Laurel

Laurel didn't know how long the trip from District Eight to the Capitol took. All she knew was that after her strategy session with Uncle Ted and Sandra on how to conduct herself during the parade, she went straight to bed. When she next woke up, an attendant was knocking on her door, telling her breakfast was ready.

After another immense spread of scrambled eggs, some strange soft biscuit (she would later learn it was called an "English muffin"), sausages, bacon, and fruit, all while ignoring a hungover and irritable Vanch, Laurel was sent back to her cabin room to freshen up again and change into nicer clothing. "We're going to make a good first impression," Susan said with a bright smile. "You're too pretty not to take advantage of it."

Laurel had been reluctant to comply, but a nod from Uncle Ted and Sandra saw her swallowing down any protests she might have had. Luckily, Susan had taken the initiative to choose her outfit for her, so she didn't have to risk being criticized for a bad fashion sense or anything like that. She even tasked an attendant with doing her make-up (cosmetics being something Laurel had never been able to afford) to make her "glow" or whatever.

When the train came to a stop, Uncle Ted was right beside her, a gentle hand on her back as he guided her out of the car. They were immediately beset by blinding, flashing lights, and it took Laurel a moment to realize they were cameras. When her vision cleared, she nearly froze in shock.

Beyond the Peacekeepers acting as guards for the barriers lining the path to the Remake Center was a massive crowd of Capitol citizens. Dressed bizarrely in all the colors of the rainbow, they were loud and flashy, and they became unglued the moment their eyes landed on Laurel and Vanch. Why wouldn't they, though? That was why they were here — to see the tributes. To see them. To see her.

She swallowed and turned back to her uncle. Her mentor, now. Uncle Ted gave her another encouraging smile, and it boosted her confidence. Laurel turned back to the crowd, thought of her family, and put on her best smile. She held up a hand, and they screamed.

It took them several minutes to get to the Remake Center. Laurel spent all of it interacting with the crowd, with the diehard fans of the Hunger Games who came all this way to catch a glimpse of this year's tributes. Usually, she'd only feel reservation and disgust for people who enjoyed all of… this, but it was her life on the line this time, and she had promised Sara she would do whatever it took to come home. At least some of these people had to have money to burn for sponsorships, and it was in her best interest that they'd burn it for her.

Just as she was about to head inside the building, Laurel turned back to the crowds one last time and lifted her arms, giving a double-handed wave. She shouted, "Thank you!" to everyone, then placed her hands on her mouth to blow them all a kiss. If they were unglued before, they hit the stratosphere here, shrieking like wild animals. People jumped up and tried to grab her mid-air kiss with their hands, and Laurel had to be herded into the Remake Center before they tried to mob her.

It was amazing and exhilarating, and she beamed when Uncle Ted gave her a proud, approving smile. "Good job," he praised.

Maybe she really could do this.

She couldn't do this.

That was the only thought that passed through Laurel's head as she gritted her teeth. Olaf, one of the members of her prep team, removed another strip of wax from her skin. Down by her feet, Hendrickson continued filing away at her toenails while his teammate Andre worked over her hair, scrubbing at it with some concoction that Laurel dared not ask the name of. Something told her she wouldn't want to know.

They were bringing her to Beauty Base Zero, as they called it—removal of all body hair and every imperfection that couldn't be surgically removed. "What a person would look like if they stepped out of bed flawless but natural," had been the explanation, and Laurel couldn't help but think that such a thing was impossible even for the wealthiest Capitolite. Nothing was natural about being flawless, especially when you just got out of bed.

When they were done, they gave her naked body a lookover before grinning. "Zinda's going to love you," Andre declared. "I don't think she's ever had such a beautiful canvas. I'm sure she's got something special in store for you."

That was hardly the most aspiring of words. Remembering Uncle Ted's advice about obeying her prep team and not pissing anyone off, Laurel put on that practiced smile that she was dangerously close to mastering after almost a full twenty-four hours of this bullshit and said, "Thank you."

They smiled and thanked her, calling it an honor to make her look beautiful — and then they left her alone. In the room. Buck naked.

