TW/CW: Tybalt's POV has some alcohol abuse, and the Capitol POV has mentions of physical abuse in a very warped, unhealthy romantic relationship.

Danny Maddox, 18

Training Center, Capitol

D6M

July 3, 329 AEDD

Danny had been enjoying the Capitol more than he had any right to. He was getting enough to eat, he showered with hot water, and best of all, he'd been recruited by a big time criminal. The alliance was flourishing under Jeremiah's leadership. So why did everything feel like it was slipping out of his hands? He spent too much time thinking about the Goodbyes, and he wished his visitors hadn't come at all. They tarnished the final image of his district, and that was too terrible for him to forget.

The Capitol was a fearsome entity, but all the Capitolites Danny had met were more forgiving than the Peacekeepers in District Six. The prep team was good. Even though Danny hadn't liked his parade outfit, the stylist hadn't dehumanized him the way his visitors had. Aurelius, the escort, helped bridge the gap between Danny and his mentor. Fleet was definitely different than Danny, and he handled the Games very differently when he had been a tribute, but he didn't try to force Danny to do the same thing as him. Together, they worked to create a plan that would suit his skillset.

The prep team even got in on the action. Persephone had been the one to suggest that 'finding people' might be a valuable talent, but it had taken a lot of coaxing from Fleet to get Danny to disclose what that really meant. Danny had a peculiar ability to locate people based on their personal characteristics, and Fleet suggested that he could use this to his alliance's advantage by keeping tabs on where the other tributes were in the arena. Danny was sitting on this. The information was to be revealed once in the arena, so Danny could impress Jeremiah after he'd gotten them supplies from the Cornucopia.

Danny had been feeling good. In the abstract, he knew that the Careers were dangerous and that underestimating the other tributes was a bad idea. He didn't have an arrogant attitude, but he didn't care to desensitize himself to fear this early in the Games. Fleet had explained that fear in the arena can be a useful tool. It's the body's way of detecting danger. The problem was that being constantly overaware and anxious dulled the fear response, and so made it less useful. Danny hoped that Jeremiah would probably get rid of a few Careers, and the rest might bump each other off. Whatever happened would be a problem for later on.

He really was trying to learn. He'd never been good at school, mostly because of the nonstop bullying for having a girl's name, but it was a lot easier to focus in the Training Center. The trainers tried to teach him, and he picked up a few skills. He could set mediocre snares, do first aid, and purify water. His least favorite station involved cleaning animal carcasses. Vica ended up doing alright, but Danny couldn't bring himself to touch the organs.

He was unclear about Xanthe's role in the alliance. She puttered the days away with some sort of polearm, jabbing dreamily at cloth training dummies and mentioning the high king at every opportunity. Her district partner, far across the room with allies of their own, had also chosen to use a spear, although they had spent time practicing some basic offensive and defensive moves with a trainer while Xanthe just wandered off on her own. Danny really didn't like the idea of her dying, but it was becoming clear that she wasn't going to survive the Bloodbath. She was in the alliance as somewhat of a pity kid, to be brought up in interviews and considered alongside Jeremiah and the Sixes. She would counterbalance Jeremiah's high training score, but she would only be a burden in the arena.

Danny certainly wouldn't hurt her, but he couldn't say the same for his allies. Vica was willing to compromise her morals if it increased her chances of survival. Jeremiah wanted no dead weight. They wouldn't kill her, but they seemed to view Xanthe as more of an inevitable casualty than a valued team member.

Danny wondered if they thought the same thing about him. Then again, he was contributing useful things to the alliance. They were dividing up the tasks so at least one of them would know every skill. They put too much of an emphasis on weapons for everyone to learn all the skills, which was bad if one of them died or they got split up, but secretly, Danny liked the upside of this. If only he could purify water, then they couldn't cut him loose.
The only thing more perilous than entering the arena with an alliance was entering it alone, and Danny really didn't want to be all by himself. He briefly entertained the idea of his allies dying in the Bloodbath, but surely there were weaker tributes? It would probably be fine, he told himself, and besides, they all had to die at some point. He would probably die at some point.

