"And this is your room!"

Laurel blinked as she watched Susan open the door of one of the cabins in the sleeping car. The train had pulled out of District Eight ten or so minutes ago. Laurel had only caught a glimpse through the windows and into the outside world before they were whisked away at insane speeds to parts unknown. The Victors had quickly disappeared into another car, only sparing a minute to greet their new tributes and direct them to meet their mentors in the dining car in about an hour and a half before leaving them in Susan's care.

Their escort guided them to the sleeping car after that, showing Vanch his cabin first before taking Laurel to the other half of the car, where her room would be. Laurel tentatively stepped inside, looked around, and immediately knew that whatever room she stayed in the Justice Building could not compare to where she was now. Everything here looked so sleek and sharp, futuristic in a way that she only saw in some of the magazines that the Capitol occasionally mailed her teachers. She had visited Uncle Ted's house in Victor's Village a few times, and even that place couldn't compare to all the luxury she saw here.

"Your bathroom is over here," Susan gestured to the left, where there was a door. "And there are clothes in the closet and the dresser you can change into. Spend the next hour freshening up before joining us in the dining car. We'll start your preparations for the Games then."

She didn't bother waiting for any response before closing the door behind the younger woman. Laurel swallowed before stepping forward and sitting down at the edge of the bed. It was soft, plush, and probably even brand new. Nothing like the hard, ratty mattress she and Sara had been sharing practically all their lives. She sunk into it, flopping down and allowing herself to lay there for a bit, releasing the last of her tears. She didn't know when she'd get another chance just to be herself: a young, scared girl.

After ten minutes of crying, Laurel picked up her heavy body and headed to the bathroom. It was just as fancy and clean as the rest of the cabin, with heated marble flooring and bright lights. There was a shower shielded by crystal glass and a control panel filled with so many buttons that Laurel didn't even know where to begin using it. Figuring experimentation was her best bet, she stripped off her clothes and stepped inside.

Fiddling with every button until she knew which one did which, Laurel finally got around to cleaning herself up, letting herself cry a little bit longer under the hot, pouring water. Once she felt no more tears left, she picked up the soap and the shampoo and got to work. Her skin and hair were scrubbed thoroughly before the suds were washed away, and then she turned off the water. Once that was done, she tried to remember which button had the hot air option so she could dry herself off.

Now completely fresh, she grabbed a towel to cover herself before returning to the bedroom and picking up her dress. She'd fold it later and give it to Uncle Ted so he could give it to Sara if the worst came to worst. One last gift to her sister, for whatever it was worth.

The closet had clothing that Laurel, a resident of the textile district, didn't even know where to begin when it came to putting them on. There were complicated clasps and straps in just about every piece of clothing she found, and it took her forever to dig through the entire closet until she found something familiar: a simple shirt and some loose pants. The lower levels of the closet had socks and some running shoes, which she put on along with her new outfit.

They were comfortable and fresh. New, by the look of the seamstress' eye she inherited from her mother, and as she observed herself in the mirror, it suddenly came to Laurel that she had never had a brand new outfit like this. New clothing was difficult to come by for an average outer district citizen; for someone from the textile district, it was even harder. All their best wares went to the Capitol while they made do constantly mending and re-mending those left behind.

What was it like to have new clothes like this whenever you wanted? Where you could go down the street and buy something new if you didn't like what you currently had? Laurel had never had such luxury, yet it would be hers here, at least for this week alone. She didn't quite know what to make of it.

When Laurel got to the dining car, Vanch was already there, seated at the long dining table and pouring a glass of what looked like scotch. His plate was already dotted with some strange pastries that Laurel had only ever seen in the bakery's windows in the Town Square. Having already seen her before she could sneak by, the crimelord smirked at her before lifting his glass in a mocking toast and giving it a dramatic swig. Laurel frowned at him before looking away, seating herself as far from him as possible.

All that did was cause Vanch to laugh. "C'mon, love!" he jeered. "Am I really that scary?"

She ignored him, instead focusing on the food. It was a strikingly massive spread: a giant basket of bread rolls, a large roasted chicken, a pot of rice and vegetables, a three-tier stand covered in those fancy pastries and tiny finger cakes, and a massive tureen of some golden orange soup. And that was just the food she could recognize. All in all, it made her own supposedly grand meal from last night look positively pedestrian in comparison. "So this is how the Capitol eats," she muttered, picking away at the food.

It figured. The districts starved day to day so the elite could feast like this without a care in the world. Laurel shouldn't have been surprised.

