The Mechanist and the Artisan

by Zevoros

The Hunger Games stood tall at their thirty-eighth year. The puppets danced to the Gamemakers' tune. The Mechanist would create a system to ensure her survival within the bowels of the arena. The Artisan stood against his bloody canvas, prepared to show Panem his composition. Porter Tripp and Sperren Dwightbone were going to cut their strings forever.

.

~~(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)~~

---

Authors' Note

Zevoros: Happy birthday, Cragmite!

Triage: Actually, it's HAPPY BURPDAY, CRAGMITE!

Special thanks to Cal_the_Wandcrafter!

---

The Mechanist and the Artisan

Part 1

Simulacrum

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

In the dimly lit foyer of her district's capital building, Porter's piercing gaze fixated on the timepiece adorning the wall, its rhythmic ticking slashing through the oppressive silence. Time stood as her sole companion in the desolateness of the moment, bearing witness to her impending journey to the Capitol.

Each beat of the clock weighed heavily on Porter's mind, an ominous reminder of the disruption looming over her calculated and structured routine. A female of precision and methodical calculations, Porter had meticulously choreographed her days, only to have the impending reaping render her life's schedule obsolete - a harsh reality that no matter how hard she tried to control her own existence, the life of a citizen of Panem would always be enslaved to the whims of the Capitol.

As the second hand inched forward, Porter traced its movement with an unwavering focus. To many, the reaping and the Hunger Games were synonymous, embodying fear and uncertainty. Yet, in Porter's analytical mind, they were distinct entities, each carrying its own weight in the tragic cycle of the Games. One fed into the other, inevitably sustaining the cycle of death and subjugation like an inescapable self-fulfilling prophecy. Each reaping acted as the harbinger for a new theater of slaughter, only to be repeated the very next year.

The minute hand's progression felt palpable, accompanied by the grinding gears seemingly resonating with the futility of her solitary wait. Amidst this isolation, she comprehended the rationale behind her seclusion; her district partner, Watt Kelter, stood in stark contrast - a male enveloped by the embrace of familial ties and friendships. While Watt, visibly shaken, drew empathetic glances and muted whispers, Porter's own experience diverged sharply. The void of family hung like a specter over her existence, and was even more oppressive of an aura that impregnated the silence as she made her way to the front of the crowd. In the silence, she analyzed her own odds with a calculated optimism, exuding a quiet confidence from within.

With meticulous recollection, Porter recalled the twenty-six steps it had taken her from the stage to this empty room, bereft of the anticipated convergence of fellow tributes. Her contemplation of forging an alliance with Watt inclined toward improbability; the chasm of unfamiliarity deemed them incompatible.

She tended to focus her attention solely on those she deemed worthy of remembrance. The rest were dismissed as mere wastes of time, not worthy of the nanosecond it would take to process in her brain. After all, time was an invaluable currency.

Even though tokens from home, concessions granted to tributes, were allowed to be taken in to the Games, they held no allure for Porter. Cognizant of the Capitol's stringent regulations, permitting only items devoid of strategic advantage, she saw no purpose in burdening herself with a mere symbol - a trinket offering no advantage in the imminent trials of the arena. Yes, in her mind, there was no conceivable rationale behind bringing a token along for this journey of inevitable peril.

Instead, the concept of allies lingered, an intricate web weaving through her thoughts. Which district held the greatest promise of birthing a contender worthy of her consideration? Which would be the most likely to help her towards the end? Who would be likely to slit her throat as she slept? Without a doubt, One and Two consistently presented the most favorable prospects. Then there was Four, the district that clinched victory in the preceding year, boasting its own semblance of potential. Yet beyond these districts, the probabilities fluctuated, rendering it impossible for Porter to make a definitive decision based solely on the statistics at her disposal.

Crafting a strategy demanded patience, an accumulation of essential facts yet to be gathered. Rushing to concoct a plan now would yield naught but a flimsy and ineffective scheme unfit for the relentless demands of the arena. Thus, for the time being, her sole recourse lay in maintaining a facade, offering the obligatory smiles and waves to the indulgent Capitol audience.

Death, an inescapable specter, cast its dark shadow over her consciousness. Every tribute grappled with this looming inevitability. Porter held no desire for a swift demise. Despite her aversion to acknowledging it, an undercurrent of nervousness surged within her. She yearned to bury this sentiment, a futile wish in the unforgiving landscape of the Hunger Games. The brutality of the arena, a familiar tale gleaned from relentless holovision exposure, underscored the dire nature of the competition. Last year's victor wasted no time transitioning from pedestal to predator, claiming the life of their fellow tributes during the Bloodbath without a second's hesitation.

Her fervent determination solidified - she would not succumb to the same fate as the Bloodbath victims.

Memories of a trite saying resurfaced in her mind, an adage about time passing slower as you worked away, yet Porter found herself unable to comprehend such a sentiment. Time, in her understanding, remained an immutable constant - neither swift nor sluggish, merely existing. An hour had elapsed, solitary and untouched by any visitor's presence. This outcome had been anticipated. There existed no one who would call upon her before the imminent departure for the Capitol.

Each passing minute condensed into fleeting seconds, and as the second hand completed its inexorable circle around the clock, Porter rose precisely on cue. She pivoted mechanically toward the door, her impatience etching lines across her brow, expecting a Peacekeeper to promptly grant her passage, yet none moved to open it.

Only when another minute elapsed did the door finally open, revealing a Peacekeeper on the other side. He wore the same white uniform that they all wore. A neutral expression fixed on his visage. "You're late," Porter said simply. "One minute, thirty-seven seconds, twenty-four milliseconds."

The man's face twisted, but Porter had already looked away. He was unimportant, after all. She stepped out into the hall, where a second Peacekeeper waited. Without hesitation or dithering, Porter followed him closely behind.

The reaping might not be the Hunger Games, but the Hunger Games had already begun.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

Laughter would have bubbled up his throat the moment he'd been reaped, had he been capable of it. He could scarcely believe it, or at least, that was what he'd say about being reaped. He was going into the Hunger Games and he couldn't control that fact. Neither could his district partner, Winnow, who'd practically bawled on her way up to the stage.

Winnow Baylock. Sperren had seen her around in District Nine. He'd seen everyone. So it was almost a shame that the most interesting one of them had been reaped alongside him.

Sperren paced the width of the room, looking over the soft, plush cushions of the chair, and wooden walls decorated with intricate designs. It was fancier than anything else Sperren had seen. No one's house, except perhaps the mayor's, had as expensive walls as the ones in this one room.

He glanced at the door. He'd spent half-an-hour here already, and he'd had no visitors. A fact that didn't annoy him or leave him feeling any other kind of emotion. This was what was expected. He had nobody. No family or friends, so nobody would see him off. Nobody would see him disappear off to the Capitol.

But everyone would see him when he came back. It was the only logical conclusion.

Sperren wondered how many people would see Winnow off. She had more of a family and friends than he did. Plenty of people to embrace her and say goodbye. Sperren didn't truly care. It didn't matter. Those relationships didn't matter. All that did was living and dying.

He looked at the clock and sat calmly in the nearest chair. Winnow cried when she'd been reaped. As did many, many other people. Sperren didn't understand. He didn't think he ever would. Part of him wondered if something in his brain was missing, but he dismissed the idea.

The door creaked open and Sperren's gaze flicked to it. A visitor? Sperren didn't feel excitement, not exactly. Nor did he feel confusion or any other emotion. He only stared as a face showed itself, one that took Sperren a moment to register.

"Lynch," Sperren acknowledged. He wasn't old, but he wasn't too young, either. Mid-forties, if Sperren were to guess. The father of a certain missing girl that had disappeared last week.

"Dwightbone," Lynch growled. He seemed very picturesque in his barely disguised rage. Sperren wondered what that felt like. He'd never been angry before in his life. He'd never been anything before.

Sperren blinked at the man. Lynch hadn't been happy with him for some time. Not that Sperren could relate. He didn't understand happiness. Granted, he didn't understand sadness or anger, either.

"You think you're gonna get away with this?" Lynch snarled at him. He took a step forward with emphasis, but Sperren didn't understand why.

"Get away with what?" he asked. He had an idea, but he wanted to hear Lynch say it.

Lynch backed up and there seemed to be tears in his eyes. Was he sad? Sad and angry? What did that feel like? Sperren wished he could feel things like that. Alas, such a thing was impossible.

"There's something wrong with you," Lynch said in a near-whisper. "Something is wrong in your head," he said with a hiss.

"I know," Sperren said with a nod. He did. People had told him often enough. As did his doctor, although not in those words. "Do you think the Capitol will fix it?" he asked, conversationally.

Lynch snarled at him, and Sperren thought he really did look like a wild animal in those few seconds. "You won't survive long enough for that to matter," he said, and he sounded like he was furious.

"I just have to win," Sperren replied, his voice like ice. Lynch's face took up an expression of terror. "Maybe we can share a conversation again then."

"No," Lynch said, quietly, and Sperren suspected it was more for himself than anything. "You'll die. And you won't come back. You can't come back to hurt anyone else."

Lynch said something else, a distraught tone to his voice, but Sperren stopped listening. The man was getting boring quickly.

Then, he said, "I know you killed her." And Sperren looked towards the man again. He looked - and Sperren had heard the description given to people in a similar manner - broken. "My baby…"

"Dead is dead," Sperren said. He didn't get it. Why cry over the dead? Lynch cried over his daughter, Sesame, when she was dead.

Sperren had made sure of that. If he could feel things, it would be a surprise that her corpse hadn't been found yet. He hadn't hidden her like he'd hidden the others. But her screams of terror as he hovered over her…that had been delicious. It was the only thing he could feel. Euphoria as he thrust his knife into her skin and made her bleed. And then again to paralyze her from her neck down.

He could have lived with satisfaction for days with the looks of terror in Sesame's eyes. Unfortunately, she had run out of use to him too quickly. Sperren hadn't been able to play with her as long as he could have with the others.

It was the only thing that brought him glee. The gorgeous vermillion that spilt out of his victim as he plunged his knife deep into them. Ninety-one. That was as many as he had taken. Nine more and he would reach one-hundred. Nine more lives. It was asinine. Easy.

Sperren had never thought much of the Hunger Games until this moment. Just a thing. A thing that happened once a year. And yet Sperren had never likened himself to those that appeared on the holovisions and televisions.

But now…perhaps this was an opportunity. One Sperren had somehow overlooked in the past. His one outlet to feel things. How hadn't he thought about it before? The Hunger Games would provide him exactly what he needed.

Lynch moved and the action snapped Sperren back to reality. "Just…please…where is she?" he begged.

Sperren looked at the man. If he could feel anything, the sight of the man might have tugged on his heartstrings. But he didn't. So he didn't. But what did he have to lose? Sesame had yet to be found, as did countless others. The media knew that there was a killer on the loose. But Sperren? He had never been a suspect. Not as far as he knew.

"I think she'll turn up," Sperren said at last. Lynch stared at him, a hopeless look on his face. The door opened and a Peacekeeper grabbed Lynch by the shoulder.

"Time's up," the Peacekeeper said. Lynch stood up and let himself be tugged backwards. He sent a desperate look at Sperren, but then the door was shut.

And Sperren still felt nothing.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

The train barreled through the changing landscape, carrying Porter relentlessly toward the imposing monstrosity of the Capitol. Porter had been briefly introduced to the victors, Andromeda, the first ever victor, and Nicola. Barely responding to their greetings and brief conversations, Porter had been shown to her temporary quarters within the train. It was sufficient for the day's journey, and more importantly, she understood that there was an availability of more suitable attire to the dress she was made to wear for the reaping. As soon as the door had closed, she was shucking the dress.

A cursory bath and towel later, she was perusing the clothing options left to her. There was a similar dress, but in richer color and more durable material. It weighed seven ounces.

She set it aside in disfavor, and pulled out a set that looked like a tunic and pants, with a combined weight of fifteen ounces. The material was not too thick but still durable. It also seemed more practical, though a bit too generous in pockets. Satisfied, she dressed herself and exited the room, not wanting to waste time. She ignored the Peacekeepers and Avoxes, almost perfectly syncing her movements and speed to avoid collision without ceasing her forward motion, and she was soon in the dining room carriage.

"Porter, over here!" Watt called, standing up.

Nicola also rose from his seat, placing a hand over his midsection in some sort of formal gesture, and a massive grin plastered over his face. Andromeda remained seated, but watched Porter with undisguised interest.

Showing no response to the overt friendliness, Porter made her way to the table. She stood beside Watt, across from Andromeda. As she felt eyes remaining on her, and the fact the males remained standing, she understood the cue, and sat down, prompting the young males to imitate her action.

"Try the braised chicken," Nicola said, "it's by far the best."

Her eyes fell on the aforementioned dish, and a peripheral glance showed that Watt was similarly feeding on the same thing. Grasping the knife and fork, she eyed Nicola, Andromeda, the escort, whose name she did not even note, and began to procure pieces of the braised chicken, with the mushrooms and other vegetables. She poured ice cold water from a decanter into her glass, and began to eat.

Nicola's eyebrows rose at the methodical manner in which she ate. No sign of satisfaction or distaste showed. Not even mild curiosity for what was going into her mouth. The taste meant nothing to her. Food was food. She ate to live. This was why some minders at the orphanage found her by far the easiest person to feed. She never once fussed about whatever meal was put before her. And she never ever took more than the necessary portions to survive.

This was evidently too much of an idiosyncrasy for the males, of which Watt, the youngest at fifteen, couldn't help but ask, "So, how's it taste?"

Pausing mid-bite, of which Porter was all but ten mouthfuls from completing her meal, she turned her head without shifting her body to look Watt in the eyes, and replied, "It is satisfactory."

As she had answered the question, Porter resumed her consumption, but Watt then piped up again, "I think it's the most amazing meal I've ever tasted."

She looked over at him once more, since that seemed to be what he desired, but this affirmed in Porter's mind that allying with him would be detrimental and inefficient to completing her goals. Her estimate of his chances were, at the most generous, an eleven-point-five percent, in surviving past the Bloodbath.

As she had no reply for his statement, it also ended any further conversation about the taste of the food. So long as Nicola felt no need to add to the subject, Porter believed she could conclude her meal in another four minutes.

Andromeda added nothing to the conversation, only observing. Porter privately approved of that choice of actions most above the males. Yet her face betrayed no emotion or thought on the matter.

Once she had eaten and drunk her fill, she droned out the voices of Nicola and Watt as they enthusiastically conversed about the activities prior to the Games. Instead, Porter began to dwell again on the probable allies. If she were eager for anything, it would be the recaps of the reapings. There, she would have her first glimpse of the other tributes, and she could make some assessments, or at least glean the ones with the most potential, and how she would need to fare to attain any kind of acceptance with her chosen potential allies. She knew that a certain measure of decorum and conduct was required to attain a more satisfactory response.

"It's almost time for the recap," Andromeda said, "let's take this to the viewing room."

Rising from her seat, Porter turned to follow Andromeda, walking beside her. Watt fell into step behind her, with Nicola following behind Andromeda. The older woman glanced over at Porter, and smiled knowingly at the female, who merely cast a glance, before turning her attention back to where she was going.

Porter sat down on the couch and turned her gaze up towards the television. The others sat down nearby, with Watt right beside her. Andromeda turned it on, and the screen came to life.

Watt let out a breath. "Nervous?" he asked, his voice shaky. It annoyed Porter.

"No," she replied curtly.

Watt nodded. "I'm terrified," he admitted. The screen flashed, but it wasn't yet the recap. That would start in two minutes, eleven seconds. "But hey, now the whole world gets to see the two of us, side-by-side!"

Porter didn't respond. That was probably meant to be some kind of joke. His voice inflection would suggest it. But Porter didn't see how it would be funny.

Watt coughed awkwardly and said something else, but Porter stopped listening. The recaps were about to start, and she would get nothing out of listening to Watt ramble about nothing. This would be the first impression she would gather about the other tributes. It would allow her to calculate which of them appeared more to be a threat, which ones could be useful, and which ones wouldn't last.

Fifty seconds.

"Are you listening?" Watt said and Porter finally glanced at him when he poked her shoulder. She was starting to grow tired of the meaningless banter from the male beside her, who apparently wasn't getting the hint at all.

"No," Porter replied bluntly.

Watt raised an eyebrow. "I asked what your token was. Mine is…this," he said, and he reached under his shirt around his neck, and pulled out a necklace. It had a latch that he flipped open with ease. "It's, uh, my mom," he said, and he showed Porter the image inside.

The young female in the image seemed to barely show the signs of age, and was conventionally attractive, Porter observed. She guessed Watt's father must have captured the photo. But Porter didn't spare it any more of her time, refocusing on the television.

"I don't have a token," Porter said, answering his initial question. She credited the choice of a necklace as clever - it was compact. Yet, she held back her thoughts on its vulnerability as a potential weapon, both in the hands of Watt and herself as an emotional tool against her district partner.

The television screen changed and the recaps began.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

If Sperren could have felt excitement, he would feel it deep within his blackened bones. Twenty-three victims. Plenty to help him reach his personal goal of one-hundred. It would be easy, really. Sperren doubted very much that any of the other tributes would be able to stop him.

The reaping recaps told him everything he needed to know. Six Careers. Sixteen others that would bleed into obscurity forever. Everyone but Winnow. Sperren glanced at his district partner at the thought. Winnow had curled her legs up close to her chest, her chin on her knees. The escort had tried to get her to put her feet on the floor to no avail. Sperren was sure it would have been amusing, had he been capable of feeling amusement.

She had stopped sobbing, at the very least. Eyes full of redness. Sperren wondered what it felt like to be so devastated. So full of emotion like the shy girl beside him was. She had been reluctant to talk to any of their mentors. They'd only managed to drag the odd word out of her.

Did she understand where they were? Or was this an emotional thing? Potentially. He'd never been so close to someone that wore so much emotion on their sleeve. The only thing his victims ever showed was fear. Terror

No, Winnow was far too interesting to discard so soon.

Their victors sat from their respective seats. None of them bothered to say a single word so far, and that was fine with Sperren. It allowed him to think. To go over each of the twenty-two tributes that he had seen. He didn't think any of the victors, not Mizar Aldjoy, Jay Cauthorn, or Omri Pennington had anything worth sharing with him. He was already experienced in how to kill.

The Careers were always the same, and this year was no different. Sperren had already known what to expect before the recap had even begun.

Six volunteers. Ivory Stillman and Chariot Wentworth from One. Honoria Macbeth and Gideon Mathers from Two. Nausicaa Summers and Nemo Melville from Four. They would be interesting to kill. Sperren wondered what they would say. Each of their last words. How would a Career beg him compared to the victims of those he'd killed in District Nine?

Pixel Federix and Chip Poy from District Three seemed remarkably weak. And they weren't the only ones. The list went on. Porter Tripp and Watt Kelter from Five. Freiya Shutter and Diesel Helmondt from Six. Briar Morgan and Heath Qually from Seven. Sasha Cholkoz and Braiden Lee from Eight. Graze Li and Wensleydale Easton from Ten. Citron Tarnell and Logan Brune from Eleven. Etta Lusk and Kefinn Seylour from Twelve.

Sperren made sure to memorize their names and faces. He wanted to know which of them he killed. Which of them would he cut open to tear the intestines out of? The opportunities were endless within the arena. And what was more…it was legal. Sperren wondered what sounds the twelve-year-old from Seven, Briar, would make if he cut her open.

Mizar muted the television and spun himself around to face the two of them and Sperren's fantasy was ruined. He looked back at Mizar blankly as Winnow looked at him almost hopefully.

"I won't lie to you two," he said seriously. "Your competition looks brutal. The Careers - that's Districts One, Two, and Four," he continued, as if neither Sperren or Winnow would know that fact, "are going to turn into killing machines the second that gong rings."

Winnow swallowed but Sperren didn't break his gaze off of Mizar. This was the man who had won the Hunger Games. Among the very first victors. But he looked so…boring. So tired.