But he was so, so scared and he definitely did not want to die. He hadn't even made a name for himself with any sort of famous criminal enterprise, and he had finally actually met people who liked him for who he was. It didn't seem fair.

Fleet had done his best to calm Danny's fears about this. To be honest, no matter how much Danny insisted he was fine on his own, he really did want some companionship. He just wanted it on his own terms. He wanted to choose who to trust, not to have random busybodies force themselves on him as substitute parents. It confused even him, because the whole tribute team had pretty much immediately adopted him, and somehow he was fine with that. It felt almost like a betrayal, especially since the Capitol was responsible for so much suffering, but he liked being treated as a person with agency.

It was so painful to think that everything would be over soon. He definitely hadn't enjoyed his life, but he still didn't want it to end, so he did his best to focus despite the growing knot in his stomach and practiced his first aid, hoping that by some miracle or mercy, the arena might spare him. (It would not.)

Twyla Behring, 13

Training Center, Capitol

D3F

July 3, 329 AEDD

Twyla was holding up better than expected. She was satisfied with her alliance. Everyone had been making great progress learning the skills they needed, and they were actively practicing getting along. Tom had suggested it. "I don't get along with others very well," he admitted, somewhat lamely, over lunch. "I think maybe if we practice staying calm, I can work better together when it gets stressful in the arena." The confession had represented an important turning point in the process. Afterwards, all four members had made a pact to disclose their flaws. They had to trust one another to not take advantage of their weaknesses, but Twyla had a good sense of when someone was lying, and all of her allies had seemed genuinely forthcoming about all the information they volunteered. Twyla hadn't enjoyed disclosing her own shortcomings, but she thought it was for the best.

However, the discussion had left her with some questions. Tom had also alluded to the reason he was so good at shelter-making and plant identification, but Twyla got the vibe that he was leaving something out. They'd heard about his moral convictions regarding the environment, but he'd obviously had a rough past. Twyla could sense that he wasn't putting it all out in the open. She could only come up with one reason why: he had a secret so embarrassing or wicked that it would completely alter the alliance dynamic.

And Twyla was going to ask him about it someday. Not right then, but eventually. It was important. She supposed that even if he was, for example, an axe murderer, having a friendly axe murderer on your side probably offered more pros than cons in the arena. She imagined slim Tom, brutally slaying Careers in the Bloodbath, and stifled a laugh. The Games were inherently immoral. The real concern was betrayal, but that was always a problem in alliances. It was also the purpose of the exercise in trust. After the pact, Beemo had suggested that they all practice compromise, so that was part of the afternoon. Twyla felt a little bit like a rat being socialized. Rodents cohabitating sometimes had to be taught how to get along with their cage mates, and Twyla knew that going slowly was important for building a sturdy support circle.

So they were sitting criss-cross applesauce like kindergartners on the floor, arranged in a circle while each member voiced their wishes and priorities. They had started off with a talking stick (or rather, a talking leaf. They had returned to their home base at the plant identification station) and progressed to natural conversation flow. Twyla caught a Career snickering at them and returned his scorn with a cool gaze. The boy broke off the eye contact before her, and she considered it a win. She hadn't provoked the Careers, but she wasn't a coward, and she didn't feel like putting up with such nonsense.

The Careers were a threat for sure, but she was learning to deal. As Beemo's expertise with the poisoned blowgun increased, Twyla was concerned that the Pack would take notice. What really happened was that they laughed. The vile Five boy had chuckled to his district partner pretty consistently, and seemed to be viewing Beemo as more of a zoo animal than a peer. "Chubby kid thinks he's a commando," Twyla caught him saying, and she yearned to wipe the smirk off his face, but she calmed when Brielle put a hand on her shoulder.