Even so, she might as well enjoy the meal while she was here. Laurel had gone too many days hungry to refuse free food when it was offered to her. She lifted her plate and started taking some of everything, grabbing a separate bowl for the soup. To her delight, one of the bowls contained fresh fruit, a real treat. Not even her father had been able to afford to buy something like that for last night's meal. Laurel didn't even remember the last time she had fruit that wasn't already rotting to the core. She took an apple and an orange and set it next to her place before getting up to get a drink.

There was an entire drink bar headed by one of the attendants. He was scrubbing away at a wine glass with a cloth, and Laurel had to tap at the bar paneling to get his attention. "What do you have to drink? Non-alcoholic, please."

Instead of verbally answering, he slid over a menu to her and tapped on the side titled "dry." Laurel scanned the page, confused about everything that wasn't "water" or "lemonade." "Hot chocolate?"

He nodded and, before Laurel could tell him otherwise, took out a mug and a bunch of ingredients and started mixing them. She didn't even know what hot chocolate was. The only chocolate she had ever had were the tiny chocolate bars they handed out every two or three months as dessert for free lunch at the school cafeteria.

"Would you like whipped cream and cinnamon with that, ma'am?"

"Uh, sure."

About two minutes later, Laurel was handed a piping hot mug covered in white, fluffy cream and brown sprinkles. She took a single sip and yelped. It was hot, as the name suggested, but it was also the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. Her teeth were already aching from how good it was.

She returned to her seat and set the mug aside to try out the rest of the food. The golden orange soup was made out of some spiced tomatoes, and it went well with the chicken and the rice. The pastries were light and airy and almost as sweet as the hot chocolate. The bread was fresh and warm, easily breakable. On a hunch, she tried dipping some of it in her hot chocolate, taking a bite and nearly moaned at how good it was.

If she won, the first thing she would do was sneak some of this off the train so Sara could try it. Or she could pick up some Capitol cookbooks before she left and recreate the food back home. They'd have a kitchen with everything they needed, and she'd have the coin to buy them groceries from town. They could even afford to make a few mistakes along the way, a different kind of luxury they never had before.

Laurel was going through her second helping of soup and dipping some bread when her mentors finally arrived. This was signaled by Vanch (who had been growing increasingly more intoxicated the longer the meal dragged on), who let out a slow whistle when the door opened, and the Victors stepped inside. He was eyeing Sandra with a hungry gaze, practically drooling. "Looking pretty good there, Miss Wu-san."

His fellow tribute followed his line of sight, and when she realized that his eyes were firmly planted on a particular part of the lower half of Sandra's body, Laurel flinched. Did he have a death wish? Or, judging by the flushed expression on his face, was he just too plain drunk to care about that sort of thing?

Sandra's nostrils flared, her eyes growing an icy cold. Laurel recognized that expression and, for a moment, wondered if Vanch would die before he even made it into the arena. What would they do then? Would they have to head back to District Eight and pick out a new boy to take his place?

But Laurel's teacher, in a fantastic display of self-control, merely glared at the young man with a half-lidded look. "Keep your eyes off, Vanch, lest you wish your hand to be ripped off instead," she threatened succinctly. "You wouldn't want to go into the Games crippled, now, would you?"

Vanch scoffed upon hearing that, though it was clear he was unnerved by how he averted his gaze afterward. Satisfied by her victory in the exchange, Sandra sat herself in the chair across from Laurel, followed by Ted and then Alan.

"Enjoying the food?" Uncle Ted asked his honorary niece, smiling softly.

Laurel nodded tentatively. "It's the best food I've ever tasted."

His expression took on a slightly melancholy tone. "That's good to hear. East as much as you can. You'll need it if you can't find enough food to feed you when you're in the arena. It'll help keep you until you can find your next meal."

It was like having a bucket of cold water dumped on her head. Laurel froze up momentarily before nodding, this time far more reluctantly. Over the other side of the table, Vanch grunted, indicating he had heard the advice Ted had given as well. Despite the big game he had talked about at the Reaping, he seemed a lot more afraid than he let on.

"I'm surprised the three of you are helping me," he commented. "After all our run-ins over the years, I'd figure you'd just leave me to rot."

Across from him, Alan arched an eyebrow. "If you're going to complain about it, we have no issue stopping and leaving you to figure everything out alone."

"No, no," Vanch said, waving him off. "I'm not that stupid. Tell me what I need to do to win the Games. I'll listen."