Mizar met Sperren's gaze evenly, and he wondered what the old mentor thought when his eyes landed on him. He'd been in the Hunger Games before. Did he know a killer when he saw one? Sperren hoped he did. Or at least, Sperren thought it was hope. It would make things far more interesting if Mizar knew what kind of tribute he was dealing with.

"But…Honoria is younger than me…?" Winnow voiced meekly. Mizar looked away from Sperren, an unnerved look in his eye.

"Don't remember their names," Omri said with what was almost a snap. He held a glass with an amber liquid inside. Ice clinked as he moved his arm. "Predator and prey."

Winnow looked frightened. She slipped back on the couch, closer to Sperren. He watched her silently. "They're people!" she protested with a squeak.

"Not anymore," Omri replied. He took a sip of the liquid. Some kind of alcohol, Sperren figured. "Which one are you gonna be? Prey?"

"Omri, stop," Jay said firmly, but the man had already stood up, planting his glass on a nearby table.

An Avox wheeled in a cart with drinks on it, but Sperren didn't pay it any attention. What was beginning beside him was much more interesting than a few drinks. He could see Winnow chew on the inside of her cheek, her gaze dropped in front of her. Fingers curled around the soft cushions.

"Shut up, Jay," Omri said without looking at her. Then he snapped his fingers at the Avox. "You. Go." The Avox stepped back and quickly retreated.

Winnow seemed to retreat further into herself as Omri's attention fell fully upon her.

"I believe I asked you a question, girl," Omri growled, "what are you?"

Jay made to speak, but pursed her lips and scowled at Omri's stern gaze. Sperren's eyes fell on Winnow's whitened knuckles, made so by her gripping onto the material of the cushion on which she sat.

The young man was curious to know how Winnow would deal with pressure. He felt…intrigued by the girl. She seemed weak, but there was something...something he recognized underneath the veneer of meekness.

"I…I…" Winnow seemed to be struggling to form a coherent response now.

"Hmph!" Omri glared at her, "is this what our district has come to? Little flecks of disposable grist."

Winnow looked like she was on the verge of tears. But there was an underlying anger. Sperren could recognize it. He'd stalked enough of his victims to recognize anger. It was the second most common emote that they showed, next to fear.

"How about this," Omri continued to say, his face taking on a lecherous appearance, and his eyes scanned up and down Winnow's body, "join me in my bed, yeah? You're hot enough to be of use that way."

Winnow shot up suddenly and forced the cart forward, ramming it into Omri's body with enough force to knock the glasses to the ground. Omri let out a huff of pain as the cart crushed him against the wall of the carriage. The action seemed to spur Mizar and Jay into action and quickly they got between Winnow and Omri.

Omri flung the cart to the side and Winnow backed up, and the rage that had briefly overtaken her features had been replaced by nervousness and fear. Sperren sat, his legs crossed as he watched.

"You-" Omri started to sneer at her, but Jay swiftly interrupted him with a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Enough!" she stated.

"I'm…sorry," Winnow said meekly as she retreated. Mizar put himself in front of her and stared at Omri.

Sperren watched it all from the comfort of the couch. He was right. There was more to Winnow than what first appeared. He'd watched her plenty back in District Nine. When he'd first debated if she would be a victim or not. Sperren dismissed the idea when he saw how interesting she was beneath the surface.

"Whatever. You two have fun," Omri said condescendingly. "I'm gonna find that gorgeous escort - whatever her name was." Jay glared at him, but he dismissed himself and walked out the door.

Jay sighed and sat back. She looked between Sperren and Winnow and said, "Deplorable as he may be, he's not wrong." It was as though it physically pained her to say it. "It's best if you don't learn the names of the other tributes."

Sperren slid his eyes towards Mizar, then back to Jay. Winnow nodded but Sperren didn't understand why. Don't learn their names? Perhaps an emotional thing. It was the only reason that made sense. Learning their names made what came next more…exhilarating. The knowledge that they were people.

Not until they weren't, when he slid his blade across their throats and let them bleed out.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

The stylist and her prep team were irritating. Porter had never been vain enough to care about appearances or what clothes she wore. Why would she when what was comfortable and what covered her was acceptable?

Which only made the stylists even more irritating.

Porter had never caught their names, despite how they told them to her. They were unimportant. Therefore, they weren't worth remembering.

They argued about how to deal with her misshapen ear. Whether to show it or hide it under her hair. The prep team thought it unattractive how it failed to match her other ear, but her stylist wanted to pull her hair back to show Panem the 'real' Porter.

She waited as they'd waxed her body down. Two hours twenty-seven minutes, thirty-nine seconds. She sat still in the outfit that they had dressed her in and tuned the arguments of the stylist and prep team out. The reaping recaps replayed in her mind and she mechanically went over each of them. They had left her unimpressed. The males from Six and Seven were the only ones that had her eyes linger longer than anyone else.

No, Porter would have to wait until training to see the rest of the tributes in action. Only then would she be able to formulate a strong strategy. But until then, the parade came first. The first key moment she had to pick up sponsors. The idea was simple enough to manipulate.

Andromeda had given her advice. Advice that Porter took into her mind and focused on. A shtick, as she said. They had to be memorable. Which meant that Porter needed to be memorable.

Porter dismissed the thought and filed it away.

When the third hour came, impatience settled over Porter and she stood up to walk out. None of them noticed that she left and she walked, step by step, out to where the chariots waited.

Three hours was all Porter could endure. Had she waited any longer, she would have been the last one out. And therefore, she would be the tribute that failed to gain an advantage in what she saw in the other tributes. Time would go on forever, but the events surrounding it would not.

The blindingly white mono-directional hallways led her easily to the chariots. Immediately, she counted sixteen tributes already waiting by their respective chariots. The duo from Two, as well as Four were at the very front of the line.

Porter walked down the line, ignoring the other tributes that had already arrived. Their whispered conversations weren't something that she was inclined to listen to. The chances of them being a threat to her was fifteen-point-three percent. A not insignificant number, but Porter could think of no reason to take immediate action against them.

"Look at them," the female from Two said, her voice haughty. She was younger than the rest of the Careers. A volunteer at fifteen. Porter had remembered that in the hopes of finding a weakness.

She climbed up into the carriage for District Five and turned straight ahead. The tributes from Three were as of yet absent, and provided Porter a further chance to listen to the Careers. That had been the primary reason she left her stylist and prep team behind. She needed the opportunity to find a weakness in the strongest opposition.

"I can't wait!" the Two female continued. "I think I'll start with that Three boy. He looks like he'll be fun to kill."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a sadist," the Four female replied. She hadn't looked away from either of the Twos during their conversation. She crossed her muscular arms, and Porter could see an amused grin on her face.

"Oh, gross!" the Two female replied brattily. An unattractive look of disgust appeared on her face. "I'm no sadist! Blood is disgusting!"

"Could have fooled us," the Two male said, and Porter watched as the remark made his district partner wheel around to face him.

"There's a difference between being a sadist and being ambitious, Gideon," she said, just as haughty as before. "Honestly, you should thank me for volunteering. What would you do if that itty-bitty little friend of yours ended up here instead?" she asked, pouting her bottom lip.

Porter made a mental note. She deduced that the Twos had some kind of previous history together. But the hostility in the female's voice suggested that they weren't friends.

The male frowned. "What d-"

"Calm down!" the Four female interrupted. She raised her hands in what Porter assumed was supposed to be a placating manner and both of the Twos looked at her. "We're a team. And if you can't get along then…" she trailed off and raised her shoulders, "one of you will have to go."

The male dropped his gaze and Porter recognized the stance as one of submission. She had seen it plenty of times from the caregivers at the orphanage. The female, however, scoffed.

"Who made you the leader?" the Two female told the one from Four. She leaned forward and gestured between the two of them. "Beauty before age!"

Calculations began to form in Porter's mind. By the crease in the Four female's brow, Porter knew that the Two female was only barely tolerated. She could use that. But the question was how? There was an opportunity to remove the Two female from the equation.

"I did," the Four female answered, her tone friendly, but Porter knew better. "Or we can put it to a vote when the Ones get here."

The Two female scoffed. "Fine. Whatever."

The conversation came to a slow halt. Porter wasn't disappointed. The information she had gathered from her listening was more than she had before. It was something she could work with, limited as it was.

Porter didn't smile. Visually, she didn't even react. But her mind twisted over the information, turning it every possible way through her analytical mind. She could be patient. All it took was time.

A noise to her right told her that Watt had arrived, followed by the annoying voice of her own stylist. She didn't bother to turn as Watt stepped up onto the carriage beside her. Neither did she bother to turn when her stylist called her name.

"Come down, Porter. We need to do your hair!"

"No," Porter replied curtly, and without looking. She kept her gaze on the four Careers. Their conversation had resumed, but at a quieter tone than before. "You had your chance."

Her stylist said something, but Porter had already stopped listening. She were a waste of her time. Furthermore, she had interrupted her.

"Your level of importance to me is less than the dirt on my shoes," Porter stated mechanically. Silence hung in the air for a moment, before she finally heard the stylist walk away. Her eyes slid to the lips of each Career, and her mind worked to figure out what they were speaking of.

'We'll split the Bloodbath between us. Kill the highest scores first,' Porter read off of the female from Four. 'The quicker the better.'

'Feelin' sympathy for the outliers? Some leader you are,' the Two female sniped back. 'Is he just your pet?' she asked, and Porter saw her gaze snap to the male from Four, who had otherwise been completely silent.

"They're just trying to help," Watt said. "They know what the Capitol wants to see to help us."

'I can always ask him to kill you, if you want,' the Four female offered with a kind smile.

The Two female frowned. 'Was joking,' she said, and the Four female looked on at her skeptically.

Porter didn't respond to Watt. His needless banter had long annoyed her and she saw no reason to reply to something so pointless. A stylist could be well-meaning but that didn't make them useful.

'Excited, Nemo?' the Four female asked, and Porter saw her turn her head out of view. She wouldn't be able to read her lips from the new angle.

The Four male looked at the female, but Porter watched as his severe gaze turned and lifted. Until his eyes were right on Porter. 'Excited,' she saw him mouth.

A shiver of fear shook Porter and for the first time, she rapidly looked away towards Watt. Worry flooded through her system and clenched her tightly. Variables and possibilities hit her like a shock of electricity. She had underestimated the male from Four. She had deemed him to be unimportant at the reaping. An enemy that got by on strength alone. And further, she had thought it unlikely that she would be caught listening to them. From the angle of which she stood, to the shadows that bounced off the walls onto her just right, Porter had thought the odds of being to be approximately nine-point-seven percent.

But a low percentage never meant impossible.

"You look nice," Watt said.

"No, I don't," Porter replied, masking her worry easily. "There is nothing visually appealing about what I'm wearing."

She glanced down at herself and could get the idea behind the design. She and Watt had similar design elements attributing to the theme of their district. They had translucent bluish-white capes of material so thin, lightweight and sheer that it looked like flowing water when they moved forward or when the wind blew. There were beads of something metallic on the capes. If Porter had to guess, she surmised that they created an electrical charge that would be visible, giving quite a flashy appeal when they would be paraded out before the crowds.

Tactically, this was a logical and sound method of winning the hearts and minds of the easily amused folk. People like Porter failed to grasp the appeal of such attention-getting apparel that was unwieldy and impractical.

But if it worked…

The attire itself consisted of a tabard that bared her arms and sides - had she been modest, the exposed sides would be cause for concern with the slightest movements - with a silver belt cinched around her waist and a pair of dark grey pants that had a reflective strip running down the sides. The belt, and the strip appeared to function along with the cape to similarly share the electrical arcs that would start showing once the chariots began moving. Porter's only concern would be for the horses and she hoped the sound of the electrical discharges and the flashes of lightning wouldn't spook the creatures and disrupt the presentation. The last thing she needed was the President thinking she was out to sabotage the Games.

"Okay, you look ridiculous," Watt confessed with a chuckle. "I was trying to be polite."

"Yes," Porter agreed quietly, "you always are."

"P-...look, Porter," Watt said, finally forcing her attention to linger on him, and he looked pleadingly at her, "I…I'm not like you. I don't know how you're so...unfazed by everything."

She maintained her gaze, waiting for him to get to the point.

He shrugged helplessly. "I guess I'm just…we're district partners, and I'm a spark to your bolt, but please…can we…can we agree to uhm...I guess help each other? I know, I know, you're going to be doing most of the helping in this…I don't want to…"

Die, was the unspoken word, but the male was increasingly distraught as he went on, and Porter could admit to mild surprise at how openly he admitted how much of a liability he'd be to her, or the fact she'd be carrying him more than he can support her in her endeavors. She also was willing to admit she felt something…mildly, when he turned that pleading gaze on her.

After another long moment of just watching him, he looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't know what to add or provide that might sway her decision.

He was going to be a liability. Not part of a problem, but an entire problem. Yet, he was indeed her district partner. Of the few uses he would be to her, foremost among them was being a distraction to her enemies. The likelihood of him perishing within the aptly named Bloodbath was high.

Very high.

But would it be a hardship to offer him hope, false though it might be? Or would it be better to spell it out for him here and now. To set his expectations so he can adjust accordingly with his mentor, Nicola. She observed how his right hand gripped the handrails of the chariot so tightly his knuckles turned white.

And he held her even gaze, and that, she decided, was sufficient to warrant a token of mutual respect, if nothing else.

"If you stay close to me," she said flatly, "I will do what I can to see us through the Bloodbath."

He straightened up, his demeanor brightening visibly, and hope filled his eyes.

He needs to learn to conceal his emotions better, Porter thought.

"Thank you," he said, "really."

Porter nodded in lieu of the usual response, then snapped her head back towards him. "But after that, we part ways. You must find your own allies and choose your own path, make your own plans. I will not be disrupted or jolted."

Watt nodded. "Okay…I understand. And Porter?"

She looked wonderingly at him, and he smiled.

"You're nicer than I thought."

Not knowing what to say to that, she looked away. This was exactly why she did not want to be allied with him. His emotive responses had the potential to fluster or perplex, like right now. She was nice?

Even as the other tributes began to arrive, they began clambering onto the chariots. She barely heeded them even when one of them lost their footing and fell, making a loud crash that spooked one of the horses, though the attendants holding the reins kept the animal from rearing up and charging out.

Andromeda's voice began to insistently replay in her mind, and she went over the simple advice. Appeal to the audience without looking desperate.

After a glance at Watt's face, who wasn't looking at her, but was now rehearsing his expressions, Porter privately added to herself that trying not to look constipated was also prudent.

"Everyone to your places," one of the attendants called out.

Porter briefly felt her hair. Whatever material they added to give it a wet sheen and look somehow didn't leave residue on her hands, and it felt silky smooth. She had streaks of blue and silver coloration in them. The only thing she remembered about this was that she could wash it off afterwards. Watt's hair similarly had the same coloration and whatever oil they used to make it look perpetually soaked was visible.

The chariots were being paraded out to the roar of the crowds, and the watching President. She heard the sound of electricity sparking and with a peripheral glance at Watt, she could see the capes flowing behind them, and she was right, the tiny metal bits were generating electricity, the bolts flowed along the capes, making it look very impressive and flashy. Not to mention how the belt and the strips on the pants added to the whole lightning effect.

Of all the tributes she could see without turning her head about too much, no one else looked nearly as impressive.

Perhaps she should be a little more appreciative of the stylist's efforts.

She would verbally acknowledge her work if she saw her again.

Which was, coming from Porter, high praise.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

Sperren watched Winnow, who was watching everyone around her, except Sperren himself.

A sign of trust?

His own eyes fell on the girl with the misshapen ear from District Five. Porter Tripp, and her partner, Watt Kelter.

He felt an idle desire to see if that lack of expression would turn to one of terror or if she'd remain stoic should he redecorate her midsection. Watt…the boy Sperren knew would squeal before he even started. He wore his expressions on the outside like an unshelled kernel of rice.

He wouldn't say the boy would prove boring, but it wasn't anything new to what he's seen before. That Porter though. He sincerely hoped she would prove…interesting.

In a similar manner, he observed the tributes from the Career districts.

He sincerely hoped they provided a modicum of challenge. Would they be resistant when he started his work, or would they resort to begging as soon as they found themselves tactically disadvantaged? Would they maintain a facade of stoicism or break partway?

That Honoria.

He looked down at Winnow, who felt his gaze on her and looked silently at him, worry etched on her face.

He gestured with his head at Honoria, who was still engaged in conversation with Nausicaa Summers. Winnow's gaze followed until it landed on the youngest of the Careers.

"Tell me," he said, "throat, spine, or the back of the knees first?"

"What?" Winnow's head snapped back, to look sharply at him.

"To incapacitate her, which part would you attack first?" he expounded.

Winnow looked over at the girl now more thoughtfully.

After a while, she shyly turned to Sperren and said, "The…spine?"

"Are you asking me, or answering?" Sperren pushed. "Be sure of the decision. Think of the consequences of your choice."

She nodded and studied the girl more intently now.

"The spine," she said decisively, "cutting the throat would kill her quickly."

He nodded. It was the right answer.

"Too quickly," Winnow added, "I th-think."

She looked nervously at Sperren. "She wouldn't suffer…and the knees aren't good. She can still fight. Severing the spine paralyzes, and even kills slowly…right?"

A small surge of satisfaction flowed through him then.

She almost completely understands, he thought.

"Rather depends on how and where in the spine you sever the nerve," Sperren replied, nodding as he says so.

Winnow had a thoughtful look as she studied Sperren carefully. As they conversed, it became clear she was losing that timidity and nervousness. Not completely, but it was lessening with time. Sperren, for his part, did not flinch or feel nervous under the younger girl's scrutiny.

"The Killer of District Nine…" Winnow started, and Sperren's eyes sharpened for a moment, "...uses a similar method. The ones that are found…their spines are usually severed very cleanly and expertly."

Sperren was used to a number of reactions when the topic about the Killer of District Nine came up. Usually the loved ones of his victims were generally distraught, upset, enraged, confused, disbelieving. And if he were suspected in any way, then he'd be the focus of rage, fury, hostility or even desperate pleas, when the body was still missing.

Winnow showed none of these emotions. As far as he could glean, she was more…curious.

Curiosity and wonder.

"That is quite correct," Sperren finally said, "I find the method used to be quite…efficient."

"Me too," Winnow said shyly, and she smiled at him. "I think I would love to…uhm…to meet the Killer."

Sperren blinked.

That was as close to surprise as he'd ever show.

"Why is that?" he asked.

Winnow seemed to blush and looked away nervously now. And now, Sperren was curious. Or at least, he thought it must have been curiosity.

"I…I'd ask if I could…" she tried.

He waited patiently for her to continue, but when it seemed she wasn't going to, he finally prodded her verbally, "Yes?"

She looked back at him, a little surprised, then she laughed nervously, and said, "Well...I hope he'd let me watch."

Sperren tapped his fingers together as he digested her revelation. Yes, Winnow was very intriguing indeed.

"I see," Sperren said, "you aren't afraid that they might decide to make you another victim?"

She smiled, a little more confident now, and simply said, "Maybe. But…everyone needs friends."

That statement, in and of itself, seemed to make little sense, and Sperren certainly had little to no friends, so he didn't entirely agree with that sentiment. Yet, he couldn't deny the enigma of this girl intrigued him beyond anything he'd ever felt towards any other living person beyond the scope of potential victim.

Two tributes walked past their chariot and Sperren glanced at them. It was the Ones. Ivory and Chariot. They were both dressed like royalty, and both kept their heads held high. Sperren wondered if they would keep their heads high even as he split their skulls open.

"Mizar is nice," Winnow said suddenly and Sperren looked back at her. Her face lit up in a brilliant red, and Sperren figured she was embarrassed.

"Is he?" he asked, for a lack of certainty of what to say. Mizar was their first ever victor from District Nine. And the second victor in the Hunger Games overall. Sperren had seen him at previous reapings. And he'd looked perfectly broken then.

Or maybe that was because he'd murdered Mizar's daughter.

Oh, the screams she made. Sperren could remember that kill with such vividness. He'd befriended her, although Mizar had no idea. The look of betrayal on her face when he slid his knife into her had been exquisite.

