal, she–"
"–quit the Academy. That's not loyalty."
"–'ll stick with you unless you're screwing her over. Then she'll kick your ass."
"Why are you telling me this? I thought you were all chummy with her, being from Floy and all."
"I'm telling you this because you seem like you're dumb enough to try to manipulate her, and I want you to know that if you try, you will fail. Hard."
"Well, thanks, but you've got me all wrong. I'm winning without dirty tricks." Manuel laughed and ambled away, which made Tybalt all the more unnerved. Of course he was the manipulative type, but he liked to believe he was subtler than that. Oh, well. Haylia probably sent him over in hopes that it'd psych Tybalt out, but on the bright side, he had some material to work with. Haylia was attached to her girlfriend, assuming that Manuel hadn't been lying to him. Still, the story about how she'd quit the Academy and gotten picked anyway should be easy enough to confirm with Treek, so he opted to head to the buses outside, where many of the trainees were being shuffled into their assigned seats. He scanned the scene for Treek, but he was standing next to Petra (Floy). That's unfortunate.
Tybalt gave him a wave, and, catching his gaze, Treek excused himself and ran over to congratulate him. He quickly relayed what he'd heard about Haylia, and to his surprise, Treek confirmed it on the spot. "But why would Ethan Floy pick her, then?" he protested. "It seems unfair that she didn't even train but got in anyway."
"It probably seems unfair to her that the two boys ranked higher than you, who just so happened to belong to an enemy family of yours, died under highly mysterious circumstances the same day that you showed up with a whole bunch of suspicious injuries, and yet nobody ever looked into the prime suspect." There was a pointed, although not quite accusatory note to Treek's voice.
"That's different."
"Go home, kiddo. Shower. Eat something, if you can bear to. Come to the Reaping on time, get the Volunteering over with, and make yourself Fabian's problem."
"Fabian's mentoring me?"
"Who else would?"
"You, I'd hoped."
"No. The most recent Victors mentor, unless it's a Quarter Quell or there are extenuating circumstances."
"But that's not fair! Petra works at Floy Academy, and Haylia knows her, so she has an advantage. Fabian works at Grant!"
"Yes, some years that happens. You'll deal with it." Tybalt could feel himself spiraling.
"But–"
"Tybalt Alistair, you will do as I say, or so help me, I will keep your entitled ass home and send in somebody who'll actually be grateful for the opportunity. No more outbursts, you hear me? You can complain about the unfairness of it all when you come back here with the Victory crown."
"Maybe my father'll stop donating to your school, then, if you won't find me a new mentor."
"Maybe your father's neck-deep in a bottle every day of his damn life and doesn't give a shit if some of his money ends up in my hands. He certainly doesn't care that it ends up in the liquor merchant's, courtesy of the son that's following in his footsteps."
"You're bluffing. You won't keep me home. Besides, if you didn't care about Milos and Mercutio, it doesn't matter if Haylia does." The best he could do was try to change the subject. He'd been having such an excellent morning, too, but then Manuel, and now Treek, of all people, seemed bent on spoiling it.
"Fabian will mentor you, and you will obey him. This conversation is over." When the bus unloaded at the Academy, Tybalt gathered his belongings and strode home proudly, careful to keep his temper in check.
The dismissal had stung more because it was Treek, Antonius Treek, who had taught him everything he knew, whether that be his manipulation or his fighting skill, honing his raw talent into finely-tuned techniques that he could apply to a plethora of situations. Milos and Mercutio had the advantage of loads of friends, who purposefully distracted and bullied Tybalt to the best of their abilities, but they also had the advantage of going home to parents who were invested in their training progress, who would spar, or offer commentary (the useful kind, which went beyond the harsh order of "Make it happen, Tybalt Alistair!" that his father provided, or the equally unhelpful "Tybalt Alistair, this family is counting on you!" that came from his mother), or better yet, encouragement. Tybalt sometimes thought to himself, on the latest of nights, after a rough day of training and half a bottle of Sauvignon, that he'd like himself more if his parents liked him more, but that always led to uncomfortable thoughts about the people who had liked him, for example, Coventry, which led to more uncomfortable thoughts about the people who had liked her, for example, Milos, which led to the other half of the Sauvignon and a bad hangover in the morning, deserved punishment for daring to look back. Victors didn't look back.
He got ready, letting the shower rid him of the remains of the morning. Outside, the sun bled golden overhead as the Reaping approached. Racing the clock after his argument with Antonius and his leisurely shower, he threw on his Reaping outfit, a brilliant bottle-green suit, did his hair, and rushed to the plaza, where he checked in quickly, found his section, and proceeded to completely ignore everything that the escort, Reeta, said and did until her hand actually entered the first glass bowl.