Alan rolled his eyes.

Once everyone was done eating, Uncle Ted laid out the schedule for the next week for them. "We'll be arriving at the Capitol sometime tomorrow morning. You two will be taken to the Remake Center when we're there, where you'll meet your prep team and stylist. Your prep team will give you a complete makeover first, and after they're done, they'll give you to your stylist, who will dress you into your costume. I won't lie; some of the stuff they'll do to you will be uncomfortable or painful. But don't complain, and do whatever they say. Most stylists and those working with them are prima donnas who can be prickly if you don't play along with their vision."

Vision was a bit of an understatement. Laurel remembered some of the more… outlandish costumes at the parade over the years and tried not to shudder. Hopefully, her stylist wouldn't get too creative this year.

"After that will be the parade. Do your best to keep your balance, and more importantly, play to the crowd as much as possible. Everyone in that crowd and everyone watching at home is a potential sponsor, so you want to make sure they love you as much as possible."

"A bit hard to do that if our costumes are shit and they ignore us," Vanch pointed out.

"Do it anyway," Ted retorted. "They love tributes that act like they actually want to be here."

The tribute grunted but didn't argue.

"When the parade ends, you'll be taken to the Training Center. That will be your home for the rest of the week until it's time for you to enter the arena. You'll get a night's rest and then train for the next three days. We'll talk more in detail about that later. Just know that in the afternoon of your last training day, you'll have your private session with the Gamemakers, where you get to show off all your skills in exchange for your training score."

"They'll air your scores later that night, and then you'll get another free day, this time to prep for your interview. We'll use that day to decide what kind of character you want to show to the audience and win over the Capitol. You'll have your interviews the day after that. And then the next day—"

"—will be the arena," Laurel finished for him, trying not to sound too glum.

Ted nodded, pursing his lips. "We'll discuss strategy for that later, too. Before we go on, do either of you have any questions?"

None came to mind, so Laurel shook her head. Vanch clicked his teeth and shook his, too. "Good. Then I need you two to answer one question of my own: do you want to be mentored together?"

What? Laurel blanched while Vanch tilted his head. "And why would we do that?" he asked, his tone calculating.

"Many district partners that get along well and want an ally for the beginning of the Games are usually mentored together. If they don't get along or have something they want to hide like a skill, then they are usually mentored separately." The Victor of the Second Quarter Quell folded his hands together and stared hard at both his tributes. "So, which one are you two?"

"Separately," immediately blurted out of Laurel's mouth when her uncle finished the question. The last person in the world she wanted to be in an alliance with was Cyrus Vanch.

Her district partner laughed at her answer. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. Are you really that scared of me?"

Laurel shot him a glare filled with venom, which only caused him to laugh louder. Vanch wiped a fake tear from his eye and turned to the Victors with that stupid, smug smirk. "She has the right of it, though. Separately would be best. That way, you can focus all your energy on saving the life of your best friend's daughter."

The car fell deathly silent as everyone turned to stare at him. The man shrugged. "Come on, are you really surprised I know about that? I've got eyes and ears everywhere, you know."

That particular statement was not comforting, and Laurel felt her fingers grow stiff. If he knew about that, what else did he know? Vanch stared back at her, arrogance full on display, as if sensing her distress and reveling in it. It made Laurel want to punch him in the face.

Then he turned to Ted and grinned. "So, if you're mentoring her, who's mentoring me?"

Deciding that Mister Alan would be Vanch's mentor took minimal time. Sandra refused to have anything to do with this year's male tribute, quickly opting to be on sponsor and backup duty instead, while Uncle Ted took over as the primary mentor for Laurel. Alan was not pleased with being stuck with a crimelord for a tribute, but district loyalty won out as always. Whether they liked it or not, Vanch winning the Games meant more money and food for District Eight. They had to equip him to win as best they could.

"If he somehow wins and we're lucky, Darhk will take… proactive measures to prevent him from spreading his poison to the rest of Panem," Sandra grumbled when Laurel's district partner and his mentor left the dining car for another one.

"Sandra," Uncle Ted admonished his former tribute and fellow Victor.

"You were thinking it too," she accused, and Ted winced.

Laurel watched the byplay while biting at her lips. Now that she was alone with the two familiar faces still with her, she no longer felt the urgent need to keep a clamp over her emotions. With Uncle Ted and Sandra, at least, she could be honest. "Is this why you taught Sara and me how to fight?"