"He…uh…" Winnow timidly rubbed her knuckles together and Sperren saw her bite down on the inside of her cheek. "He told me I should…uhm, run away from the Bloodbath."

Which only made sense. Given how many tributes perished in the Bloodbath every year. Running away would almost guarantee survival…but it would also leave them empty-handed. High risk, high reward.

"Are you going to?" Sperren asked. He looked across, and in front of them to where the Career tributes were. Ivory and Chariot had joined Nausicaa, Nemo, Gideon, and Honoria.

"Chariot on a chariot!" Gideon's voice boomed louder than anyone else. Sperren heard one of the Careers laugh.

"I…I…" Winnow meekly started, and she looked at him and shrugged. "I don't know…"

Sperren had never thought about having an ally in the Games. It had never crossed his mind. After all, the Games would have little difference to what he had already done in District Nine. The only difference would be that the prey would be stronger, and that they would already suspect his intentions.

No, Sperren had never thought of having an ally because he had never needed a use for one. But Winnow…she was too interesting to let go of. It would be a shame if she died in the arena, much less a shame if she died too early.

"Would you like to be allies?" Sperren asked at last and Winnow's eyes darted to him with a clear look of surprise.

"Can we be?" she asked with a squeak.

"Yes," Sperren answered.

Winnow beamed, a grin splitting across her face. Despite her meekness, Sperren doubted he could have picked anyone better.

A few chariots in front of them, the sound of someone vomiting tore Sperren's attention away. The twelve-year-old from Seven, Briar, doubled over the side of their chariot and threw up all over the ground. Her district partner, Heath, both stepped back to get away from her and put his hands on her shoulders to help her.

What would happen if she died before the Games even began? Sperren stared at the sight as Briar caught herself on the handrails of the chariot. Sperren envisioned catching up to her within the arena and cutting her open, from stomach to sternum. He could pull out her intestines to strangle her with them. Briar would be unable to do a thing about it. She was weaker than him, Sperren could tell. She was going to die and it would be beautiful.

Up ahead, the Careers had turned around to see what the commotion was. Honoria pointed and cackled while Chariot laughed. Chariot said something Sperren couldn't hear, not at the distance they were, but it made Honoria laugh even harder.

"Gross," Winnow said with a grimace.

"Yes," Sperren agreed. He wasn't fond of the sight of vomit and he turned away. The last of the tributes walked past their chariot into the one that was right in front of them. Sasha and Braiden from District Eight.

They looked equally ridiculous as each other. Both in costumes that looked as though they'd been designed with feathers and nothing else. Sasha held a large flute in her hand, and her expression gave nothing away. If she was irritated by her costume, she didn't show it.

"They're not gonna let you take that in," Braiden said as he stepped up into the chariot. "You know that, right?"

Sperren agreed. Sasha's flute was made of metal, it seemed. Additionally, it appeared to be about a foot long. The Gamemakers wouldn't let her take it into the arena. Sperren could think of a dozen ways that it could be used as a blunt weapon.

"Don't need it to!" Sasha exclaimed as she joined Braiden in their chariot. She had an accent, one that Sperren had never heard before. Her words seemed…sharp. There was no other way to describe it.

Braiden seemed lost. "So, then, why bring it?"

Sasha grinned and she leaned closer to Braiden. "You've been dying to ask that, haven't you?"

"Everyone to your places," an attendant called out.

Sperren leaned back and ceased eavesdropping on the Eights. "Looking forward to this?" Sperren asked Winnow instead and she exchanged a glance with him.

"I…guess," she replied timidly. "I…I'm not…good with crowds," she said.

"Jay said to smile and wave," Sperren said. He didn't care what kind of impact he made on the Capitol. Nor did he care if they would remember him in the arena.

"Right," Winnow said with a nod, like she was reassuring herself. "Easy. Smile and wave."

"Citizens of the Capitol," a voice boomed out through invisible loudspeakers. "I now present you with your tributes for the 38th annual Hunger Games!"

The large doors opened ahead of them and light pooled inside. The District One chariot wasted no time in pulling away and out into the public. Sperren could already hear the cheering and screaming of voices. The many, many people of the Capitol who would watch them be properly introduced.

The commentator went on to say more inane words, but Sperren didn't see the point in listening any further. What the Capitol saw here during this parade was all just a facade. No, the tributes wouldn't show their real selves until training. And that was where Sperren could see how interesting each tribute actually was.

The only way Sperren could feel any sort of emotion. Whether it be excitement or pleasure. Controlling the ability of someone else's life…and their death. And still, Sperren felt nothing over the loss of each death. Ninety-one deaths and no one to stop him. So close to one-hundred. That was his goal. Set out only because that was something that someone with emotions would do. But all Sperren saw was another task to accomplish. He wouldn't stop there. He had no intention to.

Applause and cheering erupted as each chariot made it out into the public, and directly in front of them, Sperren saw as Sasha brought her flute to her mouth and began to play.

"Could bash her over the head with that flute," Winnow said quietly and Sperren gazed over at her. She met his gaze, like she wanted him to say something. "Or…or shove it through her eye."

An enigma indeed.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Porter stepped out into the gymnasium from the elevator without wasting any time. Watt swiftly followed her from behind and she quickly scanned the room. Most of the tributes had already arrived. The only ones who hadn't were the two from Eleven.

The gymnasium looked as Porter expected it to. Plenty of stations to work on. From weapons to survival. Andromeda had advised to work on the survival stations primarily. Nicola had told them that the Careers would use the weapon stations almost exclusively.

Porter would not abandon the weapons stations. The skills she gained here would benefit in the arena. A lack of preparedness would kill as easily as a Career would. There would be no point in listening to Andromeda's advice. The only tribute she ever brought back had been Nicola. Thirty-five years after she won her own.

No, the statistics showed for themselves. Porter would make her decisions based on the information and data available to her.

The sound of the elevator doors opening told her that the tributes from Eleven had arrived and Porter stepped into the semi-circle that had formed the head trainer. But Porter didn't look at him. She examined the tributes around her as the man spoke.

"Training is a vital part of survival in the Hunger Games," the man said. "In a couple of days, most of you are going to be dead."

Porter looked at the Careers first. They were her most prominent threat towards survival. Six volunteers. The Capitol enjoyed that fact, she knew. But the strongest appeared to be the female from Four. She would be the leader this year. Even through their training uniforms, Porter could see her bulging muscles.

A basic study of her form said that she could potentially be lightning quick despite her size and build, and should not be underestimated. As much as Porter surmised she could potentially eliminate the female of Four, she knew her chances doubled if she had suitable distraction to use. The Bloodbath was the best bet for any kind of tactical advantage. That said, the Bloodbath was too unreliable a factor due to the myriad of possibilities and the sheer chaos that occurred in split seconds. With twenty-four individuals all affecting and changing outcomes, all in their self-seeking purpose. There was no secret that when it came down to it, everyone in the arena had only themselves to truly rely on.

Mentally dismissing any further strategems on how to eliminate the Careers for now, she concentrated instead on the instructor.

They were soon assigned to various stations, being allowed turns at pretty much everything. The Capitol wanted fine entertainment, and would provide some measure of training to help address any glaring weaknesses each tribute had. Or enhancing any strengths they already had.

Porter took a moment to honestly assess her own strengths, and weaknesses.

And that was why she decided she needed to really take some lessons in weapons handling.

Porter glanced at one of the ranged stations. The duo from Seven were already there, and the female had picked up a bow and arrow while her district partner watched. It would do. Learning the proficiencies of a bow would reduce her chances of getting hurt significantly. Fighting from a distance was preferable.

She walked over to the station without paying the two other tributes much mind. The female was twelve. And overall, had a weak stature. Porter doubted that she would last long within the arena. The male, however, was older. And by appearances, he looked far stronger.

"Do you wanna try, Heath?" the female asked. She awkwardly handled the bow and held an arrow in her other hand.

"It's okay, you go first," the male said. He looked over at the wall of axes. "I think I'll try one of those."

"Oh, obviously!" the female teased, and the male smiled.

"What can I say? I'm a stereotype," the male replied. He stepped away to pull an axe off of the rack.

There were an assortment of different weapons. Bows. Axes. Spears. Plenty for Porter to try her hand at. But none of them truly appealed to her as the bow did. Part of her doubted that she would be able to pick up the skill, but she hoped it would. She had three days to figure out which weapon was most suitable.

The female from Seven lifted the bow and pulled back the arrow. Her face twisted in a struggle. It only reinforced Porter's opinion that she was weak.

She let the arrow fly, and Porter watched as it cut through the air…and missed all of the targets by a wide margin.

But the female laughed brightly, and the action confused Porter. She missed. Why was she laughing? "Whoops!" the female said with a smile. The female exuded glee. Why? Porter didn't understand.

"It's okay, you got this," the male said. He palmed his axe and stepped up beside his district partner. He raised it and took aim, preparing himself to throw.

"I think you do, too," the female said, smiling. Always smiling, it seemed. The male threw the axe and Porter watched with keen eyes as he twisted his body with the motion of his arm, and his hand released. The axe threw forward with a spin, and it slammed into the lower half of one of the target dummies with a loud thud.

The male appeared satisfied, a smile gracing his lips. It appeared acceptable. It would certainly stop someone from going after her, if she had thrown that axe into them in the arena. Porter looked at the male in a new light. Her deductions that he was strong were correct, but that was nothing. He could prove to be an obstacle and a threat…or an ally. Porter wasn't sure which.

"I knew you could throw!" the female said, smiling at her partner. "Well done."

Porter stepped beside the two of them. Range would be her most nominal ally in whatever the arena was. So she had to become sufficient enough in her use of a bow.

She grabbed a bow off of the nearby rack and took an arrow into her hand. The bow weighed approximately twenty-point-two pounds. The arrow weighed exactly four-hundred thirty-six grains. Porter lined up her shot without wasting time. Then she let go, and the arrow fired away.

Porter frowned when it barely missed the target. "Good try," the female from Seven said, her hands on her hips as she watched. "Better than I did."

"A miss is still a miss," Porter said simply. A missed shot wouldn't collide with what she needed it to. She reached for another arrow, but a hand caught hers and made her freeze.

Porter looked their way and nervousness suddenly erupted within her gut, though she kept her facial expression neutral. It was the male from One. He leered at her and held out his hand. "I'll be taking that, thanks," he said.

The rack had plenty of weapons. Plenty of bows. Porter flicked her gaze to the male. He was dangerous. A volunteer with five other allies who were as equally minacious as he was. Training had just started. It wouldn't be smart to make an enemy so soon.

As Porter saw it, she had two options. She could snub him or hand over her own bow. One of those would put an early target on her back and Porter ran over the odds in her head. The arena was a mystery and it would be until they rose into it from their platforms. So Porter stepped back and held out her bow. There were other weapon stations that she could endeavor.

The One male took the bow and shoved past her, knocking her to the side with his shoulder, but not hard enough to put her on the ground. Porter stared back at him, analytically going over him.

"Now watch and learn," he said at the Sevens. The female just smiled back at him while the male paled.

The One male plucked up a handful of arrows and, quick as lightning, he slotted one into place and fired. Arrow after arrow. His aim was impressive. Each one landed precisely where Porter assumed he meant for them to land. The target's eye, throat, or heart.

A wicked smile appeared on the male's face as he shot off arrow after arrow, each one landing exactly where the male intended. Porter's nervousness was quick to ebb away. It made no sense to be fearful of him. Until the arena, he couldn't physically harm any of them. He might be trained, but Porter knew he could be overpowered as easily as anyone else.

When the male finished firing, the female from Seven smiled with a nod. "Wow, that was amazing!" she said.

The male from One scoffed and he dropped the bow. It clattered to the ground and Porter looked between it and the male. "You know what will be more amazing?" he asked, slowly dragging his feet forward toward the female from Seven.

For the first time, the female faltered. Her smile dimmed and her district partner put a hand on her shoulder. His face was fearful, but he stood tall behind his district partner. Porter wondered why he did. The female clearly wouldn't last. He would be able to do better than her.

"When I find you in the arena," the male from One said, "you'll grovel at my feet. You won't be a real challenge in the slightest."

The female from Seven stepped back into the chest of the male from Seven. Her dimmed smile had given way to absolute terror.

"I saw you vomit all over your chariot," the One male said with a laugh. "I'm gonna kill you so quick in the Bloodbath…"

"Leave her alone," the Seven male finally said. His face had gone white and Porter silently looked at him. She stepped back, quietly retreating from the incident unfolding in front of her. There was no strategic reason to get herself involved.

"After she vomited all over my namesake?" the One male asked. His face dipped into a sneer. "Not on your life, Seven. If you wanna die with her, all you had to do was-"

"HEY!" someone else shouted and the scrawny male from Twelve approached them, shoving his hands against the One male. The act barely knocked him back, but there was a look of shock on his face.

"Get your dirty fingers off of me!" the male from One said fiercely. "How dare you!?"

Peacekeepers watched, weapons ready, but none appeared too interested in leaving their posts just yet. But incidents have occurred before. Porter considered the Sevens. The male was marginally more useful, whilst the female was most certainly Bloodbath fodder. But the male clearly will not part with the female barring her death. The One male and the Twelve male's intervention presented her with an early opportunity to ingratiate herself with the Sevens. Now she need only solve the issue with One without earning high hatred.

She stepped closer, back straight, and poised as tall as her five foot four frame would allow, locking eyes with One, and holding silence for exactly three seconds before any sound emerged from her mouth.

"There is nothing to gain but the enmity of the Capitol and the President by lashing out now," she said, "save your rage for when you present your strength in its fullest within the Games. Only four days to go."

The male from One stared hard at her, but as she maintained an unblinking stare, he sneered and let out a breath through his nostrils as he said, "Right then. Four days. Four days, Seven. That's all your days of living left."

He grinned at the two, looked down at Porter and then the Twelve male before he stalked away, returning to his flock.

The Sevens looked at each other in mild surprise, then at Porter. Warily.

Suppressing an internal sigh, she supposed that was another probability. After all, no one did anything without expecting something in return. Now, to pursue the matter or abandon it?

The Seven male would be adequate assistance, Porter decided and so she opened her mouth to speak when a hand grasped her by the left arm, and the Sevens and the Twelve male watched wide-eyed as the One female, Porter had finally managed to notice, dragged her away from her potential allies quite forcefully.

As she was much smaller and lighter, it was really not that big of an effort on the One female's part. Yet, now that the One female had lost the element of surprise, Porter dug her heels in and braced against the nearest heavy obstacle, anchoring herself, and jarring the One female's efforts to drag her any further. A quick glance along the path One had been taking, Porter saw that she'd intended to drag her to the Careers. And based on the blazing hatred in One's eyes, Porter had no wish to find out what would happen should she allow the One female to drag her further from any kind of support.

Watt had noticed and had hesitantly started approaching them.

Despite the One female's greater height, Porter maintained a firm stare and maintained an immovable stance, brooking no further ease of carriage for One to use to shift her further away from potential support.

Snarling, the female from One stopped trying and gripped the front of Porter's shirt by the collars and half lifted her, trying to bring herself nose-to-nose with the much shorter Porter.

"I've been waiting for this day, Porter Tripp," One said, "waiting for you to be reaped."

Porter watched her, waiting for the female to elaborate. They always did.

When she didn't get any response from Porter, One made an angry noise, and bared her teeth. "Your pretty boy mentor, Nicola, killed my sister!"

Porter's eyes shifted upwards and to the right as she recalled Nicola's Games; it had certainly been quite brutal, and indeed, the female from District One met her end at Nicola's hands.

"That is what happens in the Hunger Games," Porter said impassively.

One had certainly made up her mind about Porter, there was little point in negotiating, pleading or asking anything really. She would probably issue death threats and maybe throw in whatever subtle attack she could manage, before leaving her.

"Yeah? Pretty glib, aren't you?" One growled, "We'll see how cool and brave you'll be when I tear you limb-from-limb! You and your partner, I'm gonna kill in the Bloodbath!"

So predictable.

She very roughly shoved Porter back, who tripped and fell on her rump. She nonetheless watched One indifferently until the other female broke eye-contact and walked away, growling in frustration. She clearly hoped Porter would show fear or beg, or say something more. But she didn't get that, and now moved on to find someone else to intimidate.

Porter suddenly found a pair of arms slipping under hers and hoisting her to her feet quickly. She found Watt, who flushed at her unblinking gaze and said, "Uh, you okay?"

After a moment just before it'd get too awkward, Porter answered, "Yes, I am all right. Thank you."

"She's quite a discharge, isn't she?" Watt asked, referring to One.

Porter tilted her head and considered the remark, before slowly nodding, "Yes, just a little."

Watt laughed, "A little? Hah!"

The quickest quirk of her lips was the most mirth she showed, before excusing herself and returned to the ranged station. Someone else had procured the bow and arrows she'd been using and returned it to the rack, and Porter reached for a new bow when another hand rested on the body of the very same one she was picking and she locked eyes with the male from District Nine.

Unease pooled in Porter's gut. Her expression remained neutral, but it looked as though the male in front of her had a vast nothingness behind his eyes. Porter stepped to the side, circling the male as he looked away from her, taking hold of the bow and nocking an arrow quite swiftly.

Porter strayed to his other side. She cast a glance over her shoulder to find where the trio of the Sevens and Twelve male had left to. Porter spotted them as they crouched around one of the survival stations. Porter was unsure which one.

The Nine male pulled his arrow backband let go. Porter watched it as it flew through the air, and missed the target dummy. A smaller distance than what she had seen from the Seven female. But a distance nonetheless. His aim was subpar. Porter could feel her unease begin to slip away.

"I saw Chariot here earlier," the male said and Porter looked away from him. She gazed over her options of ranged weapons. Her hand darted out to grab onto the throwing knife. Sixteen ounces. It would do.

Porter didn't reply to the male's statement. It wasn't a question, so she didn't see the point in responding. She wrote him off as a possible ally. The emptiness in his eyes had helped her come to such a decision. The Games would be full of untrustworthy people. Porter wasn't one to make decisions based on emotions. But she would make an exception. Just this once.

Porter glanced at the station's trainer that had been completely silent. He stood tall with hands behind his back, but he didn't make any move to help instruct her on just how she should hold the knife.

She took the blade between her fingers and pulled back her arm, curling her hand until it was just above her shoulder. Then, she threw it, twisting her arm in one swift motion…and Porter watched as it impaled into the edge of the target fabric.

"Interesting," the male beside her said. He notched another arrow and let go. Porter watched as it missed again. But the male didn't make a noise of disappointment like she expected, nor one of glee like the female from Seven. He did nothing at all.

"Why are you here?" Porter asked. He clearly wasn't here to use the bow. Not when he missed both shots and hadn't asked the trainer for help. She reached for another knife without looking at the Nine male.

"You're the most interesting person here," the Nine male said. He laid the bow down on the rack and Porter looked at him without a word.

"And everyone else here are little speckles borne of a neutral charge? How disappointing," Porter said blankly.

The Nine male tilted his head. "Sarcasm? You are worth keeping an eye out for," he said.

Porter felt a chill. This male wasn't someone she was used to handling. People with emotions, Porter knew well. They were simple. And Porter could play to that. But someone who didn't seem to have any was something new.

"You don't feel things," Porter stated bluntly. It was a welcome change to the emotes that Watt consistently produced. It explained the void behind his eyes.

"Quite the deduction to make on such limited information," the Nine male said. And to that, Porter didn't respond. She twisted her arm back and threw the knife. It cut into the target further than the last one.

"What is your name?" Porter asked and she pivoted towards the male mechanically.

"Sperren Dwightbone," he said.

Porter offered her hand. It was the most that he would receive.

"Porter Millicent Tripp."

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

"Porter Millicent Tripp."

Sperren took her proffered hand and shook it once before she let go. She turned away from him again to pick up another knife to throw. He'd never been one for range. Sperren preferred to be close.

Porter's expression hadn't changed in the slightest. If Sperren could be excited about anything, it would be for closing the distance between himself and Porter and splitting her head open. Would her expression change then? Would it change when she realized that she was about to die? What would her reaction be to it?