Haylia Volunteered as planned, and then, finally, after a lifetime of waiting, Reeta drew the male slip, but before bothering to open it, scanned the crowd for the man she knew was about to arrive. "I Volunteer as Tribute!" declared Tybalt Alistair Martell, as he sauntered into the aisle with every bit of his characteristic debonair charm. He really needed to turn on the arrogance if he wanted the Capitol to adore him, so he did. Bowing low as he took Haylia's hand in his own, Reeta beckoned him over to the microphone to introduce himself. "What a pleasure, Panem. My name is Tybalt Alistair Martell; yes, it's nice to meet me."
Konstance DuMouchel, 56
Office of the Head Gamemaker, Capitol
Head Gamemaker
July 1, 329 AEDD
The very minute Konstance DuMouchel received word that the tapes were in, she summoned Jacqueline and Orion to her office for analysis. Once they were settled in comfortable swivel chairs, she switched on the holographic monitor and hit play on the Reapings—not the Reaping Recaps, with selected snippets interspersed with commentary by Pandora Mink and Ivan Cardozo, which were airing across Panem—the exclusive behind-the-scenes version showcasing all the rebellious, embarrassing, gross things that got cut out of the former. If she was to fairly assess the tributes, she needed to know at least as much as the dedicated Capitolites who had stood for hours outside, watching the whole thing in real time on the Capitol jumbotrons.
Up first was District One. The boy had fantastic dramatic timing, something that Konstance marked with a little asterisk on her notepad. He had a genuine presence that she didn't unusually get from One's tributes. They tended towards blond, bimbo-ish, and banal, with golf claps and bright white smiles that never really reached their eyes. Most of them looked like they were trying too hard, but the mixture of a clever pause and a self-indulgent, leisurely walk, like a cat lazily stretching in a sunbeam on the carpet, coupled with a dopey smile that betrayed genuine excitement, led Konstance to believe that this particular One tribute would be a crowd favorite. He didn't look particularly strong, but Konstance knew that Anadyr Pike-Jones had done the selections this year, and they had a sixth sense when it came to sniffing out the best tributes, so she decided to place her faith in their choice. Orpheus Adello, she thought. Interesting moniker. Will he wind up like his namesake? She'd track his progress closely, she decided. The boy certainly had a zest for life, even if he might not be the most serious person.
His district partner, Nascha Eirena Czarin (what a mouthful!) was on the opposite end of the spectrum. She had a steadfast dignity to her, and had spent her ascent to the stage staring down someone in the crowd: he looked like a brother, probably, or maybe a cousin, but whatever the case was, it certainly didn't look like they had a very close relationship. Nascha didn't exactly seem like a catty kind of girl, if you asked Konstance, but she didn't seem very warm and cozy either. She was elegant, though. Not as much of a standout as Orpheus, but once again, Konstance decided to have faith in Anadyr's judgement. If they had picked her, it had to be for a good reason. One thing Konstance appreciated about Nascha was that she looked like the kind of Career who could finish the job and refrain from getting too attached to her allies, and it was always good to have a few 'filler Careers' to keep the Pack's numbers up and insulate the more interesting members.
Orpheus and Nascha had predicted placements of fourth and sixth respectively, which seemed pretty in line with what Konstance herself would have predicted. Overall, she thought they would both be pretty solid tributes.
District Two appeared to have produced the strongest showing. Two's tributes were usually some of the best in the batch, with the toughness and class that instantly shot tributes to the top of the predicted rankings. Haylia Boaz, the girl, with a predicted placement of second, certainly seemed to fit the bill. She had the usual cocky attitude and self-assured stride. She looked almost like an Amazon in her simple white tunic-dress. Konstance wasn't sure if it was a deliberate choice or if she was just frugal, but it was a successful subversion of the unwritten volunteering rules. Career girls generally chose outfits that accentuated slenderness and emphasized curves, but Haylia had made no attempt to hide her stocky, brawny build. The tunic showcased her strength over her beauty, and complemented her impressive muscles. She was beautiful, but the tunic seemed to symbolize ambition and determination. Maybe Konstance was reading too much into things, but it seemed to indicate that Haylia had her priorities in order and would prove to be a focused tribute.