Almost immediately, her two mentors stopped arguing to glance at her. Uncle Ted's face fell into something more tired and worn while Sandra's smoothed into resignation. Slowly, they both nodded, and Laurel tried not to scream.

"Some of the reapings are… rigged," Uncle Ted explained with a grimace. "You probably already know that, but what you don't know is that many of the reapings for the outlying districts are specifically fixed to target the relative of Victors, especially troublesome ones. With all of my family already dead… if the Capitol ever became angry with me, Sara and you would be the obvious targets. And even without that, with all the tesserae you had to take out for yourselves, you were already at a strong risk of being reaped. The odds would never be in your favor, so I tried to do my best to... even things out a little."

He didn't say any more than that. In particular, he didn't tell her whether or not her being reaped today was a fix. Either he didn't know, or he did and didn't want her to know. Truth be told, Laurel didn't want to know either. If it had been fixed, if she had explicitly been reaped for something he did, then she'd rather not spend the duration of the Games angry at the man who had been like a second father to her all her life. Not when said life was more in his hands than ever before.

Instead, she asked a more prudent question. "Do you think I can win?"

Another brief moment of silence passed as her mentors exchanged another look with one another. "You can, little bird," Sandra declared for them both. "You already know how to fight, so the only training you need is how to survive — and you'll have plenty of time to learn how to do that when you get to the Training Center."

Coming from Sandra, where praise was so rare and so short, it was the biggest show of faith Laurel could have ever asked for. Laurel tried her best not to cry. Crying wasn't going to help anymore. If she wanted to survive, she was going to have to put in the work to make it happen.

That was all that mattered right now. She could worry about the rest later.

Oliver

"Alright, let's see who we have this year."

Oliver leaned back into the plush chair he had been seated in, impatiently tapping his fingers on the right arm. Next to him, in another armchair, was his district partner and the female tribute for District One this year: Helena Bertinelli. She was frowning heavily, focused entirely on the screen before them. They were preparing to watch the recaps for this year's Reaping, trying to see who their competition would be from the other districts.

After all, they already knew each other pretty well. Helena and he weren't friends; you couldn't be when you were in the same year in the Hunger Games's tracks, but they weren't outright enemies either. There was enough stiff competition within your gender trying to become a tribute to bother with someone you could just kill in the arena, especially when that person was going to be your ally first.

Helena noticed him staring at her and rolled her eyes. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," she snarked. Oliver smirked.

If there was one word Oliver could use to describe Helena Bertinelli, it was "bitter." As the daughter of District One's most famous crime boss, she had grown up in the lap of luxury only rivaled by the children of Victors such as himself. Frank Bertinelli, at one point, had been the unofficial ruler of District One, a terror who had harassed, extorted, and victimized all but its most elite citizens. Even the Victors had been wary of him, primarily after he had used his vast criminal connections to secure Helena a spot at the Academy of Gems to make his little girl a Victor like them. His way of trying to spread his grand criminal empire throughout Panem.

Then he went and did a stupid thing and pissed off a Capitol investor who just so happened to be an old schoolmate of President Darhk. One short conversation at a party later, every one of his enforcers had been arrested, his entire organization crumbling into dust. By the end of the week, he had been booked, prosecuted, and executed in front of his former victims, laid out on the stage with a bullet in his skull.

What was left of the Bertinelli fortune and name was inherited by Helena, along with any contingency funds Frank had left behind for her. She used all of it to stay in the Academy of Gems, persevering through the harassment and persecution with sheer grit and determination to become a tribute and an eventual Victor in hopes of reclaiming some semblance of her old life. There was nothing else left for her, after all. It was either this or the streets of District One, and after all the enemies Frank Bertinelli made over the years, that was a death sentence.

Honestly, Oliver felt kind of sorry for her. Unlike him, she didn't have a choice in this. There was no future for her without the Games.

"Ahem."

The tributes turned to see one of their mentors glaring at them expectantly. Slade Wilson, Victor of the 53rd Hunger Games, was a tall, muscular man with graying hair, dark skin, and an eyepatch over his left eye. It was a souvenir of his Games, where the female tribute from Two managed to stab out his eye with a knife before he gutted her open with his sword. It made for an intimidating appearance, and if Oliver hadn't grown up with him as one of his babysitters, he might've even been scared. Slade's mentor for his Games had been Oliver's father, so they knew each other well.