Sperren stepped back. From the corner of his eye he could see Winnow spar with one of the trainers. She wasn't necessarily good, but she was learning.

"I take it that you interrupted Chariot to sow goodwill with Briar and Heath," Sperren said. He wanted Porter to know that he had been watching her. Jay had told him, and he'd overheard her plenty of times, that the Games changed people. So how interesting could Porter become if the pressure continued to apply?

Porter's knife hit the target with a thunk. This time where the lung would be. "Your attempts at sparking a conversation are trivial at best," Porter stated. She turned her head towards him, her eyes locking with his. "If you want an alliance, ask."

"An alliance?" Sperren repeated. He stepped forward, closer into Porter's personal space. "How dull." He leaned closer into Porter, pushing back. If she was surprised by his sudden action, she didn't show it. But Sperren was determined to make her show something. He wanted to see her face twist in fear. And if not now, when?

"You are-" Porter started to say, but Sperren interrupted her. He couldn't harm her here, and he had no intention to do so. His eyes flicked to the trainer and the Peacekeepers, but none of them seemed overly worried.

"Try not to die in the Bloodbath, Porter," he said. Loud enough that only she would hear. "You're too interesting for that."

And with that, Sperren pulled away. He didn't bother to examine Porter's expression, for he already knew what would be there: nothing.

Nemo and Nausicaa from Four sparred together a short distance away from Winnow. Chariot was at a different ranged station, firing arrow after arrow into moving targets. Ivory slashed away at training dummies with a sword. Honoria attacked dummies with a kusarigama, yanking it back into her hands after it struck deep. And finally, Sperren found Gideon on one of the obstacle courses, moving expertly along it.

Sperren continued his approach towards Winnow, just in time for the trainer to disarm her, and she let out a squeak. "You're getting better," the trainer said despite Winnow's nervousness.

"I am?" she asked, taking the sword handle back when the trainer offered it.

"Yes," the trainer said with a nod. "You'll do well to remember it. It might just save your life."

Winnow chewed on the inside of her cheek and nodded her head rapidly. She started to take a few steps back when her eyes landed on Sperren as he came to a stop near them.

"Hey," Winnow said shyly. She awkwardly swung her sword loosely in front of her. A saber with a rounded hilt. Her face was flushed with exertion. Sperren glanced over at the nearby dummies as an idea started to form in his head. The trainer had only helped Winnow in how to defend and disarm.

He wouldn't have taught her how to kill.

"What…uhm," Winnow started to say, before awkwardly stopping. Sperren looked at her and raised an eyebrow, and she finally asked, "What do you wanna do next?"

Winnow started to back up, turning her body half-way to put her sword back on the rack where she'd gotten it from.

"Hold onto that," Sperren said, and Winnow stopped abruptly, her face lighting up in surprise. Porter might be interesting, but Winnow was ever more so.

"O-okay," Winnow said meekly.

Sperren led them to the dummies. "You know enough to defend yourself," he started, and nodded at her chosen weapon, "but it's not enough to parry and block attacks. A pure defense is like a seed on thin soil or sand. It dies."

Winnow gulped and looked shaken.

"You must know how to kill, or more importantly," he couldn't help himself, "incapacitate and ensure you have the time to eliminate your prize properly."

"My prize?" Winnow asked shyly.

"If they can't move, can't defend themselves, what else are they?" Sperren asked simply.

She didn't respond, but merely watched him. Taking that as consent to keep going, Sperren then gestured to the dummy in front of him. "Never give them a chance to see you. Stealth is your best friend. Be one with the ground, and sprout forth as a killing plant when you are close behind them."

He then tapped the specific region of the back where the spinal column is, and for emphasis, tapped his own back.

"This spot," he said, "is what you want to sever quickly."

Winnow proved to be quick and eager to learn, as she stepped close and thrust her blade right into the dummy where he'd pointed out, and then looked hopefully at him.

She was eager, Sperren granted. But she needed a bit of instruction on strength management.

"You put too much force into it," he said, "with that much pressure applied, you would have cut clean through the spine and into the pancreas, and intestines, causing severe and rapid hemorrhaging. They would bleed out internally in seconds. Ruining your crop and its full potential yield."

Worse, they might not even give him the satisfaction of showing fear at the speed at which they'd die. At best, he'd get shock, but that's nowhere near as satisfying as fear or anger or hatred.

Though he did not inflect any negative intonation in his words, they seemed to make Winnow deflate visibly. "I'm sorry," she said.

"It is your first time," Sperren replied simply, "it's rare to get it right immediately."

She eyed him with a glint then, and Sperren noted that expression. Clearly her mind was working something out.

Mentally shrugging, he continued his lesson. "You make a thrust, in and out, quickly, but no more than this much."

He made a space between his thumb and index finger, indicating the length of insertion of the blade.

"Familiarize yourself with your blade and its length, you know how much force and how far you'd need to go to sever the spine, but not kill."

Winnow nodded firmly and seriously, seeming to take the lesson with the gravity it held. Good.

The instructions continued, giving a good solid foundation. He taught her how to carefully cut the victims open, how to draw the satisfaction of their deaths without ending their lives in a hurry, the importance of keeping them alive for as long as possible. A cheap thrill was a quick kill. No better than growing carrots. No real satisfaction. This he ingrained with deep conviction, and she accepted this with fervor.

"You're really…uhm…good at this," Winnow remarked, and that squint was there, still puzzling him out, "I think…watching you, will be very interesting."

Sperren raised an eyebrow, but expressed nothing else. Still, she had a point. A practical demonstration was ideal, but he wasn't sure he wanted to wait four more days before he could show her and have her apply what she learnt.

He searched around the premises. The Peacekeepers would certainly be a most interesting target, though a tad too ambitious, even for him. Perhaps one of the trainers? Too public a target and a very thorough investigation would be had, that could crimp his enjoyment. No, that left…yes.

The Avoxes.

There were plenty, and it was possible one could be missed. Now he just needed to plan out and seek all the blind spots around here, and a nice secluded place. Avoxes couldn't speak, but they could still make noise. Need to figure that out too.

Sperren cast a glance around the gymnasium. Briar and Heath from Seven had joined a station with Kefinn, the male from Twelve. An alliance had formed there. It would prove interesting in the arena. How to pick them off one by one…

Chip from Three talked animatedly with Logan from Eleven. Sperren knew that if not now, they would soon form an alliance as well. And although Sperren wasn't capable of being glad, he hoped that they would partner up. If only it would allow one of them to see the other become his victim right in front of them.

Sperren's eyes stopped on the rope course. His eyes trailed as the girl from Eight, Sasha, moved about the course with expertise that he didn't expect. Not from a girl from Eight. Her district partner, Braiden, looked up at her from the ground with a look of uneasiness. As did the girl with the colorful hair from Three, Pixel.

Sperren watched as Sasha moved, as though she were in the middle of a performance. She was going to play to the cameras. It was obvious. Between her stunt at the parade with her flute, and now…Sperren had had plenty of victims just like her. Girls who wanted to be the center of attention.

Soon enough, Sasha climbed down from the course grandly, and with a bow. She beamed at Braiden and Pixel and her eyes moved up, and up, until they found a spot and her expression changed to one of annoyance.

Sperren turned his head to follow her gaze up to the Gamemaker booth, where they all watched over them. Sperren supposed they did the same thing he did. Watched. Searching for victims. Which ones would be interesting enough?

While Winnow worked on the dummy, Sperren watched the Head Gamemaker Demonstrate Vanderblathe.

If Sperren could feel excitement, it would thrum through his veins.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Lunch was a very unfortunate affair as far as Porter was concerned. She wasn't prone to irritation, but this came very close.

The Careers were louder than ever. As they sat at their cafeteria table, they broke out into loud and boastful conversations. The only ones that were quiet were the two from Four. And as Porter cast a glance at their table, the female from One glared right back at her.

"She doesn't look happy," Watt said from beside her. He slid his fork into his mouth, chewing on the meal that the Capitol had provided them.

"She promised to kill me," Porter revealed blandly.

Watt stopped mid-chew and swallowed suddenly, his features taking on a concerned expression. "That's what that was about?" he asked.

Porter didn't dignify his question with an answer. She snapped her attention away from the Careers as they laughed and chatted with each other. The female from Two was the loudest. Instead, she looked at the other tributes. Alliances had already formed, she could see. The Sevens and the male from Twelve had gathered at one table. Porter dismissed the idea of getting the Seven male in an alliance of her own. It wouldn't be possible now that her opportunity had evaded her. The males from Three and Eleven respectively sat in the corner of the cafeteria, talking quietly to each other. Porter didn't bother to try to read their lips. They wouldn't last long in the arena. And if they did, they wouldn't be threats to her survival. Most of the other tributes sat by their district partner, with the exception of the two from Six, who each sat by themselves, as well as the duo from Ten and the female from Twelve.

"What are you thinking?" Watt asked, but Porter didn't look at him. She was certain that plenty of other alliances had likely formed, ones between district partners alone. But that wouldn't stop her from pinpointing who she could do with inside the arena.

The female from Eleven looked stronger than she did during the reaping recap. Porter had seen her primarily at the medical station. Yes, she would do nicely.

Calculations flooded into Porter's mind as she watched the Eleven female eat her food. She needed an ally that was capable, yet also someone Porter would be able to kill should the time come.

"Sasha, please don't," the male from Eight, at the table next over, said. He sat beside the female from Three, Porter noticed as she glanced over.

Whatever the male didn't want the Eight female to do, Porter didn't know. But she watched as she muttered something that Porter didn't get the chance to try to read, and she slammed her hands down on the table roughly enough that it shook the cups of water.

Conversations came to an abrupt stop, and all eyes were on the female from Eight. She stared at her district partner, before her face lit up, a wide grin spreading across her lips.

"Jealous, Braiden?" she asked, before finally looking away, her gaze rotating around the room. Porter started to turn away, disregarding the conversation when the female started to speak again. "Here we are, competitors-come-foes," she said.

Porter looked back, her methodical mind already running calculations through her head.

"Are you all ready for the dangers yet to come?" she asked, but there was something else in her voice that stopped Porter still. A lilt. A note. "Little do you know, the battle has begun."

The female tapped her foot, creating a dull beat throughout the room. Her district partner dropped his head on the table and covered his face.

"Give it your all, you'll all stand alone, not unless you brave a chance against your greatest foe!"

She stood up onto the benches of the table, gesturing grandly at the Careers with an extended arm. Her grin had yet to falter, even as the Two female let out a low growl.

What was this? Porter had been taken aback and she glanced over her shoulder, where the Gamemakers were observing them from above. The Head Gamemaker looked towards them. Or more specifically, at the female from Eight.

And then Porter understood all at once.

"That will be the only way you'll change your fate," the female sang, stepping up onto the table from the bench, kicking her tray of food to the ground with a loud clang.

She was trying to appeal to the Gamemakers, Porter realized. To give herself a greater chance by stealing any kind of spotlight she could get. Even at the risk of angering the Careers.

It wasn't a bad rendition, and clearly the female had an excellent voice that carried effortlessly in tune and volume. But it was…a first, and very unconventional. Nobody knew what to make of it, though the male from Eight was very visibly mortified. All around, there were mixtures of anger, wariness, wonder and even impressed faces. Not that the male from Nine seemed to care much. Watt had a small smile on his face, and he seemed enthused by the Eight female's ongoing performance.

Porter just wanted it to end so she could return to finishing her food without further disruptions.

She was already behind by two minutes from all the staring and watching.

The female from Eight leapt suddenly, jumping from the table she stood on to the next. Where all the Careers sat, glaring up at her as she continued her song. The female extended her arms and grinned widely at them.

"But there's only one person to come from the arena," the female continued to sing, walking across the table as she did. "Oh, who will it be?"

None of this made sense to Porter. This female was actively making herself an enemy of the Careers. She'd earned their ire and Porter could not see them letting her go once the Games started. She saw the Four female's eye twitch in irritation, and Porter stabbed her fork into her meal.

Whatever the reason, it helped Porter's own odds. But the female from One…she wouldn't give up on a grudge so easily, Porter deduced. She slipped her fork into her mouth, chewing on the food that had been provided for her.

"Here we go again," the Eight female said, and her leg shot out, kicking the tray of food that belonged to the One male, spilling its contents all over his chest.

The One male stood up straight, anger in his eyes. Porter heard someone laugh, and she glanced at the Ten female, who seemed so incredibly amused. As Porter chewed on her meal, she looked up at where the Head Gamemaker watched, a hand on his chin. He appeared to be deep in thought.

"Are you ready for the dangers yet to come?" the Eight female sang, catching the tray of the Two female with her heel, and throwing it off the table.

The Careers looked absolutely enraged, and all of Porter's calculations were thrown to the wind. None of this made sense to her. It was as if the Eight female was seeking death from the strongest tributes.

"Little do you know, the battle has begun!" The Eight female caught the tray of the One female and slid it off the table, the food crashing to the ground loudly.

It was as if each of the Careers wanted to strangle the Eight female, but knew better than to attack outside of the arena. The Peacekeepers had all lined up, ready for any sudden movements from either party.

"Give it your all," the Eight female continued, kicking up the tray that belonged to the Two male, even as he held it down to the table. The food fell down his front and into his lap.

Porter didn't bother to look at any of the other tributes. She could see how the Careers were barely holding their rage together. The male from One and the female from Two especially. Perhaps the Eight female had provided her a boon. Weaknesses that she could exploit, should she need to.

"You'll all stand alone," the female from Eight sang, crashing her foot into the Four male's food, and just like all the others, it spilled onto the floor.

But what kind of weakness could Porter find here? Yet so far, the only things she had managed to gather were their proficiencies for their preferred weapons. A factor to avoid.

"Not unless you brave a chance against your greatest foe!" the Eight female sang, and she kicked away the Four female's tray, sending it six feet, three inches away from its prior position, and it hit the ground with a rattle.

The female from Eight jumped off the table, and bowed dramatically.

"You're dead, Eight," the Two female snarled.

"Haven't you been listening?" the Eight female replied, wheeling around to face the Two female, even as she stormed closer and closer. "It's a goodbye song!" She lowered her tone to a quieter level. "For you."

There was a palpable silence in the air at that declaration, and Porter went through all the probabilities and verity of the words. But she found none that held true.

"Honoria, please," the male from Two finally said pleadingly. He looked very, very reluctant to speak, Porter thought. She cut into her meal as she watched the scene unfold. "She isn't worth your time."

The male's district partner glared at the Eight female, who shot her an unrepentant grin in return. She didn't appear worried. Porter didn't scan the rest of the cafeteria to see their reactions. Whether or not the Eight female's performance was adequate, it was bothersome. Irritating.

Andromeda had informed her once of a shtick that she could manufacture. Porter supposed that this performance from the Eight female had been exactly that. A performance. One to generate enough interest for the Gamemakers.

"As soon as the gong goes off," the female from Two snarled, jabbing her finger into the Eight female's chest, "I'm coming for you."

Porter swallowed her food, the taste failing to register to her. The oddities of the Careers and the Eight female faded out of her focus. The female had done nothing but cause a distraction and raise the Careers' hatred against her.

A bell suddenly rang loudly, and Porter stood on cue, her lunch unfinished. It didn't matter that it was unfinished. The food would sustain her. She placed her fork down. It weighed exactly one-point-seven-two ounces. Little effort would be required to use it as a weapon, if Porter were to be close enough to neutralize a threat.

She walked out of the canteen and through the gymnasium. Porter scanned the stations she had yet to use. Options to pick up from that Porter glanced over. But they weren't the ones she felt any need to pick. Not yet. The female from Eleven stalked towards the first-aid station and Porter shifted her pace in that direction.

"You're back," the trainer said as the female reached the station. Porter detected the eagerness in his tone, but disregarded it.

"Yup," the Eleven female said. Porter glanced at the station's uses. There were mannequins fitted for a tribute's use. Amputation techniques.

Porter barely took the mannequin in. Instead she watched the Eleven female as she crouched down beside it and shook her hands out in what Porter deduced to be anxiety. The female hadn't looked her way once and Porter stepped closer into the station, her analytical eyes gazing over the options that it held.

None of it truly appealed to her. Wound-dressing. Burn treating. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Porter was familiar with it all. Working with electricity as she did in District Five had resulted in such things becoming common.

The female from Eleven activated the mannequin she was in front of, and the fake blood began to gush out of what would be a near-fatal injury on a real person. The female had been given approximately thirty seconds to tourniquet the wound, amputate the limb, and cease the bleeding.

Eleven wasted no time in getting to work and Porter watched with a calculating gleam. She counted down the seconds in her mind without looking at the clock. But the female's fingers were nimble as she worked, swiftly creating a tourniquet in exactly four seconds, seventy-seven milliseconds. She worked quickly, throwing into action as time ticked down.

However, by the time that the Eleven female disconnected the limb from the body, the thirty seconds had passed, and she let out a sigh, falling back on her hands. If she minded the fake blood, she didn't show it. Porter took in the exhausted determination that intermingled in her expression.

She stood up and walked to the sink, and ran the water over her hands. "You can have a turn," she said to Porter, looking briefly at her before she turned her full attention to her hands.

"No," Porter said bluntly. She had no intention of trying. "I'm here to ask you to be my ally."

The female looked at her in surprise. "That's sudden," she said. "I don't…I don't know who you are?" she added.

Porter extended her hand, just as she did for the male from Nine - Sperren, he'd said his name was. "Porter Millicent Tripp."

The female looked at her, then eyed her offered hand warily. "Citron," she said and started to reach out to take her's, but thought differently at the last second and retracted it.

Porter didn't care. Such things to do to be polite were a waste of time. Porter had seen plenty of people who redirected from the main power line rather than get to the most important point. It was sluggish.

"What makes you think I should trust you?" Citron asked, turning off the sink and she shook her hands out. "There's twenty-two other tributes that would sooner stab me in the back than be an ally," she said, her face guarded.

"Between fifteen other tributes, you are visually the strongest," Porter said simply. "Therefore, my chances of survival rises with you."

Citron raised an eyebrow, but Porter's expression didn't change. She'd laid out the primary facts that led her to this decision. The Seven male wouldn't leave the side of his district partner. A factor that would likely result in his own death. A likelihood of sixty-eight percent by Porter's calculations.

"You're quite blunt, aren't you?" Citron remarked.

"Yes, I am," was Porter's simple reply, "it is far more efficient, and avoids wasting time. Time that can be spent learning, or taking action. Deliberation is performed all the time between any and all activities."

Citron arched an eyebrow at this. "If I didn't know better, I'd ask if you were crop-grown or factory produced."

"Neither," Porter answered seriously.

Citron laughed, then. But she graced the petite girl with a thoughtful look. "So one…maybe two more questions. Why me? And we both know at some point, assuming we agree to be allies at all, when do we stop being allies?"

Always an uncomfortable subject, but a valid one. After all, there was always only ever one survivor. No exceptions.

"Your first aid skills are advanced; far more than my own even if I were to dedicate the next two days solely to learning the craft," Porter stated mechanically, her intonation giving no hint to emotions, "as for holding an alliance, should you agree, my intent is to maintain said alliance until only we both remain. Should our teaming up provide such a successful endeavor, we would be intimately familiar with each other's strengths and weaknesses by the end, I estimate our chances of success against one another would be almost perfectly balanced. Is this satisfactory to you?"

Citron appeared once again quite surprised, but she blinked and recovered quickly, "Hell, I don't see why not. Here's hoping everything grows without strangleweeds."

Porter allowed herself a small smile. That had been what she was working towards. An ally. And this time, it was Citron that proffered her hand out. Porter took it and shook it once.

"So, who else will be with us?" Citron asked, pulling her hand back to rest it on her hip. "I can't see it just being the two of us."

"For now, it is," Porter stated, her brown eyes piercing into Citron's. "If you have any suggestions, now would be the time to say."

Citron seemed to ponder her question. She stepped away from the sink and walked away from the first-aid station. Porter followed. It only made sense to train as they communicated.