"They're underestimating our best fighter," she said. "That's a good thing right now, even if they're being fuckwads about it." And it was reassuring. Brielle had spent a chunk of the morning at the assorted food stations and proved that she was an even better cook than she claimed. The alliance discovered that Brielle could make seasoning out of just about anything. Tom staunchly refused to eat any meat products whatsoever, but considering that all the poison from Beemo's darts would wind up in the bloodstream of any animal he killed, Twyla wasn't really worried about anyone's diet suffering in the arena, especially when the alliance had extensive edible plant knowledge. Wild peas, red clover, and fennel made an excellent salad. Blanched roots and grain pods went well with a glaze of wild rosemary and pine nuts. Somehow, Twyla felt better when she tasted Brielle's cooking. She'd never been a food snob and had eaten her fair share of plain boiled meals, but something about nicely seasoned food made her think that she could retain her humanity in the arena. They might not have much, but they would have dignity. And all of them were consoled by the knowledge that Beemo would give them a fast-acting poison to carry in case they were mortally wounded and wanted to end the pain rather than spend several hours bleeding out.

Things were going to be okay. It still didn't quite seem real, although Twyla certainly knew that it was. It felt a bit like a dream, like she would wake up at any moment and it would be revealed that it was all an elaborate prank, some sort of setup for innocent purposes, and she was not in the Hunger Games. She would wake up in her crowded flat and eat gluey porridge for breakfast before heading to the lab to deliver the rats' own breakfast.

But that wasn't in the cards, so Twyla buckled down and listened up. She broke out her old study habits and took meticulous notes on everything the trainers said. She made Tom quiz her until she was certain she could bring any piece of information to top of mind in an emergency. She practiced, but she did not hope. Hoping would feel too much like a last resort, and Twyla was not ready to wave her white flag yet.

She was a lot tougher than she was letting on, and the other tributes were going to find out soon.

Ash Maris, 13

Training Center, Capitol

D8F

July 3, 329 AEDD

Ash knew that she was treading on dangerous ground. Aligning herself with two known rebels was a choice she'd thought about extensively in advance, but eventually, she'd made her choice. She and Pace were closet rebels, and joining up with Aspen and Kenny would help insulate her. The Gamemakers never eliminated an entire alliance at once because people at home would riot. They would know if it was intentional, and they would raise a huge fuss about targeting and favoritism and the Capitol never wanted that to happen, so the Gamemakers were forced to take a roundabout approach regarding alliances they disliked. A bad, out-of-line tribute was easy to do away with, but four were harder to discreetly get rid of.

Ash had explained this carefully, and proposed to her new allies that they would all be safer together, at least when it came to mutts and environmental hazards like booby traps. They still had the other tributes to contend with, but that wasn't her biggest concern. The Careers did the same things every year. They always started off gunning for the tributes who scored the highest, had the biggest muscles, or provoked them at some point in the Capitol. They liked skewering a few runts while they were at it, but no self-respecting Career would go after Ash if given the choice between a scrawny kid with a three and an older, larger tribute. It was another reason she felt confident about her choice of teammates: none of them were particular standouts. They all looked average enough to escape scrutiny, and they had stuck to the basic stations. They hadn't made any enemies. And even though they didn't trust one another, they had an intense mutual hatred for the Capitol, which helped.

It didn't take a genius to know that Kenny, Aspen, and Pace had trouble controlling their tempers. Ash was not the leader. They didn't really have one, actually, but Kenny walked in front when they traveled around the gym, so she supposed that meant he was who other tributes would assume to be in charge. Ash's job was to keep everyone else sane. When the other three were trading dark glances while the Careers peacocked around with their little coordinated attack sequences, Ash gave them a quelling look. It reminded them that this was not the time for discussing the injustices of the Panemian political climate. They had more pressing matters to attend to, like, for example, not dying miserably in the very near future.

There was a decent balance of skills. Kenny was sort of alright with an axe, Ash had a tiny but extremely sharp knife, Pace practiced stabbing things with their spear, and Aspen was proving pretty competent with a dagger. She seemed to be fueled by rage, and although Ash couldn't describe her fighting style as very polished, she was the standout of the group and seemed to get the job done.