Laurel felt less like a person and more like a spectacle. Or maybe a lab rat. There wasn't much of a difference.

To forget her current circumstances, she looked around, trying to take in the room's features. Everything here was shiny, sharp, and futuristic, just like the train. A foreign world that was completely different from the dusty, dilapidated environment Laurel grew up in.

The sound of the door opening caught Laurel's attention, and she looked up to see who it was. Her stylist, most likely.

Then, the stylist stepped inside the room, and Laurel couldn't help but stare.

Zinda Blake was a pretty woman who had to be at least a decade older than Laurel. She was blonde with blue eyes and inordinately fond of leather, judging by the leather suit and miniskirt she was wearing. The flight cap she had on completed the ensemble, making her look like some sexy fighter pilot. It was interesting, but that's not what was causing Laurel's mouth to fall open right now.

It was the literal bird wings sticking out of her back.

Laurel was vaguely and unconsciously aware of the insane "beauty" modifications that Capitolites were so obsessed with. She had seen them on just about every broadcast of the Hunger Games she had ever had the misfortune of bearing witness to, through all the audience reaction shots that the producers or whoever the hell was in charge were so fond of showing. Many people outside the Remake Center looked like a mishmash of those poorly designed monster costumes from the old holo-movies her father occasionally showed them on the few times he could visit their home. There were so many that it all blurred into one big mass.

But here and now, with only Zinda at the forefront of her view, it was an entirely different matter. They looked like wings from a real bird. How was that possible? How much of a gigantic waste of money was used to make this possible? Laurel didn't know whether to be revolted or amazed.

Zinda noticed her staring and smirked. "I was a hovercraft pilot before I before I became a stylist. What can I say? The aesthetic grew on me." She did a little twirl for good measure, showing off. Laurel blinked.

"But enough of that," she continued, clapping her hands. "Let's get to work."

With that, she began orbiting around Laurel, raking her eyes up and down the younger woman's form. The tribute resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself and cover up her naked body, trying to restrain the blush that crossed her cheeks. After a moment, Zinda nodded and hummed appreciatively. "Not bad. Not bad at all. You won't fully blossom until you're a bit older, but that's fine. We can use this."

That was… something. Laurel swallowed, and Zinda must've noticed how unsettled she was because she gave her a kind smile. "Cheer up, love. You're going to be the sexiest woman alive after I'm done with you."

And that was just too much. Laurel flushed red. "Huh?"

Zinda ignored her and continued. "Do you know why I love being the stylist for District Eight so much? It's because of the freedom. Your theme allows me to work with so many fabrics for your costumes. It's why I've never left, no matter how many promotions have been thrown my way."

Laurel didn't like the sound of that. She didn't like the sound of that at all.

"Now, tell me, dear — how do you feel about fishnets?"

This place really is hell.

Zinda called the prep team back in to help with the preparations before leaving to pick up Laurel's costume. While she was gone, they styled their tribute's hair and nails. About fifteen minutes later, Zinda returned with a dummy, the costume hidden beneath a black tarp. When she removed the covering and revealed what exactly Laurel would be wearing in front of all of Panem, it took the younger woman everything she had not to book it for the nearest exit. For a brief moment, she wondered whether or not evading painful execution was worth all of this.

Then she remembered that her family, Uncle Ted and Sandra, were all expecting her to do her best to come home. Damn.

So, instead, she put on a brave face and accepted the outfit with the most sincere smile she could muster. Zinda and the rest of the team helped her put it on, with the former focusing on the fishnet stockings Laurel was to wear on her legs and arms in particular. When they were done, they asked Laurel to do a little strut across the room to get an idea of how she would look from every angle. She tried not to feel too humiliated as she complied with their instructions.

When they were satisfied, Zinda handed her a trenchcoat to wear over her outfit. "Don't take it off until you're out of the tunnel and in front of the crowds," she advised. "You'll make more of an impact that way."

"Okay," Laurel said with a nod, trying not to shiver at the reminder that the entire nation would see her in this revealing outfit. Oh God, what was her family going to think? Her dad was going to have a heart attack!