"What about your district partner?" Citron asked as they reached a weapon station. She grabbed a blunted sword from off the rack and Porter did the same. It weighed approximately four-point-seven pounds.

"Watt and I have an arrangement," Porter intoned without emotion. "That arrangement won't last past the Bloodbath." There was no room for argument in her tone.

"Oh," Citron said. She turned to face Porter, and this time Porter could see some nervousness in her features. "What about Logan? Uh, my district partner?"

"Allied with the District Three male," Porter said. "Insufficient use. Most likely dead in the Bloodbath."

Citron frowned. "He's just a kid. Smart, too. He-"

"I have not seen such a display to back up that claim," Porter said mechanically. A trainer joined them and guided her hands on her sword, bringing it up halfway between her waist and torso.

Citron sighed. "Alright. Sure." She sounded almost hurt and Porter digested that information. She hadn't stated anything other than what was factual. But it wouldn't do to lose her only ally to a disagreement.

"However, younger tributes have survived worse," Porter said. Another fact. Last year a young tribute survived into the final two, until he committed suicide to avoid the pain that his final opponent would give him. "Perhaps if we see him in the arena the statistics will have changed."

Citron smiled, but it didn't seem entirely genuine to Porter. She dismissed it. "Okay, well…I think your district partner made an alliance of his own," Citron said. She glanced to the side and Porter followed her gaze as the trainer helped Citron raise her sword into the starting position. "The girl from Six. Freida, I think?"

Indeed, Citron was correct. Watt chatted with the female of Six at the campfire station. She smiled at him as he spoke, but Porter didn't bother to try to read their lips. She didn't know Watt, but of the data she'd collected on him, she knew it would be about something inane.

"There we go, just like that," the trainer said, and Porter switched her attention to him. "Let's see what you two have got. Ready?"

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

Sperren stared at the back of the heads of Briar and Heath. The elevator rose so slowly and Sperren could think of a dozen ways to incapacitate both of them.

And for the enigma that was Sasha, he had an actual four dozen ways…

She didn't irritate him, though Winnow certainly seemed to have some intriguingly creative notions on dealing with her. Inwardly, he was as close as he could be to pleased that she was taking his lessons to heart. They would accomplish plenty if she kept this up.

Sasha grinned unabashedly at everyone that so much as gave her a glance. Idly, Sperren wondered if she'd sing about her own death as he slowly cut her heart out and held it up to her face to count down the heartbeats.

Would she be able to beat Shaff's record of thirteen?

Sasha peered around the elevator, as if searching or observing something, and looked like she was about to open her mouth and say something, but no words left her lips. She shook her head and settled back in her position after a moment. Braiden looked immensely relieved.

Winnow did too. Briar and Heath remained blissfully unaware of what transpired behind them.

Heath took a deep audible breath, and slowly let it out. His demeanor became visibly relaxed when the elevator reached the seventh floor, and the District Seven party exited. When it reached the next floor, Sasha made a remark, "Get me a Panem damned guitar," she said to the District Eight mentor as she stormed out of the elevator.

Tweed took a breath, shook her head, and followed the teen out, in turn followed by the males.

The elevator doors closed, encasing Sperren and Winnow in the steel machine. Devoid of anyone else. He wondered if Winnow thought that she was being slick. The way she looked at him when she thought he didn't notice.

Their floor opened up to them, and the pair poured out, their mentors already within. Dinner was going to be a dull affair, Sperren knew long before he sat down. He already suspected the questions that Jay would ask him.

"How was training?" Jay asked, her hands folded in front of her. An Avox deposited a plate in front of her from a tray, then did the same for Mizar.

"Tedious," Sperren replied, speaking the rehearsed dialogue that he'd thrown together in his head. Already he had an idea of where this conversation would go, and how to lead it. He had more important tasks at hand than to play along with whatever his mentors espoused. "Sasha sang, likely earning herself the ire of the Careers. Pixel appears to be allied with her. Chip is allied with Logan. Freiya and Watt with each other. Briar, Heath, and Kefinn grouped after he helped defend them against Chariot. Porter and Citron formed an alliance. Etta cried."

Jay raised an eyebrow, and Mizar looked at him with an emotion that Sperren didn't recognize. It wasn't anything he'd seen on the face of any of his victims.

"You remembered all of that?" Mizar asked.

"What did I say about remembering their names?" Jay said instead. She seemed tired. Sperren ignored her question and the Avox put a plate of rich steak, with a side of vegetables. The Avox did the same for Winnow, who took up a fork and knife and started to cut into it.

When Sperren didn't reply to Mizar, he looked towards Winnow instead. His features became more fatherly, if Sperren were to put a word to it. "How 'bout you, Winnow?" he asked gently.

Winnow blushed, the attention instead focused on her. "Uh," she stated eloquently and she looked at Sperren. He cut apart his steak into smaller pieces, and chewed on them as Winnow searched for an answer. What was she going to say? Would she bring up how he taught her to kill?

The thought of what to do if Mizar or Jay figured out who he was was not an alarming one. Sperren had never been worried, had never felt it. Another aspect of his lack of emotions.

"I…learned how to use a - uhm - sword," Winnow said eventually. Her fork awkwardly pushed the pieces of her food around on its plate. "And knives," she added.

"Defending yourself is a key part of surviving the Games," Mizar said seriously. "However, the survival stations are just as important. I recommend the medical ones and learning to start a fire."

"Mizar's right," Jay said, looking between the two of them. "You don't know what the arena will be like until you're in it."

From the perspective that they spoke from, Sperren could understand how the survival stations could be important. But it wouldn't save any tribute. Not when he cut into them and drove his knife through their skin.

"Did either of you notice anything else?" Mizar asked kindly, although his eyes were focused on Winnow solely. "About the tributes that could help you?"

"Anyone you want to ally with?" Jay added. "We can ask their mentors. It might help you."

"Uhm." Winnow stuck her fork in her mouth and chewed on a piece of steak. "It's…it's just us," she said, extending her finger at Sperren.

Mizar nodded in understanding and Jay shifted in her chair. She seemed uncomfortable. "Nausicaa is the leader of the Careers this year," Sperren said, resuming the script he'd put together in his mind. Which of the Careers would scream the loudest? They would provide a bigger challenge than most of his victims at home ever would. He was looking forward to it. "Nemo is imposing, but neither he, Nausicaa, or Gideon taunt the other tributes. Gideon seems to be weaker than the others. He lost a sparring match to both Honoria and Chariot. Ivory is fixated on the Fives."

"That's something we can work with," Jay said with an uneasy nod. But Sperren didn't care what she or Mizar put together in how to deal with the Careers. Sperren had no intention of avoiding them, nor did he intend on abandoning any plan he made to kill them.

Silence took up the void as their conversations died. Sperren didn't care one way or the other. He could see Winnow look at him, and then away again and again. He could see how she seemed so deep in thought. But for now, Sperren ignored her in favor of Mizar.

How would Mizar react if he knew that his daughter's killer was in front of him? There were plenty of people who suspected Sperren. Lynch had only been one of them. But none who outright knew. Would Mizar try to kill him? He was the winner of the second ever Hunger Games. That killing instinct must never have left him.

It could prove interesting when Sperren came back home to District Nine.

"Wh-where's Omri?" Winnow suddenly asked. She tapped the rim of her plate in anxiety.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Mizar said kindly. "He won't be anywhere near you in the next couple days."

Winnow chewed the inside of her cheek and nodded. Omri Pennington could prove just as interesting to kill, Sperren thought. He was barely a few years older than himself. And Omri had only killed four people. Yet he saw himself as the predator rather than the prey. But then, Sperren supposed that every victor could make for an interesting kill. They had all survived the Hunger Games. Mizar. Jay. Omri. And whoever else.

Mizar gently spoke to Winnow, and she nodded at the appropriate times, but Sperren got the sense she, like him, wasn't truly listening. She glanced at him again, and this time Sperren met her gaze. She seemed like she wanted to say something, but no words passed out through her throat. Then, she shyly nodded at Mizar when he said something else.

Sperren envisioned a sight so clearly in his mind. Each corpse of the tributes in these Games. Tortured and cut apart. He guessed, if he could feel excitement, he would feel it now.

The remainder of the dinner passed, just as dull as the rest.

Jay spoke again to try to speak to Sperren, gauge him on his plans, strategies and tactics. As well as what he'd want from sponsors. Sperren did not give his full attention to the woman. Although he gave detailed responses, returned questions and in general, seemed participative, Jay seemed to become aware that his mind was elsewhere and eventually gave up coaxing more answers out of him.

Mizar took a turn with him, and got more or less the same, and to everyone's surprise, Winnow was almost identical, leaving the mentors more than a little flabbergasted.

While the reactions of the mentors didn't interest him much, Winnow certainly did. She'd come quite some ways from her weepy attitude at the reaping to her profound interest in his passions.

Once they had finished their evening meal and briefly reviewed what occurred in training once more, receiving whole, intelligent replies from both tributes, yet sensing their obvious inattentiveness to all but each other, they'd summarily been given leave to retire to their private quarters, which was conveniently set apart from the mentors' section.

Winnow was quivering with growing excitement. Sperren's attention, even when he wasn't looking at her, was indeed entirely on the girl.

When they reached the quarters, Winnow looked at him, obviously wanting to ask a question, and this corridor was the only place with any semblance of privacy. This was what she'd been waiting for, he surmised, and so he looked expectantly at her.

"Y-you're the District Nine Killer, aren't you?" she asked.

This was probably the closest to pleased and even mildly surprised Sperren could ever get. Winnow Baylock didn't seem at all afraid. She shyly looked at him with a small smile, and she became ever more interesting to him.

Before he answered, however, he eyed up the nearby Avox approaching the corridors, and decided that the first one he saw would do for Winnow's upcoming...initiation.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Porter had changed out of her training uniform into something comfortable. Though she'd kept her dark hair relatively short, the strands still fell over her face at times, and she found them mildly distracting, and thus appropriated a plain black hairband to keep it out of the way. The silken short-sleeved shirt and pants were a matched pair and seemed much more expensive than anything she'd ever owned.

When she exited her room and descended the stairs to the dining table, she found Andromeda, Nicola, and Watt already present, though the boys seemed to have some expression that she'd seen usually when people were trying to do something sneaky and generally unpleasant to her.

"Hi Porter," Watt greeted, "That uh…that looks good on you."

Porter merely nodded in acknowledgement. As she usually did not understand how to respond to these compliments.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Watt glanced at Nicola who merely shrugged and held his utensils, but had not started eating yet. In fact, none of them had started eating. Were they waiting for her?

"It is unnecessary to wait for me before eating," Porter stated, and with a quick glance at Andromeda who watched with arched curiosity, she began to eat her meal, which someone had kindly prepared for her ahead of time, much to her private delight.

She noticed that the food was significantly spicier than she had ever experienced, but food was food, and she only needed it for sustenance. Though for some reason, upon seeing her eat, the boys were goggling at her, before they finally settled into eating their own food.

"I trust you made good use of your time today, both of you?" Andromeda asked halfway through the meal.

Porter pursed her lips, inwardly feeling mildly disagreeable with holding conversation mid-meal. After the Eight female's disruption at lunch, she hoped to have at least one meal in peace, as she did back in the orphanage.

"Yes," Porter simply replied.

Watt gave a much more enthused response and began to explain his side of the experience. She made use of this opportunity to consume her meal a little more quickly, occasionally earning a slightly amazed looks from both Nicola and Watt. Her face felt slightly flush from the heat of the spices, but other than that, she had finished it without any expression of discomfort or pain.

Once Watt concluded, Andromeda thanked him, and gave Porter a knowing smile, apparently understanding that Porter wanted to finish her meal first before conversing. Now that she was done, she nodded at Watt, and began to regale her day's activities in a succinct manner.

When she was done, Andromeda nodded thoughtfully. "Did you partake in any of the survival stations?" she asked eventually.

"No," Porter replied.

Andromeda didn't say anything for a moment, as if she expected Porter to continue. When she didn't, Andromeda rotated her hand in a questioning manner and asked, "Why not?"

"Demonstrate Vanderblathe has focused his tenure as Head Gamemaker on combative elements. No one has died of natural causes since the 30th Hunger Games," Porter answered. She paused to allow Andromeda to digest her information. "Additionally, your manner of mentoring is obsolete."

Andromeda frowned and Nicola looked awkwardly down at his empty plate. Watt gazed at Porter in surprise, but she didn't pay him any mind.

"Can you explain?" Andromeda asked. She didn't sound offended.

"After thirty-five years, the only District Five tribute to survive was Nicola Langdon," Porter stated without looking at the victor in question. "Therefore, your advice must be taken with a circuit-breaker."

Andromeda nodded and Porter detected sadness in her expression, yet also understanding. "I understand," she said.

Porter nodded once, satisfied. She ignored the discomfort of Nicola and Watt, and kept her eyes on Andromeda.

"But, I'm only trying to help," Andromeda added. "I've refined what I think works for every tribute I get. Sometimes it works out for them but…most of the time it doesn't. The Games have charged up beyond my own capacity. What was once known and true, obviously may no longer apply."

Porter stared unflinchingly at her. She knew. Andromeda was the first ever victor of the Hunger Games. Everything she knew from training was second-hand, as she had never been involved in it herself. Nor had she been involved in the parade and the interview. Andromeda had been put into an arena only hours after she had been reaped.

"But please, Porter, Watt," Andromeda said, her tone pleading as she looked at them. "Use the survival stations. You don't know what the arena might be like until you're in it."

Andromeda's request made sense to Porter. Different arena environments resulted in different outcomes. It was a factor that Porter was completely unaware of. A large unknown.

"Agreed," Porter said simply.

Nicola blinked. "Just like that?" he asked.

"The survival stations can detail how to survive in different arenas, according to potential weather or situational conditions," Porter stated. "My primary knowledge is for indoor arenas, which is useless if it's an outdoor arena."

Nicola said something else but Porter had stopped listening to him. The survival station on water would reveal helpful information on the possible biomes of the arena. She hoped that it wouldn't be a nature arena. Porter didn't hate many things, but nature was one of them due to far too many variables.

"Now," Andromeda started, laying her palms on the table, "how are you two looking on allies?"

"Citron. District Eleven. Robust. Vast medical knowledge," Porter intoned without emotion.

Andromeda leaned back in her seat. "And what does she get from this arrangement? If you get her strength and medical expertise, what does she get from you?"

For what was probably the first time in her life, Porter was at a loss. It was a factor that she had failed to consider. Citron was intelligent. That was clear. Which raised the question of what she saw in Porter to agree to the alliance?

"To help her ensure her own survival?" Watt suggested, raising his eyebrows and looking at Porter uncertainly.

"No," Porter rebuked mechanically. "It's logical to suspect that she gets something from this. She possesses impressive strength, but her combat potential...is slightly less capable than mine, nor is she as agile or swift."

So a better combatant was her contribution to the alliance.

Nicola spoke up, "What about you, Watt? Have you found any allies? Or anyone you think could make for a decent ally?"

"Oh, Freiya," Watt said with a smile, his frown disappearing instantaneously. "She's great, I think she'll make for a good fr-ally."

"There are no friends in the Hunger Games," Porter said. "They aren't meant to last."

"But allies are?" Watt retorted. He sounded irritated and finally Porter turned to look at him. His brow was furrowed and he crossed his arms, tapping his foot. "We can all work together. You, Citron, me, and Freiya."

"Statistically, she won't survive the Bloodbath," Porter said bluntly. The female from Six had failed to make an impact during the reaping, nor had she done so during the parade. Unless she scored high and made a crowd-pleasing interview, she would have no choice to run into the Bloodbath for supplies. Or risk going without.

Watt shot to his feet, launching his chair backwards. It hit the ground with a loud thud and Watt gently bit down on the knuckles of his fingers before releasing them. "You are so cold. All the time!" he snapped, stepping back away from the table as he did.

Porter gazed at her district partner indifferently. She had thought it was obvious. The Capitol was not shy with the odds of the tributes. Porter had odds of sixteen to one. The female from Six had twenty-five to one.

"You think I'm an idiot, don't you? I know you don't think much of me. Probably don't think I'll even survive the Bloodbath," he added with a self-deprecating laugh.

Porter eyed him, looking him up and down. That was an incredibly broad observation by him. Or perhaps he realized himself that his own odds of victory were as limited as Porter knew them to be. Thirty to one odds, she had read.

"But you're like a machine. Do you even care about anyone that's not yourself? Actually, do you even care about yourself!?"

Watt turned away with a shake of his head and stormed out of the room, and Porter felt a stab of emotion in her heart. Porter had been called a machine before by plenty of people. At work or in the orphanage. But this was the only time she felt anything by it. She didn't understand. Why?

"Watt?" Nicola voiced loudly as he stood up. "C'mon, wait!" he pleaded, and he walked quickly out of the room after him.

Porter didn't turn to watch him go. She needed to think. Allying with Watt and the Six girl, Freiya, could prove to be detrimental. However, it could also be an asset. A large alliance likely wouldn't make it through the Bloodbath intact. Though, should enough of them survive, they had a higher chance of survival.

It wasn't preferable. Especially since it would be detrimental to obtaining strong allies who could each stand strong against a threat. But it was an alternative that Porter could probably work in her favor.

"There were far better ways you could have expressed your opinion," Andromeda snarked and Porter looked across the table at her. "You sounded just like Grid."

"Tomorrow I will do what you advised," Porter said, ignoring Andromeda's statements. "Citron and I will find another ally then."

"Listen to me," Andromeda said, her voice hard, and she leaned forward. Porter looked back at the older woman, her own face devoid of emotion. "You might think you know what will happen in the Bloodbath, but you don't. Whatever…numbers and data you've collected, it won't matter when reality sets in." Porter met Andromeda's stormy eyes. "A strong tribute can die just as easily and quickly as a weak one. Spindle Knobbs won with a training score of two. Birch Schwartz won with a score of four." She fell back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. "I'm here to help you, Porter. And even if you don't listen to me, I'll still get you sponsors. But you have to remember that Watt is from District Five, too. He's probably the only person you'll be able to trust in there."

"No," Porter stated simply and succinctly. "I cannot trust Watt for the same reasons that I cannot trust any other possible ally. We are all trying to get home alive."

Andromeda frowned. "Fine," she said. "But you won't be the only one that half of District One will be targeting as soon as that gong rings. If Watt dies, you're her next target."

"Do not speak to me as if I am clueless," Porter said, her voice calm. "I understand the risks of having or not having Watt as an ally. Just as I do for Citron. I will make my decision regarding Freiya when I have the appropriate data to make a sufficient calculation."

Andromeda stood up without a word. She circled her chair and pushed it back into the table. Then she did the same for Nicola's. "Whatever decision you make is up to you, Porter," she said at last. "Whether or not I approve. I'm only trying to help you," she repeated.

And then Andromeda left to find her sleeping accommodations. Porter stared at her back as she left, but remained seated even after she disappeared around the corner. She had made arguments that Porter could understand, but didn't agree with. Tomorrow she would approach Freiya to gauge her usefulness as an ally, just as she did for Citron.

Her reasoning for the survival station made enough sense for Porter to enhance any skills she may need. The question of what kind of arena that Vanderblathe would launch them into was one that hung over Porter's mind. It wouldn't be an island arena, for that had been last year's.

Porter came to a conclusion. She had to learn about the other tributes. Facts that would help her to beat them in combat or through manipulation. Analysis would create the best and most efficient data to be available. Further, it would help her to decide on which tributes to avoid and which ones she had a chance to align with.

Andromeda had been correct about something, and Porter had been careless to not realize it. She didn't have all the information that she required to make careful calculations. No, she needed to understand the factors of the other tributes, while balancing the skills she needed to gain an understanding of.

All the while she mulled over what Andromeda told her.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

With careful movement and timing, Sperren led Winnow along all the blind spots of the Training Center. He'd spent all of the previous day carefully identifying where he wouldn't be seen, and formed a path that led him to the rooftops of the building. He had to make sure that he could get an adult body unassisted without being seen. The challenge and effort had been nothing short of…exhilarating.