Everyone decided what to do with their own time, but they mostly visited the same handful of stations covering basic survival necessities. None of them planned to go into the Bloodbath, so they wouldn't have any of the fancy Capitol supplies working in their favor. Everything would come from the arena. As a result, Ash poured the majority of her time into becoming an expert on where to find water in every possible climate. Her defining Hunger Games childhood experience was watching a tribute dehydrate fatally. It had terrified her so much that she decided any fate was preferable to dying of thirst. She was good with her hands, and quickly picked up the nuances of rock grain, soil texture, and vegetation color as they pertained to the presence of naturally occurring water.

The Gamemakers were nothing if not thorough. It was a point of pride for the Gamemakers that their arena landscapes were indistinguishable from organic environments, so it was in Ash's interest to analyze every possible clue. In the evening after the first day of training, she'd gotten Ethel to bring her records of all the Games Konstance DuMouchel had ever overseen, and pored over them with Kenny and the rest of their tribute team. To her surprise, Kenny was excellent at detecting patterns, and he quickly determined Konstance's usual tricks, which helped narrow the scope of Ash's study and allowed her time to focus on other things too.

She had never enjoyed seamstress work. She longed to do something mechanical, with fiddly little parts, and although the Games did not often require such abilities, her knack still came in handy. She was excellent at devising tools from natural materials, and she had a good understanding of the space around her. She wove wet grain into a tent, a feat of itself, and practiced some weapon-making. She could use a sharp rock to great effect to whittle a weapon handle, and she figured out the ratio of hot water, animal collagen, starch, and sap to make the best glue. She practiced replicating her allies' weapons until she could finally get the weight balance right, then made them practice with her improvised spears, axes, and daggers until they acclimated to the difference in feel.

She was still scared, but Ethel had helped her engineer the right strategy. "You have a set amount of time," Ethel said. "Most people are trying to get a little bit of everything, but that means they only get a little bit of time for each thing. You want to get good at something, you have to allocate your time more generously. But you can't go backwards if you regret your choices." Ash had decided that dehydration was the biggest concern because she was good at preventing the other fast killers, arena-wise.

But the fastest, best killers were the Careers, and Ash had no preparation for dealing with them. They would rip her apart if they did catch up to her, so she just had to hope that she, Kenny, Pace, and Aspen would outnumber and overcome them. If her alliance scored decently, got through interviews, and stayed alive past the Bloodbath, she might just have a chance.

Tybalt Alistair Martell, 18
Training Center, Capitol
D2M
July 3, 329 AEDD

Nascha had one over on Tybalt, and that was a terrifying thought. Somehow, she had discovered his familial history. Who told her? It could have been Haylia, his traitorous district partner, trying to undermine him, but it also could have been Nacscha's own district partner. He had spent the previous afternoon spiralling about all the horrible possibilities.

Tybalt did not like Orpheus. He wasn't sure quite where his hatred had come from, but it had set in immediately and showed no signs of going away. Regardless, he could understand why Orpheus might also want to get rid of him. The problem was that Nascha had shown no signs of what she wanted from Tybalt now that she had the ultimate blackmail on him. If the news made it to the Capitol, Tybalt knew that he'd die the moment he stepped into the arena, just as the Peacekeepers had promised. He had to convince Nascha to keep it under wraps.

Or maybe she just didn't want to deal with a murderer in her alliance. Maybe she had gleefully spilled the news to her escort and sent it up the chain to the Head Gamemaker herself. Maybe his fate was already sealed, because he didn't have anything meaningful to bargain with. Then again, if he was going to die anyway, he might as well get his money's worth and slit her throat open on the gymnasium floor.

Thankfully, he had reeled himself back in before making any rash decisions. Maybe this was an insurance policy, or a way of disincentivizing him from betraying her in the future. So he managed to temporarily remain calm. The information had loomed over him all evening. As soon as the first day of training was over, he hurried to beat Haylia back to the District Two suite.