As Slade was Oliver's official mentor, standing next to him was Helena's: Shado Gulong, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games and one of Oliver's closest friends. Unlike Slade, Shado had no lingering physical scars from her time in the arena, but her previous cheekiness had matured into an almost zen-like wisdom. She still frequently visited Oliver's home and had helped him several times with his training — thanks to her, he had developed his knack for archery.

Rounding out the group was this year's backup mentor and the one in charge of accruing sponsors, Shado's father, Yao Fei Gulong, the Victor of the 45th Hunger Games. A tall man with perfectly cropped dark hair and an impressive beard, he was also a close family friend. He was the one who had taught Shado archery, the skill she had later passed on to Oliver.

"If you two are done, let's start with the recaps," Slade continued. He seated himself on the couch next to Shado and got the remote to turn the television (a popular alternate to holo-projectors) on. Almost immediately, the replay for the District One Reaping Ceremony started.

Since he already knew what would happen, Oliver didn't bother paying attention to the ceremony itself and instead focused on the Capitol commentary. Unsurprisingly, most of it was about him, thanks to his parents. The commentators speculated over whether or not he was anything like them and complimented his confidence and good looks. Helena got her fair share of attention, too, as she was beautiful in her own right and carried a swagger that not even Oliver could match. All in all, they both made an excellent first impression for the Games.

After that, they went directly to the District Two Reaping Ceremony, which they both sat up for, attentive. District Two, the quarry district, had the highest number of Victors in Panem, with District One in second place and District Four in third. A combination of their industry and being the primary source of the Peacekeeper Forces spread throughout Panem meant that the combat abilities of District Two's tributes were almost incomparable. There was a reason Oliver's mother called them "brutes."

Unlike District One, where foot races between the remaining students in the Hunger Games track determined who got to be that year's tributes, the tributes for District Two were pre-selected about a week or so before the actual ceremony. The actual volunteering was a show for the cameras to make it look random instead of engineered by the powers that be — a decades-long ruse that nobody except the young and gullible still fell for. So, when a short fourteen-year-old girl was called to the stage after getting her name pulled out of the bowl, Oliver didn't bother paying any attention to her and instead waited for the real tribute.

Sure enough, a hand shot up from the crowd after a too-long moment where it seemed like the girl might go into the Games after all. "I volunteer!" A smooth voice called out.

Oliver and Helena were immediately stricken when the female tribute for District Two pulled herself into view. With long dark hair, dark eyes, and light mocha-colored skin, she was gorgeous in an exotic way that one didn't see often in Panem. She walked with deadly grace, her carriage confident but not conceited, emphasizing her complete self-assurance. It only took one look at her to know that she was dangerous.

And then she announced her name.

"Nyssa," she spoke in a clear voice. "Nyssa al Ghul."

Almost immediately, Helena snarled while Oliver hissed. "Nyssa al Ghul is volunteering this year?" he half-complained, half-groaned as he pinched his nose in exasperation. Oliver knew the Games weren't going to be easy, but seriously?

He knew Nyssa's name, of course. Or at least her last name. He doubted there was a person in Panem who didn't. In the entire history of the Hunger Games, no name was more revered than that of the name al Ghul. The name of Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head. The Head of the Junior Peacekeeper Institute located in District Two, and the Victor of the First Quarter Quell. A legend to end all legends, the long-standing holder of the highest kill record in the history of the Games at twelve deaths, including all five of his fellow members of the Career Pack. He and his insane training regimen were credited as the main reason for District Two's dominance over the Hunger Games ever since he had taken over the Institute and began training the tributes himself.

What was worse was that Ra's wasn't the only legend in his family either. His eldest daughter Talia was also a Victor, the Victor of the 51st Hunger Games, to be exact, making Nyssa, her younger sister, a double legacy tribute like Oliver. Her victory was arguably as, if not even more legendary, than her father's. A combat prodigy without peer, Talia volunteered at fourteen, four years younger than the standard age for a Career tribute. Impossibly beautiful even at that age and even more impossibly skilled, she captivated the Capitol audiences almost immediately and had a massive fanbase before she made even one step into the arena. When she finally did, she proceeded to have a near-perfect run, with a kill list of ten to her name, before finally claiming victory for herself.

If Nyssa were like either of them in any way, she would be the most dangerous tribute in this year's Games. Oliver and Helena needed to watch her when it was time to enter the arena. Keep track of her weaknesses and see if they could blindside her before she could do the same to them. Otherwise, she could very well kill them both.