For her part, Winnow was silent as a ghost, and able to follow hand-signal instructions as if she were reading his mind. She nodded where necessary and trailed either behind or right beside him as necessary. And they were soon on their way up to the rooftops, with a rarely-used elevator. Ironic, that the Capitol would actually have excess redundancies that ended up becoming the perfect hiding spot for some activity that no one expected.

When she confronted him the night before about his identity as the District Nine Killer, it sealed his and Winnow's fate together forever. She was something he didn't even realize he needed.

It certainly helped that the girl appeared not even the least bit frightened about the possibility of becoming one of his victims. Even if she'd cited all the valid reasons why he wouldn't kill her just yet, which she hadn't, impressively, but more, she seemed enamored by the very idea of him, in any function. Whether it be as a friend or unnecessary witness, or even as another victim, she reveled in it all. Even Sperren could see that was highly unusual.

They stood side-by-side in the elevator, and a quick glance spoke of growing excitement within the girl. She knew something was going to happen, and whatever it was had her full attention.

As the doors slid open, Sperren exited first, and he beckoned for Winnow, who shyly stepped out, looking around.

A muffled scream drew her attention straight ahead of herself, and there, gagged, but otherwise lying prone on the ground, with a tiny pool of blood forming around her back, was an Avox.

The woman barely managed to turn her head and she was screaming in terror for all she was worth, but the loud whirring of the center's air conditioners were drowning her out for the most part.

"Oh," Winnow said, as she nervously approached the woman, though it was quickly obvious she couldn't move most of her body, save for her head, but even then, only barely. She then lifted the woman onto her side, and inspected the wound in the spine. Carefully, she let the woman down on her back again, before turning to look at Sperren. "What did you use to sever her spine?" she asked.

Sperren heard her usual shy voice, but now there was a clear undertone of budding excitement, an eagerness to take things further. Sperren felt a strange stirring within him that he could not otherwise identify. But he decided that he liked it.

Thus, there appeared the barest hints of a smile as he approached, drawing out a tiny hilt with a switch down the middle on one side. When he pushed it, a blade extended with an audible metallic snap, making Winnow jump a little, but she nonetheless maintained a smile, her trust utterly blind and freely given.

Sperren made a mental note to not let any heady feelings distract his focus.

"Usually, I have more tools, but if you can pick a blade like this and only have this, it'll do," Sperren explained, "you don't want to end the experience before it can be fully savored."

Winnow nodded thoughtfully. "I understand."

The Avox screamed from behind her gag, and Sperren stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and her. Winnow moved to the side to allow him room, her eyes wide.

Sperren looked into the Avox's eyes. She was afraid. Her breathing picked up radically and he could hear her whimper under the gag. Her fearful eyes shifted towards Winnow, as if begging her for her help.

Winnow shifted her stance awkwardly, but Sperren could see that she practically vibrated in excitement.

"You need to be precise if you want the right outcome, severing the spinal cord," Sperren told Winnow, drawing his blade over the Avox's body. She whimpered and cried as he did so, and it made him feel. "If you want to incapacitate them, but also let them feel…"

"Th-that sounds tricky," Winnow meekly said. She wrung her hands, but it wasn't out of nervousness like he had seen in the past from her.

"With practice it can be achieved often enough," Sperren stated. The Avox shook her head, and if she could speak, Sperren knew that she would be pleading.

He hovered the knife above her chest, and the Avox's breathing picked up. She frantically looked at Winnow for help. But she only bit her cheek and almost bounced on her knees with utmost eagerness.

Then, Sperren made the first incision. The Avox screamed, and Winnow gasped. Not a gasp of horror, or even disgust. "This is the most delicate part," Sperren said without looking away from his work. The Avox howled from the pain as his blade cut through her flesh, splitting the skin with surprising ease, muscles tearing. Blood leaked out of her body as he dragged the knife through her flesh. "You need to balance the terror, or she will go into cardiac arrest." His heart began to pound against his ribcage as he made his progress on the girl.

Winnow watched his every cut, entranced by the sight. And she grinned in anticipation. Sperren felt as though he was alive. This murder was different from all the rest. Not because of the victim. But because of who he had at his side.

It was beautiful.

Blood poured from the Avox and she cried in despair. Sperren moved his knife carefully, cutting through parts of her body that would leave her alive. And yet she couldn't move. Sperren drank in her terror. When would she realize her mortality?

"C-can…" Winnow started to say, and Sperren looked towards her, a smile on his lips. Was it the first smile that she had ever seen on him? Sperren wasn't sure. Winnow's tongue darted out to wet the side of her lips, and she asked again despite her shy voice, "Can I do it?"

The Avox sobbed, tears sliding down her face. She must have realized that her only hope here had been snatched away. Winnow would have never tried to save her. Sperren watched as her eyes were drawn to the knife, and the blood that came out from the rippling wounds.

"Carefully," Sperren told her, and he yanked his blade free from the Avox, who gasped harshly. Sperren grinned at the thought of this mercy becoming the worst sensation she ever felt. He handed the knife to Winnow, his fingers on the blade, and the handle extended towards Winnow. He smiled at her as she took it from him. Excitement blazed in her eyes.

Winnow leaned over the Avox, and she meekly asked, "Where should I…?"

The Avox screamed out. Sperren thought it was probably meant to be a protest, or a plea. It was disappointing that he couldn't hear her. But without the gag, it was too much of a risk of people overhearing them. The woman wouldn't be able to communicate regardless as it was, not when she had a missing tongue.

Sperren dropped his finger against a spot on the woman's chest, where no vital organs would be harmed. "Here," he told Winnow.

He retracted his finger, and Winnow's eyes remained on the spot. Her fingers gripped the knife hard, and she brought it up…

And she thrust it down with as much force as she dared into the Avox.

The Avox screamed and Winnow's eyes went wide. It was as though she couldn't believe it. Blood poured out around the blade, staining the Avox's skin a beautiful scarlet. Her body was torn as the knife cut into her, shredding muscle and sinew inside of her.

"Oh…" Winnow said with a gasp. She took hold of the knife handle with both her hands, and Sperren watched as she allowed the woman's blood to cover her hands.

Then, Winnow twisted, and the woman screeched into the gag at a higher pitch than anything so far. Sperren's heart beat hard against his chest as he took in the detail. This was far more…euphoric than he was expecting. These were the only times that he could feel things, and Winnow…she understood perfectly.

Winnow pulled the knife out from the Avox's chest with a yank, and the sound of flesh being torn even as she did so met Sperren's ears.

"Thank you," she said, a wide grin on her face. She looked at her blood-stained hands with something akin to awe. "That was…uh…" Winnow turned away from her hands and at Sperren. Her awe gave away to unmatched eagerness. "Amazing," she finished.

Winnow handed the knife back to him and he examined the Avox's body once more. He didn't want to be too eager. If he was, it was just as he said to Winnow. She could die of cardiac arrest due to being too terrified. Sperren had made that mistake during his first few kills. It would be a shame to cut this so short.

The Avox groaned in agony, turning her head this way and that. As though that would help her escape. Even as her limbs remained completely motionless.

"Sperren?" Winnow asked shyly, and he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She bit the inside of her cheek again. Something Sperren had come to recognize as a sign of her nervousness or anxiety. "Can I…uhm," she ducked her head away from him, but her eyes remained firmly on the Avox, "can I kill her?"

The Avox whimpered and Sperren smiled. "Patience, Winnow," he told her, and she blushed. After another minute passed, Sperren struck the blade into the woman's chest once again.

She gasped in pain, and Sperren looked into her eyes where he could see it all. Fear, and a rapidly dwindling hope that she was going to come out of this alive. His knife slit her chest apart, tearing her open with a simple tool.

The woman screamed again and again, shaking her head as if she would wake up from a terrible dream. But she wouldn't. And it made Sperren grin even wider, lost in his task. Blood spilt out of her, covering the ground, but Sperren would make sure that she survived as long as possible.

"How…how is she still alive?" Winnow asked a moment later.

The eyes of the Avox were rolling about frantically, tears pouring down her cheeks, mingling with the slowly pooling blood behind her. She was weakening, but that was sadly inevitable. No matter how precise and cautious he was, the loss of blood was usually one of the surest ways the victims died.

"Humans can be surprisingly resilient," Sperren said, turning the knife handle in his hands, ignoring how slick they were becoming with the victim's blood, "it varies a bit from person to person. But oftentimes, hope keeps a person going."

Ironic, really, the Avox's desperate hope of surviving this ordeal was prolonging her suffering. If she'd lost the will to live, there was little Sperren could do to revive her when her heart gave out.

Fortunately, even up to now, the woman held out hope. Perhaps she thought a stray Peacekeeper would come up here for some unknown reason. While that was a possibility, as he had no way of knowing the habits of every Peacekeeper, he had confidence in the rigid structure of discipline of Panem's law enforcement. Their slavish adherence to sticking to their posts and following a precise pattern of patrol meant they formed habits in their free time that closely matched their own duty periods.

Yet the probability of that was slim to none.

"I see," Winnow said, and she glanced down at the Avox like the woman was a very interesting bug to dissect.

Which…was exactly what they were doing.

"Now, pay attention to what I do," Sperren said, as he moved over to the Avox's right arm.

The woman eyeballed him with renewed terror as he began making deep, but careful cuts, and she screamed through her gag. Though muffled, she had quite the set of lungs on her.

"Observe the depth of my incision, and notice the volume of the blood flow," he spoke calmly, "trail the cut up to here."

He only cut a line through the woman's bicep down to almost her elbow. Normally he wouldn't stop there, but instead, cut off a layer of flesh, sometimes removing muscle and sinew, until he could see the bone. He was always intrigued about viewing parts of a skeletal structure while the victim lived. Oftentimes, the horror of seeing their own bones was too much for some, and they'd faint. Worse was when they never revived after. This Avox was surprisingly resilient. Maybe just as well, actually.

Carefully, he withdrew the blade, prompting a pained wheeze from the sniffling, quietly wailing Avox; she was beginning to become hysterical. Good thing she couldn't move, or this would be very messy.

He handed the knife to Winnow, who took it with a solemn motion, yet her eagerness remained clear for him to see.

She leaned over the Avox once more, her eyes once meeting with the Avox's. Then, Winnow dragged the knife along her arm, just as Sperren showed her. At first, it wasn't deep enough to cut or pierce. He could see a thin white line that formed under the pressure of the knife.

The Avox mewled and Sperren saw delight take up Winnow's face. Only then did she apply pressure, and the blade sank into the Avox's flesh. Thin lines of broken skin split apart as blood trailed down her arm and onto the ground. And the Avox howled in pure agony.

Sperren smiled. Winnow copied him so perfectly, yet with a hint that was so distinctly her. She pulled back, and maneuvered herself to a different position over her, and started all over again. But this time the blade cut deeper. Sperren heard the telltale sound of muscle tearing apart as Winnow cut into her.

Winnow's eyes were wide with excitement and gratification. Her movements were careful, in spite of just how deep she scraped the woman. This made up for how Sperren was unable to peel her flesh away, down the bone. Having someone with him that understood…it was different than he expected.

Knife to skin. The blood pooling now surrounded all three of them, but neither Sperren nor Winnow paid this any mind. The Avox screamed, her eyes full of despair, even as they were locked on the entrance to the rooftop. But it wouldn't do to remind her that no one was going to come. That hope was something that kept her alive, and Sperren wanted her to hold onto it for as long as she could.

Winnow pulled back, and made careful swipes against the surface of the Avox's body. Not too deep to cause too rapid a blood loss and eventually death, but enough that quite a bit seeped out from the wounds. It was a delicate balance of killing without ending it swiftly. It was cruel, but for the sake of cruelty.

Muffled sobs escaped through the woman's gag out into the open. It truly was a shame that they had to be quiet. Further, it was a shame that the Avox was unable to speak. Sperren wanted to hear her thoughts out loud as her death slowly came to meet her.

Carefully, Winnow lacerated the Avox with a swift slash. She smiled from ear to ear as the woman bawled and shrieked. Sperren wanted this to go on for hours more. But unfortunately, they did not have hours.

Sperren held out his hand and Winnow pulled back the knife and gave it back to him. Her eyes shone in adoration. "Wh-what now?" she asked.

"Watch," Sperren said simply. He pulled himself closer to the Avox and trailed the blade down her cheek, catching one of her tears on the metal. Sperren watched as it went, her sorrow collected on the blade of his knife.

Then, he swung it down abruptly and sharply into her chest, and the Avox wailed loudly. He pierced her flesh deeply, and tugged the blade downwards, mindful not to cut into any of her vital organs.

When he was satisfied, he pulled the knife out and placed it down by his side. He reached forward, right into the opening in the woman's chest that he'd carved. The Avox shrieked louder than ever before. But Sperren knew it wouldn't draw any attention. Not when they were so high up, and not with the air conditioners that hid their noise.

Plus her voice had been steadily growing weaker.

Sperren had known exactly where to cut. He'd done it before. He was going to do it again. And the Avox's time was limited. He recognized it. She was going to die soon.

With nimble fingers, he found what he was looking for, and tore it from her chest with a mighty yank. He heard the sound of muscles and sinew tearing harshly as he did, and the Avox screamed and screamed her terror. The woman was terrified.

Sperren lifted the Avox's heart, and he heard both the woman and Winnow gasp. Veins and arteries remained connected, but not all of them. The Avox didn't have long left.

It beat once.

He gestured for Winnow to come close, and she did so without hesitation. "Hold up your hand," he told her.

It beat twice.

Winnow made a bowl with her hands and Sperren deposited the heart in them.

It beat three times.

There was only so much that connected the heart to the Avox's body. The hope, at long last, faded out of her eyes. Her ragged wheezing breaths became hitched and rapid, but also weaker and erratic.

It beat four times.

"N-no one's coming to sa-save you," Winnow said, her words stuttering from her excitement.

It beat five times.

The Avox whimpered in utter despair. It must have been nauseating for her to see something that belonged inside of her…on the outside.

It beat six times.

Sperren watched the Avox. How many more beats would it take before she died? Perhaps she would best Shaff's score?

It beat seven times.

The woman's eyes turned skyward and Sperren suspected that she didn't even know where she was anymore. Her blood was more on the outside than it was on the inside, coating her body in scarlet.

It beat eight times.

The heart slowed and slowed. Her movement, limited as it had been, came to a stop. Her eyes became glassy. The terror that had encompassed her face faded into neutrality.

It did not beat a ninth time.

Sperren let out a breath, his euphoric high coming to an end with the Avox's death. Ninety-two. Eight more until one-hundred.

"That…" Winnow started, and Sperren looked from the corpse to her. "That was fun," Winnow managed to say even as she thrummed in excitement. Her bloodied hands held the heart that belonged to the Avox.

The emotion that Sperren had felt started to trickle away, and he desperately tried to hold onto it for as long as he could. "Yes. It was," he replied without a smile.

"Can, uh…" Winnow trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek. She meekly ducked her head and looked at him from between her strands of hair. "Can we do it again?"

Sperren stood, taking the knife with him as he did so. "Soon," he told her, and this time he did smile. "There are plenty of tributes in the arena that will be interesting to kill."

Winnow grinned, and she squeezed the heart in her hands. Blood spurted out of the openings Sperren had made from the ripped arteries blood vessels. It dribbled over the body of the Avox that she hovered over, before finally letting go.

"She needs to be disposed of," Sperren said, and he grabbed the Avox by the hair, and dragged her to the nearest wall. Winnow followed, watching the corpse with unmistakable interest.

When they reached the wall, Sperren heaved the corpse up onto it, before unceremoniously pushing the Avox over it. He and Winnow looked over the side of the building as the corpse fell, down and down.

Until it collided with the pavement.

One of the Capitolites let out a shrill shriek at the sight of the corpse of what was once an Avox - now reduced to bloodied mush.

Winnow grinned as they stepped away from the wall. "Thank you for this. Again," she said awkwardly and shyly.

"You aren't what I was expecting you to be," Sperren told her.

Winnow blushed and she suddenly seemed to find her shoes very interesting.

It was a shame he'd only learned about her potential after they were reaped.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Porter examined the gymnasium the moment training for the day had begun. She eyed up each of the tributes as they went about their stations. The District Four female threw a spear into a dummy with enough force that the prongs sank deep through its chest. Her district partner, the male, sparred with one of the trainers. The One male seemed to be in competition with the Two female over who could neutralize more dummies. The former with a bow and arrow, and the latter with a kusarigama. Porter had seen the One female drag off the Two male to find a nurse after she struck him hard enough in the nose to make him bleed.

While the Careers nominally stuck to the weapon stations, the other tributes filtered between survival and weapon stations. Watt had separated from Freiya for the time being, as the two of them worked on separate skills. Watt on identifying poisonous plants, and Freiya on one of the medical stations.

Porter kept an eye on each of the tributes, but there was only so much data that she could collect unless she were closer. The only duo that failed to appear at training were the Nines. She didn't know where they were, but she didn't care either.

"Oh, finally," Citron said, and Porter turned towards her ally as a fire started among the twigs. Citron had implored the importance of learning to start a fire. A feat Porter had already known how to accomplish, but one that Citron had not. Citron looked towards her and her smile dimmed. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Medical station," Porter stated bluntly. She watched as Freiya talked to the trainer, and without a warning to Citron, Porter stood up.

"That's sudden. Why?" Citron asked, standing up as well.

Porter didn't answer. She eyed the trainer as he left and Freiya leaned over the platform, the affable expression on her face fading with the trainer.

As they approached the station, Freiya looked down in front of her and Porter did the same. The station was full of medical equipment. Primarily pills, syringes, bandages, and an assortment of medicinal fluids. It was a wide range of variety.

Freiya glanced at them and Porter met her gaze evenly. Unless she hid well, Porter suspected that Freiya's red hair would be easily spotted in different environments. Porter looked one more time at the station, and Freiya seemed to take that opportunity to turn around, slipping her hands into her pockets as she turned to walk away.

Porter's analytical gaze dropped in front of where Freiya had been standing, her mind working to formulate a starting point for their dialogue. But where a portion of medical equipment had once been had suddenly disappeared.

"Stealing is punishable by death," Porter stated and Freiya froze. She turned towards them with a look of fear on her face.

"He's just getting more," Freiya said casually. Porter recognized that she was a good actress. The telltale vocal pitch of lies was buried underneath her tone. It would have been difficult to recognize had her expression not been one of apprehension.

"You are lying," she stated plainly, "you have appropriated syringes, an assortment of drugs, two large rubber bands…"

Freiya's eyes widened in alarm and she lunged towards Porter, hands reaching for her face, but before even Porter could react, Citron reached over the brunette's shoulder and caught Freiya by the wrists.

"Attacking a tribute?" she asked, "That's a dumbass move on top of theft, girl."

"Let go!" Freiya demanded in a harsh whisper, "I wasn't gonna hurt her! Just needed her to shut the hell up! That accelerator mouth of hers was gonna get us all killed!"

Citron's strength easily kept Freiya in place, and she now stepped around Porter and let go of the female's wrists to grasp her by the shoulders instead, forcing her to look up at her. Porter could see the sallow skin complexion, and a similar shade in Freiya's eyes. She had an idea, but Citron clarified it for them both.

"Yellow discoloration of the skin and sclera," she recited easily, "burnt husks, you're a morphling junkie, aren't you?"

Freiya's face went flush and she scowled. "So what if I am!? Not like I'm gonna drive past the Bloodbath, right? Will you let go!?" The female angrily wrenched her body to one side and Citron let go without resistance, causing her to overbalance and fall on her rump with a yelp. She glared furiously at the dark-skinned female and snarled, "You're an overheated radiator!"

Citron smirked. "At least I'm useful to myself and even others, overheated or not."

"Yeah yeah, whatever…"

She pushed herself to her feet and made to leave when Porter spoke up again, "Join us."

Freiya froze, and she turned to look at Porter with an arched eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You acknowledge that you will not hold a charge past the Bloodbath," Porter stated, "you are allied with my partner, Watt. Your odds, even together, are dismal. A larger alliance, while potentially riskier, is outweighed in its inherent disadvantages by the benefits."