She had been lingering, chatting with the other Careers as they waited for the elevator. Tybalt hustled into the hallway and took the stairs two at a time, moving briskly with punctuated, staccato steps as he pounded his boots against the floor. The anger was bubbling to the surface. He exploded through the door at the top of the stairwell, making the push bar rattle and jounce, then stomped into his living quarters. Nobody was there. He was alone. Moving quickly, he went for the kitchen and rummaged for a bottle of red wine, wresting the cork off with a stray oyster knife. He took a gulp and felt his head instantly clear. It was purely psychological, but the familiar taste of Zinfandel grounded him. It was his favorite, but he didn't have time to savor the experience. He heard voices in the corridor—Haylia!—and hurried to his room before he could be discovered.

Once alone, he returned his attention to the wine. He drank to get drunk. That didn't mean he had a problem, though, he decided. Not like how his parents had a problem. This was an occasional event. It probably happened to everyone.

There was a knock. Tybalt ignored it.

"It's me, Tybalt. Please open the door." He recognized Fabian's voice.

"No." Fabian jiggled the doorknob.

"I'm your mentor and I'm here to help."

"I don't want you to be my mentor."

"Too bad. Are you going to unlock this door or am I going to call the Tribute Coordinator and have her unlock it for you?" Tybalt unlocked the door. Fabian bustled in. "None of this hiding shit. I don't like it."

"I don't like you," Tybalt pointed out, "But that doesn't mean I get my way."

"I'm glad you realized that. Look, Tybalt, Haylia said you seemed upset."

"Haylia doesn't know what she's talking about."

"Petra and I are concerned for you."

"Petra and her tribute want me to die." Tybalt flopped miserably on the bed. Fabian sat down on the corner of the duvet.

"You can choose to believe that. But I'm on your side, and you need to tell me what's going on." He really didn't have any rebuttal to offer, so Tybalt, cowed by the damned wine, capitulated.

"Maybe my family and someone else's family did something that was kinda sorta illegal and the Peacekeepers threatened to execute the next person who broke the laws and I ended up committing a murder—it's not my fault I swear—and I had to hide it. You know, hypothetically. And hypothetically Nascha found out and I think she wants something from me but I don't know what she wants! And I'm really, really not feeling good and I think that another bottle of wine would help but I also don't want to be hungover and I don't want to die. So that's, uh, what's going on and I'm sorry that I was a dick but I really need your help. Please." The words hung in the air for a moment.

"Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna fake sick. And we're gonna call in Antonius Treek and he's gonna fix this for you."

Tybalt was so happy he could have hugged him. "I thought you were as good as him. Even if you're new."

"Yeah, well, this is a little out of my skill set. But if this is all some kind of elaborate setup to get your mentor of choice, you won;t have to worry about Nascha killing you. I'll do it myself." Fabian picked up the empty bottle. "And no more wine."

"Noooo. I need it."

"I'll bring you supper so you can avoid Haylia, but you're going straight to bed. And I don't want to hear any whining about a hangover tomorrow morning, because this is your own fault."

"Okay." Tybalt knew when he was beaten, so he'd accepted the plate he was given, brushed his teeth, and yanked off his boots before burrowing under the covers. Then, on second thought, he stripped off his training clothes. Sleeping in a sweaty shirt would give him unsightly back pimples. Also, it would itch, and the plush luxury bathrobes seemed irresistible. He cocooned himself a second time and fell asleep.

So the second day of training was spent waiting for news. It came in bits and pieces, because Fabian was a competent liar and needed time for his pretend illness to set in. Considering that President Shakira had to take a break from governing due to an especially nasty flu, nobody would doubt that a mentor could have contracted the same thing. Every so often, Orion Zenobia came over to Tybalt with an update on Fabian's condition. But there was no news of a replacement mentor on the way, so Tybalt observed Nascha from a distance and hoped desperately that Treek was coming. He trained diligently as Orpheus flirted with Nikita (he glared at them hatefully) and Nathaniel lifted weights and the girls did some kind of team aerobics exercise.

