three - wildfire

Tyrannus Rex

They came for him in the night. Two trainers he hardly recognized shook him awake and halfway dragged him out of the house, still in pajama bottoms and barely slowing down to let him throw on a tank-top.

He reckoned it couldn't be any earlier than three in the morning. A bit early for him any day of the week. On Tribute Day, though? Criminal. He just hoped that they appreciated his sacrifice enough to make the dark rings he would wear under his eye today worth it.

He could have guessed that they were bringing him to some office in the Brightburn Training Academy, but the audience that was waiting for him there was more than enough to smack the confidence right out of him. If it weren't for the trainers still gripping him tightly by the shoulders, he might have melted into a puddle right then and there.

Every single District Two victor stood in front of him. Caius Knight and his son Ezra, Alaric Martine, Titan, the Redwood, and a dozen others. His mother stood on the outskirts of the group, her arms crossed and her expression completely unreadable.

The trainers released him and he did his best to stand tall, pushing out his shoulders and picking at his nails to stop his hands from shaking. These days there wasn't much to pick at. His eyepatch itched. He twisted his wrist to shield the face of his training watch so they wouldn't see his heart-rate skyrocket so high that Tyrannus half-wondered if he was having a heart attack like that jackass Cornelius Whoever did on the training mat six months back.

The room was breezy enough that he didn't think it was possible to sweat, at least. He put up a confident smirk and cracked his neck. "S-s-so, what's g-going on?"

Caius Knight rose from his chair (the only one in the room, Tyrannus couldn't help but notice). The old man stepped toward him with a critical eye, two ugly scars dragging across his face from forehead down to his chin, cutting across his eyes.

"So this is the one? This boy?" His voice came out in a curling snarl.

"Tyrannus Rex," Alaric Martine answered.

"No wonder District One keeps beating us." Titan snorted. "Look at him, just like the other boy, half an outlier."

Caius hummed in what Tyrannus futilely hoped wasn't agreement. "How tall are you, boy?"

"Six foot."

"Ha!" The Redwood laughed. "Five-ten, maybe. And near as thin as Verena."

He felt a flash of heat burst through his chest. He tried to sound commanding but knew immediately that his voice came closer to mewling than that. "What's going on? Why am I-"

"Quiet boy," Caius snapped at him, cracking him down into silence. "You will speak when told to speak. Or do they not teach you boys anything more than how to swing a sword at Brightburn these days?"

"Yes, sir," Tyrannus stammered out. "I mean. No, sir. I mean…"

Caius continued on as if he had said nothing.

"If we had a better replacement, he would be standing here instead of this one, I suppose?"

"Replacement?"

Caius glared him into silent submission.

"It's a weak crop," Alaric said. "Between Cato and Cornelius, we had already lost our top two. And now with Lucio. . ."

He couldn't hide his surprise as the realization of what they were saying dawned on him. He picked at his nails, his eyes shifting over to his mother, who still held a reserved look on her face. It was easy to miss, but Tyrannus could've sworn he saw a hint of pride in her eyes.

"Lucio. . ." He said, quietly. Afraid that speaking the words aloud will cause it to no longer be true.

"Got himself into a training accident eight hours before volunteering," Caius said, without a trace of sympathy in his tone. "The idiot. Stabbed himself in the eyes with his own spear. His own spear!

Tyrannus's eye must have widened to the size of a cue ball. He couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. Left with nothing to dig his nails into, he hands wrapped around his wrists and twisted at his skin uneasily.

"And I'm here because. . ." He trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence.

Caius sneered. "You look almost disappointed, boy. Is this not what you want? What you've been training for your whole life? Do you not wish to fulfill your duty for your district? Are you a cowering, mewling child who fears death? Were we wrong to bring you here to replace him? To stand as Tribute?"

"No," he said, with confidence this time. "I want this. You were right to choose me. It should have been me in the first place. I'll prove that. I'll succeed where he failed, I swear it."

"Bold words for a fourth choice." This time from The Redwood, his arms crossed as he looked Tyrannus up and down, still seeming unimpressed. He wanted to feel anger at that, but couldn't rise above the feeling of inadequacy. The Redwood was his hero, the greatest victor District Two had seen in a hundred years, tearing through his arena just as a 14-year-old Tyrannus started to see the Hunger Games as something more than just a thing other people did.