Freiya spread her arms apart. "What benefits, Motormouth?"

"Survival, against the Bloodbath, against the Careers and their alliance, against the other alliances that have inevitably formed," Porter replied impassively, "you will have Watt, myself and Citron on your side."

Citron looked over at Porter for a moment, then at Freiya, and nodded, before folding her arms in front of her.

Freiya sniffed loudly, and then barked a short, sharp laugh, "After what you two just did? You think I want to join up with the likes of you!? Your pistons are firing all over the place."

"Your odds are unfavorable, and you know it," Porter stated bluntly, "Alone, or with just Watt, you will not survive the Bloodbath."

"So sure about that, are you?" Freiya sneered angrily.

"All calculations have reached the same conclusion," Porter replied, "your recently revealed morphling addiction has reduced your survivability by almost eighty-five percent."

"Wooowww," Freiya said, "Eighty-five percent, huh?"

Her mocking tone of voice told Porter exactly what she thought of her calculations. Freiya still held onto the medical supplies in her pockets, and the trainer had yet to arrive. All Porter had to do was announce to the Peacekeepers that Freiya was stealing supplies and she would be dead. Porter would go into the arena with one less opponent.

However, doing such a thing would further damage her relationship with Watt. Should he survive the Bloodbath, it would benefit her to have a potential ally that wouldn't harm her.

Such a thing would not be possible if Freiya were exposed as a thief.

"You're not the first morphling junkie I've dealt with," Citron said, her voice softening. "I can help you, if you want it."

Freiya looked at Citron disbelievingly. She clenched her fists angrily. "Yeah right. You think I'd even want your help after what you've just…" she stopped and shook her head. "I don't need it."

"Fine," Citron said with a shrug. "You don't need it. But I can help. Morphling is expensive in District Eleven. You can't get it unless it's through…other means."

Porter didn't look away from Freiya, as realization settled upon her face. "You're talking about the black market," she said lowly.

"Yeah," Citron confirmed with an uncomfortable shrug. "And if you wanna help people, then you need to use that to do it. So at least I could make home a little bit better before…this." She gestured around the gymnasium.

Porter let the information join her calculations. If what Citron said was true, then perhaps it would provide enough hope in Freiya to change her opinion.

Freiya stuck her hands in her pockets and, with trembling hands, she deposited the stolen medical supplies onto the table. She backed away as soon as she was done, as though it physically pained her to be near them.

"There you go," Citron said, her voice turning kind. It was almost entirely the opposite of the near hostility she had started with towards Freiya.

"Don't patronize me," Freiya snapped back. "I…" Her shoulders dropped and an expression of pain and sorrow took over. "Just leave me alone," she said sadly and she turned around and walked away.

Porter didn't mind the outcome. Unfortunate as it was, there were still others to communicate and understand the strengths and weaknesses of. "What did your mentor tell you to train with?" Porter asked Citron.

"Weapons. Why?"

"We need to spread out," Porter stated. "You learn what you can, and I will learn what I can." She scanned the gymnasium and eyed the water station.

"Yeah," Citron said with soft agreement. She sounded as though she wanted to say something else, but walked off instead.

Porter did the same. The water training station would be a dull affair. Nobody else was there for her to scrutinize. Yet water was one thing that would keep her body active in any arena. Annoying as it may be.

There were books that detailed the sources of water in different biomes and arena types. Porter grabbed it and flipped it open. As she read, she figured that the process of purifying water was simple. Either locate a water container that would purify the water for her, or add approximately three drops of iodine, and wait thirty minutes. A simple process that would become hazardous depending on the environment. Should the arena be a desert, water would be hard to find. As would, unfortunately, an indoor arena.

Porter read the pages swiftly. The first sections had been about water sources within a city environment and a forest environment. It's midway through her reading through the third section when the male from Six sat at the corner of the station, took a book from the stack, and began to read.

Freiya's district partner. Porter glanced at him from over the top of her book. If he held any opinion on her about her confrontation with Freiya, whether good or bad, he didn't show it. He laid the book against the table and turned the page with his right hand. Which meant that he would likely favor his right side in battle.

The male from Six didn't look at her once. It was as though she wasn't even there, as far as he was concerned.

She turned the next page. A section on swamps. Porter grimaced at it. Nature.

"Mind if we share that?" someone asked behind Porter, and she turned in her seat to face him. It was the male from Ten. He looked between her and the book with a small smirk. "I'd grab my own but I don't feel like it."

Porter stared at him. He was the same age as Watt. Fifteen. She remembered that from the reaping. She also knew that he'd sat alone at lunch yesterday. Perhaps his district partner and he weren't in good standing. Porter filed the thought away and turned around to face the table and the book once more.

"Pleasure," the Ten male said, and Porter felt his presence as he leaned over her shoulder, and planted his hand against the table. The smell of blood enveloped their space.

"You smell of blood," Porter stated. The male from Six looked up, his attention captured.

"That'll be from the butchering," the Ten male replied, his eyes bouncing along the words in the book as he read them. "You stick around long enough and that smell's really gonna leak into your pores."

Porter didn't respond to him, but the male from Six looked disturbed. He tapped the edge of his book three times before resuming his reading. Beyond the station, Porter saw as the male from Eight walked past one of the weapon stations into the same one that the Four female had been hovering around since that morning. He stared at her as her trident thrust through a dummy, the prongs sticking out through the back. He swallowed and approached her.

"You can turn the page now," the Ten male said and Porter did so. "What arena do you think we're gonna get?" he asked.

"I don't know," Porter replied curtly. She spied the Eight male come to a stop near the Four female with nervous steps. He opened his mouth and spoke something to her that Porter couldn't hear, but her eyes darted down to his lips in order to read.

'Hey, uh…' he started to say as the Four female yanked her trident free from the body of the dummy. She turned around with a raised eyebrow. The male seemed to steel himself, and he straightened his back. 'We should ally.'

The page in the book detailed water sources within a desert arena. But Porter barely paid any attention to the pages. There was something far more important unfolding that she needed to see.

"No no no no," the Ten male said quickly, shaking his head, "not what you know - what you think."

'Really?" the Four female asked the male from Eight. 'Why would I do that? Explain that to me, please.'

The Ten male had stopped looking at the book, and Porter shut it with a loud thud. The male from Six looked up again, but Porter didn't didn't turn her head to view the Ten male. "Too many variables. There is no point in trying to guess," Porter answered his question.

"Oh, well that's boring," the Ten male said, sounding disappointed. He rotated himself around from Porter's back and sat down between her and the Six male.

'Okay, not an alliance,' the Eight male said quickly and quietly. His eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching them. When he was satisfied, he said, 'But after what Sasha pulled - she made me a target.'

"Why are you here?" Porter asked the Ten male.

"Just roaming," the Ten male replied with an easy smile. "Getting to know the competition. Besides, Graze is a bitch, I don't wanna be near her."

Almost as if on cue, shouting erupted near one of the survival stations, and Porter glanced in the direction that it had come from without fully taking her eyes off of the Eight male and the Four female. The Ten female shoved Citron's district partner, the District Eleven male, in the chest. And with enough force to knock him down.

"Hey!" the Three male snapped at her. He was small in comparison to the Ten female, but he stood in front of the Eleven male as though to shield him from any harm. The Peacekeepers stared, and Porter didn't think there was any reason for them to become of use yet. The Ten female was going to back off.

"That would be why," the Ten male said, gesturing with an elbow in the direction of his district partner.

But Porter wasn't paying attention to them. She paid attention instead to the Eight male and Four female. 'Tell you what, Eight-'

'Braiden,' the male interrupted. His face twisted in a way that suggested that he instantly regretted it.

'Braiden,' the Four female corrected, unbothered, 'let's shake things up. Cause a maelstrom.'

The Eight male smiled, relieved. 'Really? What about the other Ca-uh, the others?'

"So boorish," the Ten male said with a shake of his head. "Tsk tsk tsk. Can't say I would mind if she died."

So this was what the Ten male wanted. Porter could only see him out of the corner of her eye. The Six male had abandoned his book, as well. Perhaps he realized that something vital was about to take place.

'Keep this between us. I'm the leader. We slit their throats in their sleep. Got it, Braiden?' the Four female continued to say, jabbing a muscled finger at him.

'Yeah, yeah, I got it,' the Eight male answered. He nodded once and started to step back.

'Now pretend I threatened you," the Four female concluded, twirling around on her heel to resume her training. The Eight male backed up and, for his part, put on a decent act of looking frightened. Nobody would look his way twice believing the true nature of their conversation.

"Yeah…" the Ten male said, looking down at his lap. Porter turned her full attention to him, contemplating the new information between the Four female and Eight male as she did so. "I've been trying to find a clever way to remove her."

"You want to kill her," Porter said bluntly.

"'Kill' is such an ugly word," the Ten male said, squinting his eyes at her. "But yes. Now, I can't do it myself, taboo and all that," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "But whoever does it for me, I'll owe a favor."

"A favor in the arena?" Porter questioned. "The odds of you being genuine or following through on such things are slim."

"Oh, you're clever, you'll figure something out!" the Ten male said with a cheerful smile. "That goes for you, too, Six!" he added without turning in his seat. But the male from Six stilled.

"We aren't the only ones you gave this offer to," Porter deduced.

"No, of course not," the Ten male admitted freely. "You're clever, not special."

Whatever the reason the Ten male wanted his district partner dead, Porter didn't care. It was an interesting tactic, one she didn't know how it would support him. Evidently, neither did the Six male, who looked on uneasily.

"Anyway, this was nice. See you two around," the Ten male said. He rubbed his knees and stood up, then walked away.

Two important pieces of information. An alliance between the Four female and the Eight male. And the proposition that the Ten male offered. She was missing key data for both of them. The Eight male's abilities, and just how much of a threat he would be, and just what the Ten male's strategy was.

Porter stood, only for two hands to collide with her back and shove her forward. Her hip slammed into the table and Porter knew that it had been enough force to cause a bruise to form. She turned around to face the newcomer and wasn't at all surprised to see the One female.

"Forget about me, Porter Tripp?" the One female asked, snatching the collar of Porter's training uniform as she did so.

"No," Porter said simply. "But you are irrelevant to me. I don't remember your name; you aren't important enough for me to remember."

The One barred her teeth angrily. "Ivory Stillman. You'll remember it. You'll remember when I kill you and your district partner, Watt Kelter, will remember it, too." Her eyes darted to the station they were at and she smirked. "I can help you find water. I'll drown you in it."

Porter heard the footsteps of the Six male. He'd had yet to leave and she didn't understand why that was. Porter decided that she didn't care. The One female was the primary obstacle at the moment. Porter could lay out as many facts as she could about why she shouldn't target her, but the One female seemed to be overwhelmed with emotion.

"I can't kill your pretty boy mentor," the One female said with a scowl. "But I can make sure he loses his tributes. And when I win I'll make sure he'll never ever forget my sister."

Porter stared into the One female's eyes. So overcome by anger and a desire for revenge. In the arena, she would be distracted by that revenge. It was a factor that Porter could play to her advantage.

"Imagine me finding you in the arena," the One female said with a grin, her grip on her collar tightening. "I could drag you to a lake, or a stream of water. And then I'll throw you down, and push your head under over and over until you can't breathe anymore."

Porter had never been good at acting. If she tried to give the One female what she wanted, she would leave her alone and stop wasting precious time. There were things that Porter needed to do. Skills she still needed to learn. But still, Porter tried. She clenched her eyes shut and let out a feigned whimper.

"Oh, don't cry, Porter Tripp," the One female cooed. "It'll be over before you know it. You'll die, and people will mourn you." Porter heard her nod. "They will."

Porter peered at her as she put her head against her temple. Four-point-six feet away was the Two male, eyeing both of them with a look that Porter did not expect to see on a Career's face. One of what seemed to be unease.

"Do you feel that?" the One female asked, pulling her head away. "Do you feel that fear and anxiety? Do you feel that in the pit of your stomach?" A grin appeared on her lips. "It'll feel worse in the arena. I promise."

"Ivory…" the Two male finally spoke up.

The One female's eyes softened. "How's your nose feeling, Gideon?" she asked without removing her gaze off of Porter.

"Better. Can we…leave the outliers alone?" he asked with uncertainty.

"No. I'm-"

The One female didn't get a chance to finish her sentence, not when a fist slammed against the side of her face and knocked her off-balance. Porter was released suddenly. Her expression, and her attempts at pretending to be fearful morphed into her usual neutrality.

Porter glanced up at the Two male, who's hands had clutched over his mouth in shock. The other Careers looked their way. The Two female and One male looked livid. However, the Four female crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows in surprise, and her district partner's face was as blank as Porter's own.

She looked at the male who knocked the One female down and was not surprised to see that it was the Six male. Although he himself seemed surprised by his own action.

"NO FIGHTING!" the head trainer roared. "THIS IS YOUR FIRST AND FINAL WARNING!"

The Two male rushed forward and offered a hand to the One female. He barely spared them a glance as he did. "Are you okay!?" he asked, worry evident in his tone.

The One female stood, grasping the Two male's hand in hers as she did so. She glared at the Six male, who glared right back at her, his surprise gone. "You're dead, Six! As soon as I'm done with the Fives, you're next!"

There were too many eyes on them. This had been an outcome that was not preferred. Porter eyed the Careers as they left, even as the Two female glared at them, flickering her attention between herself and the Six male.

As training resumed, Porter said, "Your help was unnecessary." She turned towards the Six male and he seemed annoyed at her words. "There is a seventy-two-point-three percent chance that the Careers will target you for this perceived slight."

His annoyance subsided. He had yet to speak a single word, and Porter deduced that was by design. But Porter could recall her interest in him as the recaps played. He, along with the Seven male, appeared physically fit. Yet his strengths and weaknesses were unknown. If the female from One had already decided that both of them were the targets of her ire…Porter ran through the data in her mind.

"Join our alliance?" Porter requested.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

The Training Center was dark. It was almost a tunnel that led into the gymnasium, with a barrier that separated the inside from the outside. Sperren was reminded of how he'd hunted. Stalking his victims through the dark, empty corridors and alleyways of District Nine.

Seats were spread out through the dark, and Sperren looked from seat to seat to see how the alliances had changed. Sasha sat with Pixel alone. Braiden, although he was beside them, spared them not a glance. Briar, Heath, and Kefinn sat together once again, and the former laughed at something one of the other two said. The Careers sat among themselves, finally talking quietly. Ivory glared at Porter, who sat with Citron and Diesel. Chip and Logan quietly talked to each other, occasionally glancing in the direction of Graze. Watt and Freiya spoke to each other, the latter animatedly talking as the former listened. And finally, Wensleydale sat by his district partner, appearing extremely relaxed, while Etta sat at the very end of the row.

Sperren led Winnow to the two unoccupied chairs beside Etta, who glanced at them before turning away. She was all alone…maybe that would change in the arena, or the time that spaced between now and then. But for now, the girl from District Twelve was alone.

Who would be the first to die? It was a question that Sperren pondered. He would not obtain the first kill. That would likely go to the Careers. Just as it did almost every year.

"Wh-what should I-I do?" Winnow asked shyly at his side. Sperren looked away from his observations to his ally and district partner. Yesterday was a moment that would live on in his head forever. It was only during those final moments with his victims that he felt real emotion. And Sperren could remember very clearly what he felt when Winnow listened to him so intently. How she enjoyed it just as much as he did when it was not just a task. When he could feel.

"Show them what you've learned," Sperren told her and he saw her bite the inside of her cheek, nervously fiddling with her fingers. "Your skills with a sword…or a knife."

Winnow looked at him and nodded, her cheeks flushing. "I'll get a good score," she promised, clenching her hands together. "What about you?" she asked meekly.

Sperren had considered that. He'd had options. Get a high score and reveal to the Careers just how much of a threat he really was…or get a low score and go undetected. The answer was obvious.

"I'm going to get a low score," Sperren said to Winnow.

"What? Why?" Winnow asked, her brow furrowed in meek confusion.

"Because low scores are dismissed as too easy prey," Sperren told her. "The Careers like to remove their strongest competition early."

Winnow bit the inside of her cheek again, and nodded. There was a determined gleam in her eye.

Sperren glanced past Winnow to see Etta very clearly listening in on their conversation. Winnow followed his gaze and turned in her seat to face her.

"You're…capable," Etta said softly, a tinge of nervousness on the edge of her voice.

"And you've been listening," Sperren stated, crossing his legs as he said it. He'd never bothered to give the girl from Twelve his attention before now. But if she was more crafty than how she appeared to be…she could provide an interesting kill.

Etta sniffed and rubbed her eyes with her arm. "Hey, I can help," she said, so softly that Sperren had to strain his ears to hear her. "I don't have any allies, and you guys just have each other."

She was desperate. Sperren recognized it in her voice, quiet as she may be. He recognized it in plenty of his victims. Ones who screamed that they could help him, or do whatever it was he wanted. But Sperren didn't have a need for that.

"Wh-what?" Winnow stuttered in surprise. She hadn't expected Etta's proposal.

"Yeah," Etta said with a nod. "I'm good with chemistry," she told them. "I can…" she hesitated, and her voice dropped even quieter. "I can make things go boom!"

Sperren raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Winnow looked back at him to gauge his reaction, and something told him that she didn't like what she saw. A potential ally that could cause explosions was something that might have been worth exploring. He and Winnow could learn Etta's skills, before they killed her.

"I-I don't even know who you are," Winnow stated, and this time Sperren heard a note of distress. "How can we…how can we trust you?" she asked meekly.

Etta frowned, her eyes turning downcast. She was alone. She had no one. Not even her district partner, Kefinn. But Sperren could tell that she was desperate.

"You can't. But I-" she stopped mid-sentence, and a sly smirk appeared on her face. "Tantrum from Ten incoming in three, two, one-"

And indeed, right on cue, Graze shot up in her chair, and snapped, "What did you just say!?"

Logan and Chip recoiled in fear. "N-nothing!" Logan stuttered out unconvincingly.

"Eleven girl is gonna try to defend her district partner," Etta said quietly, almost mouthing the words she was so silent. "Five won't let her."

Citron glared at Graze, and she started to stand up when Porter grabbed her hand, stopping her before she could.

"Now how did you know that?" Sperren asked Etta. Winnow vibrated in anxiety beside him. But Sperren wouldn't show Etta a thing. He couldn't feel things. So what would he have to show?

"Ten is going to go on the attack against Three and Eleven," Etta said, just as quietly as before.

And just as Etta suggested, Graze stepped closer to Logan and Chip. Any sense of bravado had fled the latter, while the former shook in fear. Honoria and Chariot cackled in amusement.

"You two are worthless," Graze sneered. "You should just kill yourselves. Get it done so I don't have to."

"Kefinn is going to step in," Etta said and Sperren glanced at the boy in question. He sat beside Briar and Heath. His clenched fists were the only sign of his anger.

Then, Kefinn rose. "Hey, stop that!" he called out at Graze. "Leave them alone!"

"The Sevens are about to join him," Etta said.

"Do you wanna join them, Twelve?" Graze asked, wheeling around to face Kefinn. "Do you need me to repeat that?" she continued, mockingly. "You're from Twelve. Your only purpose is to die early."

Briar and Heath stood, and the latter quickly stepped in between the two. "Hey, no need for all this," the former said, but Graze sneered at her.

"I'm gonna kill you, Twelve," Graze said to Kefinn, ignoring Heath and Briar for the moment. "I'm gonna strangle you when the Games start, and guess what? You can't do shit to stop me."

"One is getting involved. He's claimed Kefinn for himself," Etta stated.

"I don't think so, Ten," Chariot said with a sneer. "Twelve is mine. And if you take him, I'm gonna bash your brains in until nobody will recognize you."

Sperren was bored. He shifted in his seat towards Etta, who looked away from the other tributes at him. Winnow nervously bit on the inside of her cheek, her head ducked low.

"When you're invisible, nobody hides things from you," Etta said at last, finally answering his question. "Especially when they see you as a dead girl walking," she added, muttering the last bit under her breath.