Holding a silent, preemptive vigil for himself, Tybalt Alistair Martell waited for salvation.

John Doe [AGE UNKNOWN]
De ro t Station, Six

Undercover Agent
July 3, 329 AEDD

Today, John Doe was a tax collector. He had little loyalty to the Panemian government or to the Department of Peacekeeping itself. His loyalty was to Nikolai Fassnacht. His mission was to investigate De ro t Station with Nikolai's younger brother. A lesser man might have dismissed this as a babysitting assignment, but Nikolai didn't operate like that. Describing a stranger was difficult, but most people could recognize someone they'd previously met by the way they moved. This was Nikolai's hope. He had been planning to send John Doe anyway, to follow up on the correspondence he intercepted, but this wouldn't be much more work.

The backstory was simple: two Capitol emissaries sent by the Head Peacekeeper to check up on a recently discovered business which had been evading taxation. They had disguises and fake names and papers. They traveled by hovercraft on an hourlong flight—Six was very close to the Capitol—and walked to De ro t. They did not want to attract undue attention by taking a distinctive Peacekeeping vehicle.

It was evening, and the seedier parts of the city came alive after dark. De ro t was the hub of the district's criminal life, but plenty of establishments overtook old warehouses or housing blocks. John Doe had been to this part of District Six several times before and knew what to look for. There was all manner of entertainment and specialty service, both for the traditional clubbers and those with more acquired tastes. They stopped once at the black market, which catered to Peacekeepers and risked harsh punishment more than the suppliers if the authorities chose to crack down on illegal trade. Typically, these sellers peddled watered-down drugs and luxury foods or stolen surplus goods. John Doe stopped at a booth displaying bolts of fabric that had 'fallen off the back of a train.'

"We're Capitol." John Doe flashed his false financial auditor ID. "We understand some merchandise is going untaxed." The merchant remained steady.

"What can I do for you two gentlemen? A cut of the product, perhaps? I have a beautiful silk brocade you'd just love."

"Not quite," said Nigel.

"Money, then? We try not to keep too much cash around. It's not safe. But I can do it for you, mister, if the government requires it."

"We're not here for you, sir. These tax-dodgers are running a much bigger, less honest enterprise. I hear it's a real circus." The merchant looked a little startled.

"You looking to see a brouhaha or a fun fair?"

"I think you heard me the first time," said John Doe. He scratched his stubble. "My boss, he's a real hothead in the Capitol, and he wants his money on time. If we don't find our man, we still need those funds, and we'll get them elsewhere. My boss doesn't like to be kept waiting." The merchant waffled. He didn't want to disclose any information and risk being seen as a snitch, but the threat of being targeted for bogus, extortive taxation cowed him.

"Well, you just ask one of them showgirls in the leotards to give you something ardent. She'll fix you up with the entertainment spectacular of a lifetime. You better have the entrance fee, though. Applause doesn't pay any rent."

"Thank you for your help." John Doe covertly passed the merchant a stack of pre-counted bills, crumpled and in sufficiently low denominations to avoid raising suspicion when they were spent. Together, he and Nigel strolled casually to one of the women advertising escorting services. She was young, scantily clad, heavily made up, and lacked the marks of malnourishment typical of most district citizens.

"Here for a good time?" she asked.

"We heard your company is the one to buy from."

"Money talk first. We only take prepaid clients. What sort of service are you interested in?"

"I'm a passionate man," John Doe said. The words sounded genuine, but he spoke them with a sense of efficiency. He delivered lines without bringing his personal feelings into them. "I like it hot."

"We keep around some smokeshows."

"They must be positively ardent."

"Right this way, sir. And will your friend be coming along?"

"He'll be watching and learning. New to the business, can't spoil him this soon." John Doe winked. He pulled out a wallet and passed her an extravagant, extravagant amount of money. "The Ringmaster's not here, so there's no show tonight," she added, well after she'd pocketed it all.