The only tribute with a higher predicted placement was her district partner, Tybalt Alistair Martell, who was ranked first. It was easy to see why. He was just…elite in a way Konstance had rarely seen before. This Tybalt behaved like his superiority was a simple universal law, and even if you didn't respect it, it wouldn't matter because it would still hold true. He carried himself like a young god, and in all honesty, Konstance wasn't going to question it. It was easy to imagine him as a Victor, the kind that Panem desperately needed at this moment in time, a stern, imposing presence to remind the districts that loyalists always triumphed. Tybalt also had the casual expensiveness to him that was native of District One, something that the outlier tributes wouldn't be able to put their finger on but would nonetheless highlight the differences between Careers and lowly commoners like them. Konstance decided she would watch him carefully. She had high hopes, but appearances could be deceiving.
With the top predicted placements in one district, Konstance knew where she would've put her money, had she been allowed to bet.
District Three had turned up a pair of normal (at least at first glance) thirteen-year-olds. The girl, Twyla Behring, had an impeccable poise that Konstance rarely saw from young tributes. She hadn't cried or pleaded, or even froze up or looked frightened. She, admittedly, was a little sluggish walking up to the stage, but she'd managed to create the impression in Konstance that she knew what she was doing. She'd received a predicted placement of nineteenth, which wasn't exactly high, probably still a Bloodbath death, but it was rarely bestowed upon the youngest tributes. Konstance wouldn't be surprised if she'd already caught the attention of a few sponsors. Occasionally, Three would produce an oddball tribute, one that was cruel and scientific in their practiced murder, but even though they were typically stoic, as was this girl, it wasn't the same. Twyla seemed like she could think on her feet, and Konstance decided that alone made her worth paying attention to.
Twyla's district partner, Beemo Hudson, didn't make quite as strong of a first impression. The predicted placements had him as twenty-third, which was more in the range of what Konstance expected of a thirteen-year-old, especially one that carried a noticeable amount of extra weight. He'd looked a little startled when he heard his name, but a friend behind him whispered something that set him in motion. Despite the delay, Beemo had carried himself well, and, like Twyla, had avoided crying. Good, Konstance thought. She'd never liked the criers. Hopefully, District Three would be the trendsetter, not the outlier. Beemo also looked intelligent, but Konstance was unsure if this was due to the preconceived notion that Three produced smart tributes as opposed to anything on Beemo's part. She didn't anticipate him getting very far, being young and out of shape, so she moved on.
District Four had never quite been on the tier of the other Career districts, but the female volunteer, Odicci Harbore, with her extravagant dress and blonde hair, could easily have been mistaken as the One girl. She had exuded confidence on her walk to the stage, but Konstance thought she looked a little superficial, probably because of the association with One, but she was clearly very polished. Konstance couldn't get a good read for her just yet, but she suspected that Odicci's predicted placement of fifth was about right, possibly even a little low. Kaiya Albacore did the selections for District Four, and Konstance trusted her judgement. If Kaiya had chosen Odicci, then she was the best District Four had to offer.
Odicci's district partner was a boy named Nathaniel Lewis, whose outfit stood out in the opposite way, especially when they shook hands and stood right next to each other. Nathaniel's clothes were far shabbier, and it was clear that he had come from abject poverty, the kind that was rare in the Career districts. The sponsors would likely have mixed opinions of him, but he had looked comfortable and pleased to be there, if not surprised, and he and Odicci had smiled at one another, which led Konstance to believe that they'd encountered each other prior to volunteering. In One and Two, the Careers didn't usually come face to face with one another before the Goodbyes or the Train Rides, so the Fours would have an advantage if they already got along. Nathaniel had been predicted to place third, and now, as Konstance looked at him again, she saw beyond the clothes and through to the broad, muscular build. Yes, she decided, she could see him placing well.
District Five had produced stronger tributes than usual. A gloomy urban hell, painted in tones of beige and gray, except for the Old Hollywood glamour of the rich sector, the tributes tended towards frail and shy. Occasionally a larger, stronger one would turn up, one who thought that he or she was something special because of it, but the Careers usually put them in their place before too long. The boy, Aran Casteel, appeared at first to be one of these, happy about his selection, although it turned into ineffective pretend crying very quickly. He was clearly stronger than he wanted to appear, given his predicted placement of ninth, on the higher side for a non-Career. He had an interesting interaction with his district partner, Amy Kawasaki, but her hair had mostly shielded them from the crowd, so Konstance was left to wonder what that was all about.
Amy looked like a rich, spoiled brat, if you asked Konstance. She almost seemed to simper as she made her way up to the stage, and people moved out of her way like they feared punishment if they didn't do it quickly enough. However, she also seemed to have at least a little physical strength. The contrast between Amy and Aran's outfits was similar to what Konstance had seen in District Four, but in her opinion, there was a difference between wearing a faded button-down and bowtie with ill-fitting dress pants and wearing a stained wifebeater and shredded jeans. Nathaniel had made an effort to look nice; Aran hadn't even bothered to wipe the visible food detritus off of his face. Odicci's outfit had conveyed wealth, but the way she'd worn it had also indicated class; Amy's outfit, while clearly expensive, was worn with a snobbishness that cheapened her image considerably. Amy had been predicted to place twelfth, but personally, Konstance was hoping for twenty-fourth.