The trenchcoat did nothing to stop her from feeling awkward and exposed when she exited the Remake Center and went to the tunnel where the chariots were waiting. There was already Vanch, speaking with his stylist, a man of average height wearing a lot of dark clothing that made him look like a modern-day vampire. His tastes in aesthetics were reflected in Vanch's costume, a leather ensemble of belts so tight they showed off Vanch's lithe and deceptively muscular physique. If she didn't already know he was the biggest piece of scum ever to walk the streets of District Eight, Laurel would've called him attractive.

After finishing up his conversation, Vanch spotted her approach and smirked. "So when will I see what's under?" he asked.

Laurel scowled. "The same time as everyone else. Just because you're my district partner doesn't mean you get any special privileges."

"That's too bad," Vanch mused, licking his lips. "If you got that stick out of your ass, I bet we could have a lot of fun together."

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

"She wouldn't mind. I have needs, and you're going to be dead in a couple of days. What's the harm? I'll make it good for you."

"How magnanimous of you," Laurel replied dryly, rolling her eyes. "But I'm not interested. Unlike her, I actually have standards."

With that final word, she climbed up to her side of the chariot, grasping the metal front to help stabilize her balance. Resolutely ignoring Vanch, who climbed up to stand on the other side, she focused her gaze ahead, fingering the clasps of her trenchcoat, remembering Zinda's instructions. Some part of her wanted to keep it on and never take it off, but a memory of her mentor's words stopped her.

Make them love you, Laurel.

The most interesting tribute was the one who won the Games. And Laurel intended to be the most interesting tribute of them all. So when the chariots started moving, Laurel prepared herself and unbuttoned her coat.

They were going to love her, alright. They would love her more than anyone else in the history of the Hunger Games. Laurel refused to settle for anything less.

Sara

When Sara was ten, the toy store in town started selling these secondhand plushies from the Capitol.

They weren't anything special. Just some old stuffed toys that the privileged children of the elite didn't want anymore and that someone looking for a cheap buck decided to sell to district kids at a marked-up price. Even after a thorough washing, they were worn in several places, with patches of fake fur pulled out and holes barely sown together by poorly made stitches. They were hardly worth the cost they were being sold for.

But that didn't stop Sara from falling in love with a stuffed shark she saw on the display while shopping with her family. It was gray, long, and not particularly cute, but Sara knew it was meant for her from the moment she first saw it. She begged and pleaded for her mother to buy it for her, but money had been tight that year due to another tax hike from the Capitol. They hadn't been able to afford it, and Sara spent months staring longingly at that shark, a strange ache over how she couldn't have it. It was just a bitter reminder of how unfair things were.

Then, her birthday came, falling on the Winter Festival that the Capitol marked down as an official yearly holiday. It was supposedly a holiday representative of kindness and generosity, but only the average Capitol citizen bought into that bullshit. For the districts, it was the rare day off, and it was only because it was Sara's birthday that her family got into the "spirit of giving," as it was called. She guessed it was their little private rebellion against the Capitol, treating the day as unique only because Sara was born on it, not because the government said it was.

Sara didn't expect a lot on this day. Her parents tried to save as much money as they could for their children's birthdays, but there were always emergencies or some tax increase that depleted their cash. Uncle Ted and Sandra's gifts, meanwhile, were always exorbitantly expensive precisely because they weren't really for Laurel or Sara. They were for their mom so she could sell them for a boatload of money to pay the yearly tax imposed at the beginning of every year. Otherwise, Dinah would've killed herself ages ago, trying to work extra shifts to pay off debts.

So yeah, Sara didn't expect much. Maybe some bread from the bakery, perhaps some fruit, and maybe a tiny trinket or two from Laurel from whatever she had left as pay from all the odd jobs they worked throughout the district. Most of the money they made went into the family fund, but their mother insisted they keep a little for themselves for anything they might want. "Think of it as a way of practicing handling your own money for when you grow up."