The commentators for this year's ceremony raved about Nyssa even more than they did for Oliver. They went on for so long about her that it wasn't until it was time to draw the name for the boy tribute that they stopped. Instead of a scrawny fourteen-year-old, a healthy sixteen-year-old (a future prospective tribute, by the looks of it) went up the stage. A stout, muscular Career soon replaced him, wearing a dark, smug smirk on his face. "Adrian Chase," he introduced himself with a charming voice, and something about it sounded off to Oliver right from the get-go.

"He's dangerous," Helena muttered, and Oliver could only agree. They glanced at each other, making a silent pact to stick it out together until both Twos were out. Neither of them likely stood a chance otherwise.

District Three was next, and another one they paid strong attention to. While the Threes usually weren't physically strong tributes, they were almost always insanely intelligent and bright, fitting for a district whose primary industry was technology. And when they had a tribute who could make it as a Victor, that tribute never did things by halves. There was a saying that when District Three won, they won big.

"No matter how the tributes act, try to kill them as soon as possible when the Games start," Slade ordered both tributes, leaning over to speak to them directly. "Preferably in the bloodbath. Trust me, a Three on the loose is just asking for trouble, and you can't afford the risk with al Ghul in play as well."

Oliver and Helena both nodded before turning their attention back to the screen. The female tribute was reaped first, and a pitiful, scrawny fourteen-year-old was the one whose name was drawn. Unlike in District Two, there was no Career waiting in the wings to volunteer for her, so she just about wet herself when she got on stage while her mother wept and wailed tearfully somewhere in the crowd. Unless she was putting on an act, it was clear that Felicity Smoak would not last very long in the arena.

The boy was chosen next, and this time, the tears from the parents were even worse when the name was announced. "Not again!" the mother screamed. It appeared she and her husband had lost a child to the Games before, a thought that made Oliver's gut do a strange curl for some reason.

A short, dark-haired fifteen-year-old walked up to the stage, and while his eyes were shiny, he was doing his best to put on a brave face. For a District Three tribute, it was a dangerous expression. Francisco Ramon would be a threat if he made it out of the bloodbath, though to what extent Oliver wasn't entirely sure. But that fact alone made it clear that he needed to die as soon as possible.

District Four followed after that, which also warranted most of their attention. The last of the Career districts and the last third of their allies, in addition to being their biggest competition in the Games next to District Two. With District Two being such a significant threat this year, they needed to gauge District Four's characters and strengths accurately. They might need to ally with District Four to eliminate District Two before fighting among themselves. That was if District Four's tributes were amenable to such an arrangement.

The escort chose the boy tribute first this time around. Like before, the chosen tribute was quickly replaced by a slightly short and stocky volunteer with brown skin and tattoos running down his arms. As Moira Queen would say, Ricardo Diaz was more akin to the "brutes" from Two. It wouldn't be until they met him that they would know whether or not he was as dumb as them, too.

It was the girl tribute that caught everyone's attention again. Emiko Adachi was tall with long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, but Oliver couldn't shake off the youthfulness he saw in her. Then she did her introduction, and his instincts weren't far off. "She's sixteen?" Helena gaped.

"Two years younger than the usual age. Not quite Talia al Ghul, but close," Oliver noted, frowning. Whenever a Career tribute volunteered at a younger age than the typical eighteen, it always drew heads. To be allowed to do that usually meant that the Career had to be someone so exceptional that their district couldn't afford to let them wait to enter the Games any longer. If that was the case with Emiko…

"And I thought having Nyssa al Ghul in the arena with us was bad enough," Helena grunted. "Looks like we might have to strike it out on our own early."

Oliver idly nodded, though something else quickly caught his eye. He spotted Slade staring at the screen, at Emiko specifically, with a furrowed brow. "Slade? Is something wrong?"

"Adachi… where have I heard that name before?" he muttered. He thought hard for another moment before waving Oliver off. "I'm alright, kid. It's probably nothing. Let's move on to District Five."

District Five's Reaping wasn't anything worth writing home about. The tributes didn't stand out despite being on the older side, though the girl had a pinched expression on her face that suggested she might be trouble. They would know more when they got to the Capitol and started conducting the pre-arena activities, but for now, it seemed safe to ignore them.

By contrast, District Six was where they got the first big outlier contender. The girl wasn't much; she was another skinny fourteen-year-old scared out of her wits, not unlike the girl from Three. The boy, however, was a cause for concern. Hunter Zolomon was the tallest tribute reaped thus far and very muscular, with a shoulder-to-waist ratio that even Oliver couldn't help but envy. More than that, he was handsome, with windswept light brunette hair and a strong jawline that even Helena and Shado couldn't keep their eyes off of. If he could attract those two, then there was no doubt he'd be a sure hit in the Capitol. And if he knew how to fight or managed to pick something up during their short training time, he'd be a force to be reckoned with.