District Six had been unusually eventful, but Konstance's assistants had warned her that it was only the first of a few trainwrecks. Dana Madison, or rather, Danny Maddox, had been absolutely incensed at being called the wrong name, to the point of taking hostages and kicking up a fuss, so much so that the Peacekeepers had no other choice but to carry him up to the stage. The escort had managed to get him in check without much trouble, which Konstance was very grateful for. She'd have to ask him to share his secrets. Danny was his problem for the time being, but once he entered the Training Center, he'd biome her responsibility. Despite his behavior, or perhaps because of it, Danny had received a middling placement. Konstance didn't know if she thought he'd place thirteenth, but she figured it was as good of a guess as any.
At first glance, Vica Madsen was a much more boring tribute than her district partner. She looked like a nobody, a not atypical District Six Female. However, her reaction to being Reaped drew Konstance in. She looked like she pitied the escort, the Capitol, and her fellow tributes, and gave off something of a mysterious air. She was plain in appearance, at least for now, but Konstance looked forward to learning more about her. She had received a predicted placement of eleventh, in the top half, so Konstance knew she wasn't the only person that Vica had made an impression on. For now, Konstance decided to monitor her progress.
District Seven was very boring, almost not worth mentioning. Tom Leary, the boy, had seemed unbothered about his selection, but he looked to be malnourished and incapable of causing any real damage to anybody. Not quite Career fodder, but probably not a survivor, either. His fists were bloodied, something that drew Konstance's attention at first, but she shrugged it off. District Seven tributes were usually lumberjacks or schoolchildren, and a young man with raw hands from working probably wasn't an unusual sight. He and Brielle Rawlings, his district partner, were both sixteen, and had received adjacent predicted placements, Tom in fourteenth. Konstance thought that was about right.
Brielle was the first tribute Konstance had seen so far that looked truly fearful of what was to come. Aran would have been the runner-up, but there was a difference between being pathetic and being scared. Brielle had that blanched white, frozen with fear, prey being confronted by predator expression on her face that Konstance had waited for so long to see. It was a fairly standard reaction, and seemed to match Brielle's average appearance and predicted placement of fifteenth. Konstance thought she might go even a bit before that, but it didn't seem too far off. Brielle was a necessary tribute, because not everybody was destined for Victory, a reminder that Konstance appreciated.
District Eight's first tribute was a young thing, a petite girl of thirteen named Ash Maris, who appeared to be very afraid, or at least taken aback. She'd gasped loudly, but managed to compose herself and avoid the shame of crying. She had managed to strike up the courage to request that she be referred to by her nickname, which was more than Konstance usually expected from such a young tribute. Ash had been given a predicted placement of twenty-second, which was appropriate, considering her age. Usually, outer-district youngsters were annoying, but Konstance decided to place Ash alongside Twyla and potentially Beemo in the "plucky underdog" category.
Another district with adjacent placements, Kenny Michaels had been predicted to place twenty-first. A Bloodbath tribute, despite his age and the bit of muscle he seemed to have acquired. This was mostly due to his tantrum at the Reaping, swearing and screaming at the Peacekeepers, putting his hands on them and demanding that they tell him which one of them had "rigged the Reaping." To Konstance's knowledge, the Reaping hadn't been rigged, but Kenny was a well-known rebel and it seemed like a straightforward case of someone reaping what they sowed. She wouldn't waste any tears on him, that was for sure.
District Nine's tributes seemed to be perfect opposites of each other. The quiet, socially anxious girl, Maize Bono, nearly seemed to have a panic attack before collecting herself, and she'd trembled like a leaf in the wind when her district partner was chosen. District Nine produced a variety of different tributes, and Maize seemed to be one of the less promising ones, especially when you compared her to her district partner. Maize, to her credit, had shaken his hand without complaint, despite probably being very afraid, and had remained composed throughout the ordeal. Konstance didn't give a fig about social anxiety, but she would give Maize some credit. Seventeenth place seemed like a fair judgement.