Laurel mainly saved up and used her money to buy books. Even at a young age, she loved to read. Sara, meanwhile, bought toys, the kind of stuff she could play with. When she saw that toy shark for the first time, she had initially planned on saving up her money to buy it on her own, but then there was a terrible rainstorm that ended up swamping one of her three shirts and one of her only two pair of pants, completely ruining both. That took precedence, and the family fund had been empty, so Sara reluctantly parted with her hard-earned savings to buy replacements from the nearest thrift shop. By the time the end of the year rolled around, she hadn't managed to save up enough, and the shark was gone. She wasn't ashamed to say she had shed a few tears.

And then her birthday came. Laurel gave her a hastily wrapped box, using some of the old wrapping paper that they saved and used every year. Her hands were covered in little cuts, bandages over every single one. She was grinning.

Sara carefully removed the wrapping paper, placing it on the side so they could fold it up for next year. Then she lifted the cover of the box — and gasped.

There it was—the shark.

"But your book…" Her sister had been saving up for a used copy of the latest book in her favorite series all year. It had been all she could talk about for months.

Laurel cut her off with an affectionate tap on the nose and a bright smile. "I can get a copy of that book any time I want. Your happiness is more important."

Her heart nearly burst from those words, and Sara didn't hesitate to throw her arms around her sister. "I love you."

Warm, strong arms embraced her back, and Sara felt a kiss pressed on the top of her head. "I love you too, Sara-bear."

It was the best birthday she ever had. All because she had the best big sister in the entire world.

Sara was losing her goddamn mind.

She nervously clutched her old toy shark to her chest, watching the holo-projector anxiously. The Tribute Parade was about to start. The first big event of the Hunger Games after the Reaping and the first time Sara would see her sister after she was forcibly taken to the Tribute Train and sent to the Capitol to enter the Games. More importantly, it was her sister's first chance to make a lasting impression on the Capitol audiences.

Please have a good costume, please have a good costume… Sara chanted in her head, almost ready to start biting at her nails with worry. District Eight's success in the parade was middling to generally well, but that wasn't going to cut it this year, at least not for Sara. This year, they had to be spectacular — because 'spectacular' meant her sister's chances of going home increased dramatically.

Suddenly, a glass of water appeared right in front of her. "Drink, honey," Quentin ordered. Desperate for anything to help settle her mind, Sara complied and grabbed the glass, downing it in one go before handing it back.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Don't mention it, baby," Quentin replied, setting the glass on the coffee table next to the water pitcher. Next to him, Dinah finished preparing the nightly ration of tesserae bread and brought it over for them to snack on. "I know how you feel."

"As do I, Sara," Dinah noted, grim and resigned. "It's just like when your Uncle Ted was reaped. He was stuck in that horrible place, trying to play into all those people's expectations just so he could survive, and all I could do was sit home and watch from the sidelines. I didn't even have any money to help sponsor him. It was the worst kind of hell."

Quentin grunted. "Speaking of that, Lucas has already donated some of this month's paycheck to Laurel's sponsorship account. Some of the boys promised they'd do the same." What went unsaid was that he already donated the entirety of his paycheck to the account as soon as it opened. Sara would know, as she had gone with him to donate her meager savings alongside him.

Mom blew out a breath. "We'll need to thank him for that when this is all over."

That Sara could agree with. Lucas had always been a close friend of the family thanks to his connection to Dad, but he had gone above and beyond since Laurel was reaped. With his partner and a few other coworkers, they had called in enough favors with Nudocerdo to give Quentin laxer guard shifts in the general area of the Drake home for the Games. It was implicit permission for Quentin to go inside and watch them with his family, to support his daughter without any restraint. He wouldn't have to patrol the district, antsy and desperate, not knowing what was happening with Laurel while everyone else got a live feed. Sara was profoundly grateful for it — there was no way she was going to make it through the month without the support of both of her parents.

The Tribute Parade started after an inane one-hour special on the history of all the most notable stylists and costumes over the many years the Hunger Games existed. There was a brief orchestral of Panem's national anthem, followed by an elaborate drum display. Then, the chariots started spilling out from the tunnels and through the path to the City Circle, where the Presidential Mansion and the Training Center sat. Sara swallowed as she saw the first tributes, the Careers. Laurel's fearest competition in the Games.