"Another on the list for the Bloodbath," Yao Fei stated, and everyone else murmured in agreement. It was always best to nip the biggest potential threats in the bud before they had the chance to bloom into something dangerous.

They moved on to the next district and almost immediately dismissed District Seven as contenders this year. Usually, that wouldn't be the case — historically, District Seven had the highest amount of Victors out of all the outer districts. Their tributes trended to being some of the strongest contenders in the Games. As their industry was lumber, many tributes spent their teen years already starting work in the forest, cutting down trees with heavy axes. A natural inclination to a dangerous weapon, an industry that made them predisposed to heavy physical activity, in addition to unconventional and appealing characters — Sevens always made great mavericks, and the audiences always loved mavericks.

But this year, the tributes of District Seven were none of those things. No, they were two puny, petrified twelve-year-olds who looked like they had never held an axe in their lives. Oliver felt a pit in his stomach when he saw them, and even Helena didn't look particularly happy. Shado took one look at them and sighed.

"Give them quick deaths if you have to be the ones to kill them," was her advice, and neither of the tributes disagreed.

The outlier district to watch out for this year was District Eight. District Eight was an anomaly — numerically, they weren't a solid district. Quality, however, was a different matter. District Eight was the home of Ted Grant, the legendary Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, and Sandra Wu-san, the Victor of the 54th Hunger Games. They were the only two Victors outside Careers to have ever come close to conquering Ra's al Ghul's kill record. Grant had the advantage of the Quell twist, making it so there were twice the number of tributes in his arena, but it arguably made what he did an even more impressive accomplishment. And Wu-san… horror stories were still told about her Games. Oliver once heard Slade say that Sandra Wu-san's performance in the Games was the most impressive display of martial combat he had ever seen. Coming from him, that was no small amount of praise.

Like District Four, the escort changed things up and chose the male tribute first. When Cyrus Vanch's name was announced, the people of his district did something strange and fell utterly silent at first. That was something on its own, but then they started the most raucous cheer Oliver had ever heard for a tribute, throwing him through a loop. "What the hell?"

The feed zoomed in on the back of the boy's side of the crowd, where a lanky eighteen-year-old with a mean expression shoved his way to the Peacekeepers as everyone around him jeered at him. As he was escorted up the stage, he made rude gestures to the crowd, and then he got to talking and flipping people off. Yao Fei took one look at him and groaned. "He's one of those tributes," he muttered in a tone that screamed aggravation and irritation.

"'Those' tributes?" Helena asked, sounding just as confused as Oliver felt.

Instead of answering, Yao Fei paused the recap they were watching and asked a question. "Have either of you ever watched a replay of the First Quarter Quell?"

Oliver and Helena exchanged looks, and then they shook their heads. "It's forbidden at the academy," Oliver explained. "And Mom and Dad refused to let me ever watch it."

"And for good reason," Oliver's secondary mentor said in a dark tone. "It's the most vicious and savage Hunger Games in history. There's a reason Ra's al Ghul is such a legend for winning those Games, and it isn't just because of the kill record. It's because he slaughtered some of the most vile tributes ever seen in the arena."

"Wait, seriously?"

This time, it was Slade who answered, looking suddenly ten years older. "You both know the twist of the First Quarter Quell, right? The districts voted in the tributes they wanted in the Games. While the Career districts only voted for those tributes that had trained for the arena, the outer districts were a different matter. They voted in their worst… troublemakers."

That… "Troublemakers?"

"More like criminals," Shado explained tiredly. "Think arsonists, rapists, cannibals, and even serial killers. That particular Games was horrid and gory even by normal standards. And during the Reaping for all those tributes, their respective district acted like they had won the lottery."

Just like how District Eight had today when Cyrus Vanch had been reaped. "You think he's like them? Some criminal that's been terrorizing his district?"

Yao Fei nodded. "They wouldn't be so happy to be rid of him otherwise."

He restarted the replay, and that assumption was rapidly proven correct. The moment Vanch mounted the stage and his escort tried to get him to introduce himself, he went into a rant, promising to return a Victor, promising that District Eight would never be free of him. The applause quickly turned into a round of some of the loudest boos in the history of the Hunger Games. Vanch went back to flipping them all off, and the entire thing was turning into something of a comedy.