"I didn't expect one," said John Doe.

"You are good!" the girl giggled. She ushered them along the tunnel after her.

They popped up into an enormous factory stripped of its machinery. Atop the ancient flooring, street performers had constructed a grand venue, but it clearly wasn't all it seemed. It lacked an audience. There were illegal items all around. Peacekeeper carbines had been surreptitiously placed on wall hooks in key places, invisible to the stands where viewers gathered. In a different situation, John Doe would have had a field day with this. There were bales of money, bricks of drugs waiting to be distributed, pallets of Capitol goods. Someone was doing a great deal of smuggling. But that's not what John Doe was assigned to nail them on, so he allowed the girl to lead him and Nigel to a plushly furnished room where several attractive people waited for clients. "Pick whoever you'd like," said the girl. "No need to rush. At your price, we'd turn a profit even if you keep us waiting all night for your decision."

John Doe had overpaid by design. A young man led him and Nigel to a private bar and offered them drinks. John Doe poured himself a splash of moonshine, soda water, and orange cream syrup. If he sipped it slowly, he didn't have to be concerned about getting drunk. Nigel declined the alcohol, claiming he preferred to focus on the task without distraction.

Together, they made a lazy lap of the room, chatting with different people and asking after the same vaguely described man. Finally, one woman seemed to grasp John Doe's meaning. "He's not here now," she said nervously.

"He must be, my dear lady. He simply must be. Are you sure he's not around?" John Doe leaned in. "I will pay you handsomely and I will tell no one."

"He's the Ringmaster's," said the woman. "She won't like it."

"Five thousand Panemian dollars."

"Fine," whispered the woman. "You can ask, but if he says no, that's not my problem."

She rose, and John Doe and Nigel followed her into a warren of corridors. There was a second factory space where more illegal goods were stacked up. A young man, shirtless, was bound to a ceiling support column with thin steel cable and manacles. His stomach was covered in fresh contusions, with welts and drips of dried blood layered on top. The woman looked at him with pity.

"What did he do?" asked John Doe, concerned.

"Failed an important assignment. The Ringmaster had a real cow." The woman approached the man on the column. "Atlas, they want to hire you."

"Please don't hurt me," he said softly, eyes downcast. Nigel stiffened. He recognized that voice. John Doe bypassed his false tax collector ID and whipped out his Peacekeeper badge.

"Ma'am, we're with the Department of Peacekeeping. We're arresting this man for criminal assault and battery with a deadly weapon of a government official."

"What?!" The woman gasped, suddenly worried that she'd made a terrible mistake.

"Tell me how to get out and I'll give you your money." John Doe took out a multitool and began cutting the steel cable away from the assailant—Atlas, the woman had called him.
"I'll take you there." The woman looked nervous and opened another door. Since he was already handcuffed, John Doe and Nigel simply grasped Atlas by each arm and shuffled him along with them. The woman led them quickly through back passages and dumped them close to De ro t. John Doe gave her the money and called for backup. In fifteen minutes, the three men were in a Peacekeeping hovercraft on the way back to the Capitol. Nigel, although still in disguise makeup, shrugged off his jacket and pushed up his sleeve to reveal a large shoulder bandage. He looked sternly at his new prisoner.

"My brother is not happy with you."

Hey y'all,

It's me again. Surprise! I'm doing Nano this month, but instead of a complete work, I'm aiming for 50k words of Reprisal, so you can expect some more frequent updates, especially after I finish sending in my college apps. I'm excited to spend some more time with this fic now that my schedule is clearing up. I did the word count math and the goal is getting the Bloodbath out by the end of November, and I am really, really looking forward to another lil marathon. If you're a PAG veteran, you know that I go through stretches of very quick updates, and I finally have the time and energy to do that again, so it should be a good time. As always, I love it when you share your thoughts, but we're getting into the juicy bits and I still have a few good bombs to drop plot twist-wise before the Games commence.

Let's get this bread,

LC :)