As expected, the Careers' preferential treatment showed through with their immensely skilled stylists. District One was dressed in diamond-studded outfits that reflected across the flames that dotted the borders of the road. District Two were fierce, golden gladiators that were practically luminous under the lights. District Four nearly outdid them all with provocative merpeople outfits that had the crowds roaring in appreciation. They were beautiful and enchanting and horrible, and it just wasn't fair at all.

Finally, District Eight appeared, and Sara's stomach plummeted. Cyrus Vanch (the sight of who made Quentin snarl) was smirking and waving to the crowd, which erupted when they saw him. Much to her misfortune, she could understand why. Vanch wore a tight leather outfit of black studded belts that showed off his lean and muscular physique. If she weren't already aware of what an evil asshole he was, she might've even been pleased. District loyalty, however, had its limits.

As it was, it made her stomach curl. Compared to Vanch's costume, Laurel's was completely uninspired. Sara's sister was dressed in a black button-up overcoat covering her entire body, and her long blonde hair was done up in some bun. She was waving to the crowd, but they resolutely ignored her in favor of her more provocatively-dressed district partner. It was disheartening to see. Dammit… Sara thought, gritting her teeth.

Then, something unexpected happened. Laurel stopped waving to the crowd and stepped on a pedestal behind the chariot. She undid the tie on her bun, throwing her head to and fro and allowing her hair to bounce free before ripping off her coat. The garment pooled behind her onto the chariot floor, revealing her outfit beneath.

Sara's jaw dropped. Quentin gagged, choking on his beer.

"Oh. My. God," gasped a wide-eyed Dinah.

Fishnets. Fishnets, fishnets, fishnets, and tight, tight leather. Laurel wore a sleeveless black leotard made of leather, fishnets, and mesh, showing off nearly all her skin in all but the most strategic places. More fishnets covered her arms and legs, and when she spread the former, a pair of wings formed, making her look like a bird. On her chest was a prominent yellow bird symbol that emphasized the impressive size of her bust. The shimmering material the whole outfit was made of sparkled and glittered against the lights, giving it a dazzling effect that bewitched every eye watching.

Objectively, Sara knew Laurel was pretty. But this was beyond pretty. Her mind had a hard time connecting her relatively modest sister with the beautiful siren displaying herself to the world. Truth be told, her mind didn't want to at all — Sara had a great appreciation for the female form, but not when that female was closely related to her. Part of her wanted to hurl.

Not that the Capitol seemed to care. When she revealed her actual costume, Laurel got the loudest reaction yet. She had no issue playing into it either, sitting on the edge of her chariot with perfect balance and giving a sultry smile as she waved and blew kisses to the now-ravenous crowd cheering her on with reckless abandon. All the cameras and feeds barely paid attention to any of the other tributes; instead, they focused on her.

The parade gradually began to wind down as the chariots filed into the City Circle. Sara turned back to look at her parents, who were petrified. Quentin's face, in particular, was tomato red, his expression of rage and horror. It made Sara swallow.

"Remember, Dad. The more the Capitol loves her, the more likely she'll come out of the arena alive."

That did nothing to improve his mood.

Sara didn't blame him in the least.

Laurel

As her chariot slowed down and began to cruise around the City Circle, Laurel gave her new adoring fans one last wave before swinging her legs around to stand behind the front of the chariot again. She resolutely ignored how Vanch was openly leering at her in lust, no doubt much lamenting how she had rejected his advances earlier. He wasn't the only one either — several of the other male tributes and even some of the female ones were staring at her either in desire or jealousy or both. This was the first major event of the Games, the first opening salvo a tribute could make, and always, one tribute stood out above all others. That was the star of the parade; this year, that was Laurel.

They all want me dead in the end, she reminded herself. Every single person here on a chariot wants me dead because me dead means just one step closer to home. I can't forget that, no matter what.

With that thought in mind, Laurel focused on where the President's Mansion stood. A giant, golden podium was attached to the front of the mansion, where the President of Panem, Damien Darhk, could make public announcements to the city. It was here that Laurel watched as Darhk gave the same small speech he gave at the beginning of every Hunger Games, thanking the tributes for their courage and sacrifice and wishing the nation at large a "Happy Hunger Games," whatever the hell that was.