Sperren considered her. Winnow and he had not been in the gymnasium the previous day. So Etta hadn't had the time to try to figure them out. And she never would. Killing her in the arena would be easy. The look of betrayal would be something that may be worth looking forward to.

"Soo…allies?" Etta asked, putting her hands on her knees and raising her shoulders. The desperation was back. "Three is the magic number."

It was too great of an opportunity. "Very well," he said, putting on his best affable smile. Etta grinned in relief.

She stuck her hand out to Winnow, who took it with an air of anxiety and shyness. "Call me Lusk," she said.

"Chariot Wentworth," a voice announced.

The private sessions were about to begin.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Porter was satisfied with her score. A six. Watt had received a three and throughout the entire experience, looked particularly interested in trying to speak to her. But he hadn't said a word, so neither had Porter. Citron had managed an eight, and Diesel a seven.

She clearly made an erroneous assessment on Citron's capabilities. Which begged the question then of why she chose to agree to Porter's alliance? She'd be a burden to Citron or…

Maybe that was it.

How ironic. She considered Watt and Freiya to be the equivalent of cannon fodder. Now she realized perhaps Citron saw her in much the same way.

Her heart constricted a little. Was this what bitterness felt like?

Porter had made a further error in believing that she could handle the female from Four, as well. Porter had seen the odds change for some tributes after the private sessions, but some, such as herself, had not. The Four female's odds had changed to two to one. And her score stood as an eleven.

Her assessments had been incorrect.

Porter turned her ruminations away from the scoring. She'd made a point of thanking her stylist this time. After that electrical entrance during the presentation ceremony with the chariots, she'd been told it wouldn't do to not keep the audiences…shocked and awed. She'd arched an eyebrow at the district themed puns by the stylist, but it was a fair fit, she supposed.

The ensemble prepared for her was a little more modest but also significantly more dainty in its appeal. A lightning blue shiny lacquer overlaid with glittering and sparkling silver jagged lines bedecked the outer dress, which hugged her form, down to her waist, before flaring out slightly with the skirt, going down to her knees. Underneath the skirt she wore a pair of sheer stockings that had a pattern on the outer sides shaped like lightning running all the way down to her high heeled shoes. The heels only added a few more inches to her woefully limited five foot four frame.

The overall electrical theme remained strong and the design created the illusion of her dress being perpetually charged and arcing with electricity.

Her stylist had told her, if asked, and chances were high she'd be asked, that she peeled off the clasps on her shoulders, to make a feature that the audiences would never ever forget. The host, one Caesar Flickerman, and the only reason she remembered his name was because it was dinned into her head by…everyone.

Porter was unflappable. But this seriously tested her patience.

She hoped he wasn't as bad as people described. He was supposedly an up-and-coming host notable for his energy and exuberance. It's like the very worst of what she'd seen of Nicola and Watt combined and amped up by a factor of a thousand.

She stood in line with the tributes in order of their district numbers.

Most people stood facing the wall to the side, so they could easily look left and right at each other. Even here, they were gauging and analyzing one another. Making last minute overtures or arrangements for the respective alliances.

Watt gave her nervous excited glances everytime her gaze was anywhere near his face, and she briefly considered speaking to him, if only to prompt him to get whatever it was out of his system.

"What is it, Watt?" Porter asked, a hint of impatience in her tone, "You've been acting like you want to speak every time we are within proximity with one another, but you always stop at the last second."

Although her voice was whisper soft, Watt jumped, and stared at her. Now she regretted even trying. This was probably a waste of time.

"I-I'm sorry…" Watt said, running a hand over the back of his head nervously.

"About what?"

"About...about everything?" Watt tried, but at Porter's flat look, he amended, "I guess mostly for…uh…calling you a robot. I know…I know you're not…"

After a moment, Porter closed her eyes, and nodded. "It's not necessary, and honestly not the worst thing I've been called in my life. But apology accepted all the same."

Watt's…thousand-watt smile, seemed to make her effort worthwhile. And she decided to broach another matter, as some of the latter district tributes began to make their way to the assembly line for their interviews.

"I spoke with the fe-with Freiya," she said.

"She mentioned that, yeah," Watt said, "she didn't seem too happy, but...also, oddly not angry?"

"She should have no reason to be angry with us," Porter said, remembering that she essentially spared the female's life by not reporting her.

"But could we all be allies?" Watt pressed.

Porter regarded him with a look, this seemed important to him. And she reminded herself again that Watt was her district partner, and for better or worse, having him alive, with whomever he cared for, could work to her benefit. She still held the estimate that Freiya would not survive the Bloodbath. But as long as she held to the principle of alliance, Watt could not fault her should Freiya die.

"As long as she is amenable to Citron, Diesel, and myself being allies as well, I have no issue with her, and absolutely no issue with you, Watt."

The male, amazingly, could smile even brighter than he did before. Freiya really meant a lot to him, and apparently her decision was just as important, for reasons she could not fathom. This could either be dangerous, or good. But she had no real way to tell until Watt showed his hand. After all, she had been promised an alliance of sorts if she eliminated someone else's district partner, which spoke volumes.

"Porter? Can I ask you something?" Watt requested.

"Yes," she replied.

"How do you do it?" he asked, "How do you ignore the fear?"

Porter looked at him, and saw sheer desperation in his eyes.

Tomorrow, twenty-four people were going into a no-holds barred fight for their life, of which they knew, only one person was walking out alive. Closing her eyes, she decided to risk exposing a vulnerability to her district partner.

"You think that's what I do? Or that I don't feel?" Porter said, and she saw that she was right on the mark at the slight flush of Watt's face. She shook her head. "I do feel, Watt, and I 'ignore' the fear by focusing on everything else - there are plentiful distractions here in the Capitol - to help one forget about their mortality."

Watt nodded his head, eyes wide with dawning realization. Then he said ruefully, "I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it? Everything happens tomorrow."

"Yes," Porter replied, and further conversation was interrupted by a loud voice.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME, YOUR HOST, CAESARRRRRR…FLICKERMANNNN!"

Porter's eye twitched at the din, not to mention the thunderous applause. All eyes turned to the screens in the antechamber.

A young man, barely a few years older than Porter by her estimates, leapt out of a platform before it fully rose onto the stage, and pumped his fists energetically, the loud music had an upbeat tune that barely matched the sheer volume of Caesar's own enthusiasm. He wore a glitzy, eye-wateringly bright suit of purple and yellow. Not just purple and yellow, but neon purple and yellow, with glitter, and actual blinking lights that made his suit look like it was twinkling.

"WHO'S LOOKING FORWARD TO THE 38th GAAAAAMES!?" He cried out.

The crowd responded with equal fervor, and Porter's left eye was twitching uncontrollably.

Everything people said about him? It was understated.

He was way worse than she'd anticipated.

---

Sperren Dwightbone

District 9

Age 17

---

As anticipated, the Careers were a painfully dull and predictable lot.

They talked about their optimism and spouted the usual lines about bringing pride to their districts. Sheep talk.

The host, Caesar, was far more interesting a study. What would it take before his smile dropped, he idly wondered. Would he have a laugh about watching his heart being pulled out? Seeing the few strands of valves and pumps hanging limply.

The pair from Five intrigued him as well. Watt was exuberant. Even more so than usual. Something had changed between him and his district partner. But if he could have felt mirth, he might have drawn a laugh at Porter's interview.

The girl was amazingly mechanical in her movements and response. He was eager to find out if it was an act, or she really was that unfeeling. Like he often was, save for when he was in the moment.

Caesar's face actually fell a few times during his conversation with Porter. Her nearly emotionless statements and monosyllabic responses to queries about how she felt going into the Games tomorrow had him hard pressed to stir the crowds with.

But the man was relentless if nothing else.

"So tell me," Sperren heard him say, "what do you have planned for the Games? Got any strengths or weaknesses you might use in a unique way?"

Porter looked at Caesar like he was a loon.

"Why would I expose my plans for all to hear or know about? That's tactically unsound of myself to do. And furthermore, why would I advertise my advantages or liabilities? This line of questioning seems aimed at sabotaging my chances."

"Oooh," Caesar maintained his exuberant smile and looked to the crowd, "this is one to watch, folks!"

Sperren eyed the girl. There was no hint of emotion, not like Lusk. She was composed and calm. Yes, she was very interesting indeed.

"Okay, okay, so perhaps you could tell us a bit about yourself? Panem would love to know what kind of life you have, and where you might go if you win the Games." Caesar said.

Again, Porter stared long and hard at Caesar, enough to make him uncomfortable.

"Do you actually see us as living people, or perhaps we are like mutts to you? We just get processed into matter to be reused for the next show?"

There were murmurings in the crowd, and Caesar's smile visibly faltered. So, the man was capable of other expressions.

But the interview ended then, and Sperren doubted that Porter had successfully made enough of an impression to obtain sponsors. The Sixes were brought up next. Freiya first, who fidgeted awkwardly in the seat. Diesel second, who wrote down for the audience and Caesar that he'd taken a vow of silence for his best friend. When asked about what he missed from home, Diesel barely hesitated before claiming that it was his mother's cooking.

The Sevens followed. Briar managed to match Caesar's exuberance and excitement. Her smile didn't dim once during the interview. Heath, on the other hand, was harder to pry answers out of than Porter was. He played up the role of gruff and broody, and by the sound of the audience cheering, they loved it. Heath barely managed to hide his smile before he was taken off-stage.

Then it was the Eights. Sasha blew the audience away, and it was immediately obvious to Sperren that she was going to be the crowd favorite. She'd brought a guitar onto the stage, and sang a soothing song that seemed to leave the audience in a stage of hypnosis. Braiden had no hope of following that up. He was going to fade into obscurity long before the Games even started.

Before long, Caesar called for Winnow to come up. She gave Sperren one last look before she was escorted up onto the stage. She gave the audience a shy smile and wave. Her interview passed by quickly as she dutifully gave Caesar answers to his questions. She blushed brightly when he asked her if she had an eye on someone and stuttered out a response that was neither negative or positive.

By the time the interview was done, there seemed to be some sympathetic eyes on her. Which meant sympathetic sponsors. Caesar called Sperren's name moments later, and he was swiftly escorted up onto the stage.

Sperren nodded at Winnow, and he realized that once more, something in him changed, in regards to the girl. He wished for the umpteenth time that he had noticed her earlier before the reapings.

He simply nodded towards the crowd and then locked eyes with Caesar as he marched briskly forward. As the man extended a hand towards him, Sperren grasped it and shook it firmly. Everybody was in Sperren's playground, as far as he was concerned, the Capitolites were no exception. Despite what he and Winnow had done to the Avox days ago, there was hardly any news on it.

It was marvelous.

He was intrigued during his interview how Caesar's smile started becoming more forced the longer they spoke.

"We certainly have quite a few unusual tributes this year, don't we, folks?"

The crowd somehow murmured and roared their sentiments all at once. It washed over Sperren but ultimately left him unperturbed. Their approval or disapproval was unimportant.

"Well, I suppose you're eager to get started then!" Caesar said.

Sperren merely nodded, palms pressed together while he sat back, one leg folded over the other, the symbol of indifference.

"Eager?" Sperren tested the word in his mouth and mind, "Not the word I would use, but I am...looking forward to it."

"Do you have anybody back home that would be waiting for you? Parents? A certain special someone, maybe?" Caesar asked.

They certainly seemed interested in romance and love, these Capitolites.

But that question had him thinking of Winnow. And the dawning realization that came with the memory of her face…her smile as they killed that Avox together. Her hunger for more.

He didn't want Winnow to die. Not in the Games, not by his hands.

He needed to make a plan, to sneak her out of the Games, somehow. He had to fake her death. Maybe have it happen at the last moment, when the ship came back, they can have her revive. The shock of her not dying should buy him sufficient time to eradicate the people in the ship when they're distracted. It would be a close thing, but doable.

That was the bare bones plan for now. He would modify and improve it as they went along. First, they'd have many toys to play with and fill themselves with enjoyment.

Had he been able to feel things, he would have decided that this was the best vacation ever.

He looked upon Caesar, and finally gave the man the barest hints of a smile.

"Yes," was all he said.

He owed these people nothing else. But as thanks for his meeting Winnow, he would let the Capitolites live in peace for a few years, then he'd begin his art on them.

---

Porter Tripp

District 5

Age 18

---

Porter had long since been separated from any of the other tributes. Each one had been brought from the hovercraft that took them from the tribute center to wherever the arena was. Porter couldn't deny how her heart pounded in her chest. With every twist and turn that the Peacekeepers brought her through the series of maze-like corridors, Porter was brought closer and closer to her demise.

Every bit of faux-confidence that she had managed to put on faded away. Her calculations told her the same thing: she was going to die in the arena. She would not survive the Careers. Nor would she survive the inevitable betrayal that would be dealt to her by her allies.

Soon enough, the Peacekeepers led her into her launch room and locked the door behind her. Porter took the time she had left to examine her surroundings. It was a featureless room. Mono-chromatic, just as the chamber that she had been in when she had first been styled.

There was a wardrobe on the other side of the room. It would carry her arena clothing. It was a crisp white, but when Porter approached it to open it, it didn't budge. It seemed that she would be waiting for her stylist first.

Porter glanced at the end of the room, where a tube stood imposingly. It was surrounded by glass that Porter deduced would seal her inside when the Games were ready to begin. It would take her up into the arena. Which tributes would be catapulted in the arena just to die within the opening minutes? The Careers would swing into action the moment the timer hit zero.

And Porter had no intention of forgetting the promise that the One female had made. It would be a mistake to stick around longer than was absolutely necessary. Supplies were all too important to go without. There were going to be risks that Porter was going to need to take.

The average amount of tributes to die in the Bloodbath was ten. There was no reason that these Games would be any different. Porter's heart pitter-pattered against her chest. It would be unfortunate if such a fate befell Watt. But he needed to die if she were to live. And Porter doubted that Freiya would be so open to work with her if Watt died.

But the Bloodbath would only be the first obstacle of what Porter could only assume to be many. Battles with the other tributes. Attacks from mutts. It would all be based on the whims of Demonstrate Vanderblathe and how he decided the Games would play out.

Strategizing what led up to the Games, and would soon happen in them were two different complications. There were too many variables. Too many unknown quantities.

The door opened suddenly and Porter glanced in its direction. Her stylist walked in, holding a glass of water in her hand. When she saw Porter, she held it out, not looking back as the door shut behind her again.

"You have permission to be allowed one last glass of water," the stylist said. Porter deduced that what she said must have been true. It would be too much of a risk to her life if she did anything but make her look as decent as she could. Much less kill her herself.

Porter took the glass and swallowed the water down in one, big gulp. She felt the liquid slide down the back of her throat before settling in the pit of her stomach. It was about to begin. A battle to the death with twenty-three other tributes. Porter went through them all in her mind one by one.

The Ones both received a score of ten. The male had four to one odds while the female had three to one.

The Two male had managed a score of eight and held odds of seven to one. The female had scored a nine, and odds of five to one.

The Threes had scored low. The male a score of four and odds of twenty-seven to one. The female had a score of five with twenty-five to one.

The Four male had managed a nine and odds of five to one. The female an eleven with two to one odds.

Diesel had scored a seven, and had odds that stood at eleven to one. Freiya had a six, and twenty-five to one.

The Seven male had gotten a score of eight, and a score of fourteen to one. His partner, however, had only gotten a two, and odds of fifty to one.

The Eight male had scored a low four, and odds that stood at thirty to one. The female, however, stood with odds of ten to one, and had earned a score of seven.

The Nines had surprised Porter. The male had gotten a mere three with odds of thirty to one. His partner had a seven with odds of twelve to one.

The Tens were just as surprising. The male with a score of six and seventeen to one odds. The female had scored lower than Porter expected. A five, with winning odds of twenty-six to one.

Citron's district partner, Logan, had earned a five, and had odds of twenty-eight to one. Citron herself, however, had a score of eight, and odds of eight to one.

And finally, the Twelves. The male had scored a four, and large odds of forty to one. The female, however, scored a six with odds of twenty-eight to one.

That was her competition. The other tributes who stood in her way of survival. The Careers would be a problem each and of themselves, but the others would become just as one. Each more determined to make it back home than the last.

"Well…" the stylist clasped her hands together and headed towards the wardrobe, "I guess it's time we see what you've been given."

Porter followed her stylist with her eyes as she approached the wardrobe. She planted her hand against the side, and Porter heard a dull click. And just like that, the doors swung open.

Porter frowned in dismay. What she saw hung in the wardrobe was not practical in the slightest. The only part that was were the dress boots, but Porter doubted that they would be comfortable over long periods of times. Or rather, days. But the uniform itself was unlike anything Porter had ever seen for the Hunger Games. It was a dark purple and red frilly dress that would stop just an inch below her knees. Sleeves stretched down to the wrist, and there were ruffles along the skirt of the dress, with pleats at the hem. There was a large bow tie at the base of the neck and as the stylist lifted it from the wardrobe, Porter saw there was an even larger one at the back. Black stockings would hug her legs closely, and those were the first that Porter slipped on. The rest of the dress slowly followed soon after.

"I was briefed on the material, but I wasn't expecting this," Porter's stylist admitted when they were almost done putting it on her. "The boots were designed specifically to be comfortable with running," she said.

Porter supposed that answered one of her silent questions.

"The material for the dress was uniquely specified for both hot and cold climates," the stylist said, and although her words were spoken with reassurance, it told Porter nothing.

"I prefer my interview clothing," Porter stated blandly.

The stylist nodded in agreement. "I do, too," she said with a small chuckle.

After a minute and three seconds, forty-seven milliseconds, Porter's stylist stepped back, satisfied. She was done and Porter looked down at herself. There was nothing practical about what she was wearing. The frills in particular were a nuisance. Porter would have to deal with them as soon as possible.

"Launch in thirty seconds. All tributes into the launch tube," a voice said into invisible intercoms. Porter didn't bother to look for them. She steered mechanically towards the tube, hesitating for only a moment as she was about to step through.

Her stylist had done plenty for her. She had made a costume for the parade that was impressive. Far more impressive than what Porter had been able to see. And she helped where she could regarding her interview. Porter turned her head to look at her stylist.

"What is your name?" she asked.

Her stylist blinked, looking very much like she'd been taken off guard.

"Tigris," she said.

Porter didn't nod. But now she would remember. She turned away and stepped into the tube. Approximately eighteen seconds and sixty-six milliseconds later, she started to rise.

At exactly two minutes fifty-three seconds and twenty-four milliseconds, light shone around Porter.

And then she was in the arena and Porter took in her surroundings as fast as she possibly could. The female from Twelve was to her left, her hands balled in determination, wiping her eyes with her dress sleeve. To her right was the Ten male, who looked back at her briefly, before continuing his own gaze around at their surroundings.

They had been positioned in a semicircle, and straight ahead of them was the Cornucopia. It stood grandly and shone a deep crimson. It would be difficult to see where a tribute's blood ended and the Cornucopia began.

Above them was a large dome made of stained glass. The kind that was impossible to see through. The Capitol's seal loomed above them like a mocking reminder.

The arena was beautiful. Wood with intricate patterns adorned the walls, where sets of lime green double-doors would lead out from the Cornucopia and away from where the Bloodbath was about to commence. Pillars connected ground and ceiling, crafted smoothly from quartz.

Before Porter and the rest of the tributes were a long set of stairs that led right to the Cornucopia. Running up and down them would prove perilous. But as Porter spied the backpacks and weapons dotted around the mouth of the Cornucopia, she surmised that it would be a risk worth taking. There were lesser important materials darted along the stairs, but Porter knew that only the most important would be along the Cornucopia itself.

Seven spaces to Porter's left, she saw Citron. She stared down the stairs at where all of the supplies had been placed. Two spaces to Porter's right and her eyes met with Watt. Just past him was Diesel who bounced nervously from foot to foot.

Then, without warning, a voice announced, "Let the 38th Hunger Games begin!"

A number sixty appeared above the Cornucopia. Exactly one second later, fifty-nine took its place.

Less than one minute was all Porter had now between safety and the chaos about to unfold.