Jeremiah King was a full ten spots higher, sitting comfortably at a predicted place of seventh. This was an especially big deal because the Careers had filled out the top six, and being the top non-Career would rake in the sponsors. Konstance thought that this was a very sensible prediction for Jeremiah, particularly because of his stature. According to the information the Tribute Coordinator, Flossie Merveilleuse, had relayed to her, Jeremiah was 6'9" and 280 pounds. The next-tallest tribute was 6'3" Tybalt, who had of course been predicted to win. Jeremiah seemed confident and intimidating, if otherwise unreadable. Konstance knew he would be a crowd favorite.
District Ten's Reaping had evoked an unusual emotion in Konstance: pity. Fahad Azerola had been unfortunate enough to vomit onstage. His saving grace had been that he had clearly looked like he was suffering from some sort of illness, so the audience wouldn't mistakenly attribute the spectacle to fear following being Reaped. He'd seemed increasingly unwell as he'd walked, and he had seemed ashamed, which made Konstance feel bad for him. He'd been given a predicted placement of sixteenth, but Konstance thought it was impossible to evaluate him, since he was obviously not in his normal state. She'd have to wait and see about Fahad.
Mare Duster, his district partner, had a comparatively impressive reaction. She'd actually seemed happy about being chosen, and had come off as rich. She'd taken her time, and when the Peacekeepers had rudely tried to rush her, she'd given them a queenly stare of disappointment. She looked like she was having a much more peaceful experience than everybody else, and her pricey outfit had contributed to her attractiveness. Konstance figured that she'd use her appeal to find a boy to protect her. She'd seen tributes like Mare now and again, and they tended to use the same strategy. It was usually a successful one, as evidenced by Mare's predicted placement of tenth.
District Eleven had produced a thirteen-year-old and a twelve-year old. The thirteen-year-old, Xanthe Sparacello, had at once gone through a few emotions that Konstance couldn't quite decipher, but settled on pride. Konstance guessed that she was very sheltered or misinformed, since that was a highly unusual reaction for a young outer district tribute. Xanthe had been predicted to place twentieth, but Konstance would've placed her even lower. When it got to the younger kids, Konstance knew that the placements became mostly a tossup based on general gut feeling, but Xanthe, with her odd optimism, was unlikely to go far.
Of course, the same could be said about Pace, her district partner. They were predicted to place eighteenth, which Konstance suspected was due to the fact that they looked both scared and stubborn. Those traits, when paired together, sometimes propelled young, inexperienced tributes to Victory, so Konstance wouldn't count Pace out yet. They'd looked for their family in the crowd, it seemed, probably searching for older siblings. It wasn't surprising that none had volunteered. Making sacrifices for family only went so far. Konstance wondered if Pace and Xanthe would choose to form an alliance the way she suspected Twyla and Beemo might, but she thought not. Pace and Xanthe seemed too different from each other to make that work.
District Twelve had the greatest disparity between predicted placements. The boy, Nikita Valeta, who Flossie had informed Konstance was an on-duty Peacekeeper originally from District Two, seemed to have the attitude of a Career, which made sense. After all, he'd likely undergone Career training before being deployed. Now that Konstance had alliances on the brain, she speculated about whether or not Nikita would want to join the Careers, and whether or not they would let him. He had received a predicted placement of eighth, very good for a non-Career tribute, or more accurately, a semi-Career tribute. Konstance would hold him to Career standards, she decided. He seemed strong and self-assured, and that would probably take him similar places to the Career-Careers.
Aspen Silvius, on the other hand, had received the dismal prediction of last place, which was probably because she had fainted. Unlike Fahad, it didn't seem to be medically driven, but caused by the surprise of being Reaped, which did not indicate good things about her future arena performance. The sponsors had no way of gauging her personality, her level of strength, or anything else about her. She had been unconscious for almost all of the time she'd been televised, and that gave them very little to work with, only that she'd fallen unconscious out of fear. Konstance thought that it was too early to tell for sure, but she didn't anticipate that Aspen would perform well.
There were twenty-four tributes, ranging from the finale shoe-ins to the obvious Bloodbath deaths, and Konstance would reign over them all with the mastery of a woman who'd spent over a decade occupying the office of the Head Gamemaker of Panem. Konstance DuMouchel was tasked with engineering a Hunger Games like no other, for the sake of crushing the brewing rebellion, and she would succeed.
But that was not all she had to do.
Hey y'all!
It's been a while. Fortunately for you, I procrastinated on writing the intros by writing the Goodbyes and the Train Rides, so those will show up in the coming days. Since I'm on summer vacation at long last, I'll be able to give you more consistent updates, and that begins right now with our last six tributes. Fun fact: this chapter has 17k words! I'd appreciate it so much if you'd tell me what you think of the tributes—it helps me a ton. I hope you have a great weekend, and I'll see you on Tuesday with the next chapter!
—LC :)