With that final word said, the anthem played again as the chariots rode off to a tunnel at the side of the main street. The tunnel led to the Training Center, their home for the next week while they prepared for the arena. Laurel caught a glimpse of herself on one of the main screens hanging around the circle before they were fully pulled out of view. She had to admit that she looked amazing, and the rest of the Capitol seemed to agree.

They found their stylists and mentors waiting for them when they arrived at the tunnel's end. Laurel hopped off the chariot as soon as it was safe and rushed to her mentor, eager for his feedback. "Uncle Ted! Did I do well…?" She trailed off, blinking at the wide-eyed expression her uncle was wearing. "Uncle Ted?"

Ted failed to answer, still staring openly at her with his jaw hanging low. Next to him, Sandra rolled her eyes and reached out to close his mouth with one hand while giving Laurel a firm nod. "You did very well, little bird. They loved you."

That seemed to shake Ted out of his trance, and he gave Laurel a shaky smile. "Yes. Good job, Laurel," he said, trying to sound happy but managing to sound everything but. It was strange.

Then he looked around and noticed all the glares being thrown Laurel's way. "Why don't we head up to our room now? It's about time we get started on the really hard work."

"Okay," Laurel replied, dutifully ignoring those very same glares. "Does this mean I can get out of this costume now?"

Ted cringed. "We'll get your coat to cover you up, and then you can change once we're inside," he suggested.

Laurel nodded and went back to the chariot to get her trenchcoat.

Oliver

"…and then one backwater bumpkin with a pretty face shows up in a slutty costume, and they go wild!"

Oliver rolled his eyes as he watched his district partner go into another tirade over the parade. Helena had been in a mood ever since their diamond-studded fae costumes had been upstaged with that very… inspired ensemble Laurel Drake had been wearing. Honestly, Oliver didn't know why she was so surprised. They were the luxury district. They had been wearing jewels for costumes for decades, and everything that shined lost its luster eventually. Nothing about their costumes had been particularly original, as far as District One costumes went.

"You know, I don't think it was such a bad thing," he cut into the rant with a lascivious grin. "It was a very interesting costume."

Helena glanced at him and scoffed. "What? You thinking of getting laid right before the Games?" she mockingly asked.

The other tribute shrugged. "Well, if she's willing—"

"Alright, shut it, you two."

Slade stepped into the room, Shado following close behind him. He crossed his arms and glared at them with his good eye. "Kid, get your mind out of the gutter, and Bertinelli, get over yourself. It doesn't matter how pretty that girl from Eight is if she doesn't know how to fight or survive. Keep an eye on her and see if she has any substance. If she does, kill her quickly. If she doesn't, let her go, then hunt her down and make a show out of her death. The sponsorship money will only sustain her for so long, and once that dries up, she's as good as dead anyway."

It was concise and to the point, like having water dumped over your head. Helena grinned savagely while Oliver put on a neutral face and nodded. Right. They were in the Hunger Games. Ultimately, everything that happened this week was inconsequential in the long run. All that truly mattered was the arena.

"Getting back on topic…" Slade turned to Shado, who stepped forward.

"You didn't make as much of an impression during the parade as we'd hoped, but that's fine. It's only one part of the Games and nowhere close to the most important part." She swiveled her head between both tributes. "The most important part is the training, which is next. And you both know what you need to do there."

Oliver frowned. She was right, of course. The bulk of the pre-Games events were focused on training. No matter how attractive or charming a tribute was, if they couldn't survive the arena, then they weren't worth anything at all. The Capitol would only be wasting time and money trying to help them survive beyond a certain point. People only loved and remembered the winners who lived, not the dead losers six feet in the ground that inevitably turned back to dust.

For an outlier tribute, training was a matter of life or death. There, they learned whether or not they had any combat aptitude, learned basic survival skills like foraging and shelter-building, and discovered whether or not they stood a chance at winning the Games and becoming a Victor.

But for Careers, it was a different matter entirely. Training wasn't make-it-or-break-it for them because they already knew how to fight. Beyond a run of the survival stations just in case they needed something that the Cornucopia or their sponsors couldn't provide, training was the least stressful part of the Games for them.