Over on the side, Shado clicked her teeth. "The Capitol's going to love him. They always love a bad boy."

Eventually, the near-riot on the screen calmed down, and a sullen Vanch waited on the side as his escort went ahead and picked out a name for the female tribute. After an inordinately extended amount of time ruffling through some pieces of paper, she finally picked out a name. "Laurel Drake."

And just like that, the crowd returned to that usual outer district atmosphere. An air full of solemness, relief, guilt, and sympathy. The feed focused on the back of the crowd, where another eighteen-year-old blinked in wide-open surprise, unable to comprehend the fact that she had been the one chosen.

The first thing Oliver noticed about Laurel Drake was that she was pretty. Like, really pretty. Pretty enough that if she wore a more flattering dress and did a better job of cleaning herself up, she'd be like Nyssa al Ghul-gorgeous. Even a drabby, cheap frock did little to dim how striking her blond hair, green eyes, and perfect skin were.

The second, more noticeable thing was that she didn't look afraid like other tributes usually did. There was fear there, there always was, but she seemed more stunned than anything else. She wasn't letting her feelings show. Whether it was intentional or not, it was certainly something to note.

"Laurel!"

Another girl burst through the crowd and skidded into the pathway to the stage. Laurel turned to stare at her as the feed focused on them both, and Oliver got a better look at the new arrival. She was blond like Laurel, though her eyes were blue, and she was at least two years younger. The resemblance was undeniable. "Relative. Probably a younger sibling."

Everyone else hummed in agreement as the two girls stared at each other. And then there was a minute movement from a younger girl, a flicker from one of her arms that suggested she was about to raise them. About to volunteer.

Laurel noticed it, too, and she was faster. With speed that impressed even a Career tribute like Oliver, Laurel was in front of the other girl, one hand clasped over her sister's mouth, the other holding her wrists down. The younger girl struggled against the hold, and Laurel said something to her that only made her struggle more. But the chosen tribute was stronger and held the hold until a Peacekeeper appeared to pull the younger girl away, her muffled cries echoing throughout the entire time.

When the interloper was almost out of sight, Laurel inhaled a deep breath before putting on a composed expression. She was holding back from crying, but she put on a solid front, returned to the Peacekeepers guarding her, and continued her walk to the stage. She climbed up to join her escort, confirming the girl was her younger sister, Sara, before introducing herself to the crowd.

She didn't falter. Not even once. Even when facing Vanch, who was eying her like a piece of meat, Laurel held her head high. And something about it made it hard for Oliver to look away.

"Brave one, that one," Slade noted, almost sounding impressed. "Perceptive too. Probably smart as well."

"A threat?" Oliver asked, keeping his eyes on the screen.

"Maybe."

Compared to District Eight's reaping, the rest of the districts were comparatively dull. A few tributes still stood out — District Eleven had a tall, buff worker named Jason Woodrue who would net a few sponsors thanks to his size alone. More noticeable was District Nine, which had sibling tributes this year, a true rarity. Older sister Joanna de la Vega and her younger brother Danny made quite a pair, standing so close to each other on the stage as their parents collapsed in horror at losing both of their children at once.

"Instant alliance, there," Slade mused. "Chances are that the other will go quickly if you kill one. Keep that in mind."

"We will," Helena said, crossing her arms. "Now what?"

Shado got up from her seat and started stretching. "You prepare yourselves. We should be pulling into the Capitol soon. You'll get to walk through crowds, and then you'll get to meet your stylists and trust me, that's going to be an exercise in patience all on its own."

Oliver grunted and got up from his seat, deciding that if they were going to be in the Capitol soon, he wanted something to eat before they did. Lunch now felt like so long ago, and he was starving.

As he left, his eye caught the screen again, now showing a full panel of headshots for each of this year's tributes. His gaze lingered over every face, including his own, before settling on one particular. Laurel Drake looked as determined and brave as she had on that stage, and it was striking to see.

He shook his head, a touch disappointed.

It really was a shame that a pretty girl like her had to die.

Not a lot happens in this chapter, other than introducing the other tributes. You can pick out who will be relevant (though how relevant I won't say yet) and notice I glossed over many of the districts and their tributes. Whether or not this will be relevant later on is up to you to speculate. Let's just say I have a lot of surprises planned for this story, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

If you thought this chapter was boring, don't worry — next chapter we get to the Capitol, and that's when the fun really begins.

Next Chapter: The Tribute Parade