No, for them, the primary purpose of the training period was for something else entirely.

"Remember — make them scared. As terrified as you can make them," Shado instructed seriously. "It doesn't matter how strong, smart, or clever they are if they're too afraid to think. Scared tributes make mistakes. They're easy to kill. And that's what you want, even if it's not what the audience wants."

"The best way to do that is to stick to the combat stations," Slade piped up, staring hard at his tributes. "Show off how much you're out of their league. I suggest focusing on your specialties — there'll be stations for projectile weapons, including both a regular bow and a crossbow. Hand-to-hand, of course, and don't either of you forget to visit swordsmanship."

Oliver tried not to crack a grin at that. Slade's specialty in the Games was swordsmanship, and he taught a specialized course for the Hunger Games track. Oliver and Helena had both taken it.

Before they could speak any further, the door to their room opened again, revealing Yao Fei. "It's time," he announced to all of them gravely.

"Time for what?" Helena asked before Oliver could.

Shado looked at her father before turning to them, unnaturally grim. "To meet your allies."

The method used to assign rooms in the Training Center was pretty simplistic. There were twelve floors, not including the ground floor where the gym was, and not including the roof. Each district was assigned a floor corresponding to its number, which served as an apartment for both tributes, their respective mentors, stylists, and escorts, for the entirety of the Games. Therefore, Oliver and Helena, being from District One, got the first floor with the rest of their team, including their mentors and stylists.

This year, the Career Pack was meeting on District Two's floor, forcing them to take the elevator one floor up. Technically, tributes were forbidden to go anywhere but their floor, the gym, and the roof for fear of sabotage, but exceptions were always made for Careers. Sure enough, once they arrived, they were greeted by an Avox, one of the tongueless slaves of the Capitol. He quickly directed them to the entrance of District Two's floor, where Slade gave it a hard knock. After a moment, it opened, and they were let inside.

The first thing Oliver noticed was that the District Four team was already present alongside the District Two team, both of whom were seated at a long dining table that stretched across the entire room. He immediately recognized the mentors from Four: Dante Pelt, Victor of the 40th Hunger Games, and Beatrice Jo, Victor of the 43rd Hunger Games. Sitting beside them were their tributes, Emiko Adachi and Ricardo Diaz.

At the head of the table was the District Two team. The two tributes, Nyssa al Ghul and Adrian Chase, and their mentors, the legendary Talia al Ghul and the Victor of the 60th Hunger Games, Athena Drakos. And at the very head of the table, at the end closest to the windows, was the legend among legends himself, Ra's al Ghul. He was stern, with a severe expression, but exuded a presence that made Oliver want to stand up straighter on principle. Rumor had it that Ra's was as fit and combat-capable as he was when he first entered the Games all those decades ago, maintaining his skills through hard work in the mines and taking a personal and leading role in training all the tributes District Two produced. Oliver had a sinking feeling that the rumor was true.

"Welcome, District One," Ra's al Ghul greeted them with a smooth, deep voice. He gestured to the other side of the table, opposite the District Four team. "Please. Take a seat."

They did just that. Once they were settled in, Ra's began the introductions, like they didn't all know who everyone was. Oliver paid only half attention to it, waiting patiently for his turn. Once he made his introduction to everyone, he returned to relaxing in his seat and discreetly rolling his eyes at some of the posturing his fellow tributes, including Helena, tried to do when it was their turn to speak. They hadn't even stepped foot in the arena, and already, it seemed like everyone was preparing to stab each other in the back. It was ridiculous.

So, instead, he put most of his effort into checking out the girls, trying to see if any of his fellow tributes were up for a tumble. Helena hadn't been wrong when she said he wanted to get laid, and with how stressful the Games were sure to be, he'd rather know whether or not he could blow off some steam later down the line. Besides, it wasn't like sex in the Games was uncommon — tributes, particularly Careers, always got hot and heavy for the cameras when there wasn't a lot going on. It was an effective way to entertain the audience and drum up sponsors.

Helena wasn't an option, and he knew that from the get-go. Oliver knew her well enough from school to know she was too focused on becoming a Victor to think of anything else. That left the other two members of the Career Pack, and almost immediately, Oliver's eyes were drawn to Nyssa al Ghul. She was older than Emiko and (in his honest opinion) the more beautiful of the two. Plus, there was a better chance of them hitting it off since they had the shared unique experience of being the children of Victors.

But then he saw her checking out Shado in a very familiar way and quickly dismissed her as an option. He then turned his attention to Emiko. He'd rather not be with her, to be honest. She was only sixteen, and while that was the age of consent in Panem, it was nearing a line that Oliver would rather not cross. But if she showed interest herself and was up for it—

Oliver's thoughts came to a screeching halt. Emiko had noticed him staring at her and shot him the most poisonous glare he had ever received in his life. It was filled with so much hate that Oliver felt himself freeze on the spot from the sheer heat of it alone. She quickly turned away from him and returned to paying attention to the introductions before anyone else could notice, but there was no doubt in Oliver's mind what had just happened, and he blinked. What was that about?

Ra's cleared his throat before the younger man could ponder on that brief, strange interaction any further, causing the room to fall silent as every eye present was drawn to him. "Now that we are done with the introductions, we can focus on why we are here."

Then, the Victor of the First Quarter Quell launched a spiel about duty and sacrifice for the Capitol, of how their privileges were a reward for their devotion and how they could never forget that. "You are here to show the outer districts the futility of their passive rebellion and the benefits of loyalty. You are here to help keep the peace. That is the purpose of the Hunger Games. Never, ever forget that."

Everyone nodded, some more firmly than most. Ra's eyed them all and, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, started drilling them all in Hunger Games strategy. Mainly the basics, the kind they all learned early on in their education: kill as many of the stronger outliers as soon as possible, preferably in the Cornucopia Bloodbath. For those that managed to escape the bloodbath and were in the wind, hunt them down as quickly and efficiently as possible, preferably one by one. Make a show of their deaths to keep the Capitol's favor and the stream of sponsorship money flowing. And above all else, delay breaking the Career Pack for as long as possible.

"I am no fool. I know very well that only one of you can be the Victor. But regardless, do not break your alliance early," he ordered, somehow looking even sterner than before. "Whenever the alliance has broken early, it has almost always guaranteed an outlier victory. If any of you wish to win, you must keep that in mind. Stay together as long as you possibly can, no matter how difficult it may seem."

All the tributes dropped their arrogant expressions and exchanged critical, analytical looks at those words. For all that they were allies for the beginning of the Games, none of them were unaware that when it came down to the wire, they were also enemies. Only one of them was going home, and everyone here intended that person to be them. There was no getting out of that.

But. Ra's' words rang true. Breaking the pack early only led to ruin for Careers in the end. No matter how determined they were to win, they could not forget that little fact. And that meant, no matter how much they all might come to dislike each other in the end, they had to stick it out for as long as possible if any of them were to claim the ultimate victory. It was just that simple.

They all turned to Ra's and nodded, submitting to his orders. He didn't quite smile, but a slight softening in his expression suggested he was pleased. He returned their nods with a single one of his own and then glanced over at an Avox standing against the wall.

"Very well then. Then let us dine here together tonight. Consider it your first true act of bonding as a team."

Happy Holidays, everyone! Here's the next chapter.

Laurel's costume here is based on Black Canary's comics outfit, as you can probably tell from the description. It's just been spruced a bit, according to how the Capitol would like it, and as an homage to Katniss's costume in the books and the movies. And just like Katniss, her splash in the parade has made her enemies.

I chose Zinda Blake (Lady Blackhawk for those of you who are unaware) as Laurel's stylist because I wanted to incorporate some Birds of Prey lore. The names of Laurel's prep team are actual Blackhawks from the comics. As for Vanch's stylist, I chose Count Vertigo/Cecil Adams for lack of solid options, since Vanch is a character with no comics counterpart and originates entirely from the show. I figured if anyone could give him the aesthetic I wanted, it was Vertigo.

Next Chapter: The tributes begin training.