It was hard to stand tall in that kind of shadow.

"A year ago I was far worse than that," he said. "Put a sword in all of our hands today and I wouldn't be fourth.

"I would hope that any of our trainees could beat two deadmen and blind boy." Alaric Martine chuckled.

"Blind?" Tyrannus tried to sound unconcerned.

"Tore both of his eyes out," Caius said, nonchalantly. "I suppose you can empathize with that, though, can't you boy?"

He shifted. "Different circumstances."

"So I hear." Caius snorted. "You're brave, certainly. Does that fill you with pride?"

He shrugged.

As soon as it vanished, Caius's sneer reappeared. "It shouldn't. I don't want brave tributes. Leave the courage for District Four. Let District One be valiant. I want tributes who are awash with fear. Tributes who watch their own shadow with caution. I want tributes who sleep with one eye open through the whole arena, tributes that keep their back to their district partner and never let it appear anywhere else. Is that you, boy? Are you afraid?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

"Of what?"

He lifted his head, forcing himself to look the old man in the eye, no matter how much it unsettled him. No matter how much his legs shifted uneasily below him. For once, his voice came out hardened with steel.

"Nothing that I can't bury in the arena."

For the first time, Caius looked at him with something above indifference or disgust. To Tyrannus, it seemed almost like pride. He held tight to that feeling.

He couldn't contain the nervous excitement within him any longer. Images played in his head of the days to come. Standing in front of his entire district, awash in the love and adoration that he deserved. Other images played, but they all paled in comparison to that first one. The cheering and chanting and the feeling of every pair of eyes in the whole district all on him, facing upwards with admiration and nothing else. His body tingled and he could hardly keep himself from shaking as Caius looked across at him, that same look still carved into his old eyes.

He drew a twisted, malformed dagger from his belt and pointed the curled tip at Tyrannus. Placed the flat of the blade beneath his chin.

"Kneel then, boy," he said. Behind him the other victors straightened themselves. Even Ezra and The Redwood turned their expressions to something that he had never seen from either of the two: somber and grim but with that unmistakable bit of something else that Tyrannus knew was pride.

He knelt.

"Swear to me, boy, to uphold the honor of your district and the Rex family name."

He lifted his gaze from the ground just long enough to catch his mother's eyes. "I swear," he said, but his voice came out softer than he had imagined it. He looked back to the floor.

"Swear to me, then, that you will protect your district partner as you would protect yourself and do unto them no dishonors."

He thought of his soon to be district partner and wasn't sure whether to shiver or laugh at the thought of standing back to back with her, but he held his voice somber all the same and again said, "I swear."

"Swear to me that you will die with dignity, or not die at all. That you will give yourself utterly and entirely to the glory of your District. To strip yourself bare until you have nothing left to give, and then give the rest."

"I swear."

"What do you swear, boy? Tell me."

He looked up, his eyes glimmering. "To strip myself bare, until I have nothing left to give." His voice hardened. "And then give the rest."

This time he was certain that it was pride. Caius lowered his hand. "Then rise, a boy no more. Stand, Tyrannus, a Tribute of District Two."

Verena Martine

Her dad was more nervous than she was. Verena wasn't sure why. He had been a part of the ceremony plenty of times before. First as a Tribute like her, then as a victor, and even once before as a guardian for the boy from four years ago that they called "The Redwood" now. None of it was new, yet he seemed on edge. Worried. Like there was something that was bothering him and he was trying to hide it, but not doing a very good job of it.

She nudged him.

His faraway look vanished. He blinked a few times and then looked down at her. The bags under his eyes were evidence of the long night at the academy he had told her about this morning. He chanced a smile.

"How you feeling?" he asked.

She tugged at the uncomfortable fabric that tightened around her wrists.

That seemed enough of an answer for him. "I know. The garb is difficult to get used to, but it'll start fitting easier. You'll see. Two-hundred years of District Two Tributes and victors have worn it, after all."

"Hmph," she replied. She knew all of that. Every year she watched from the crowd as the Tributes marched onto stage in the distinguished navy blue military suits, adorned in medals and patches to show off their valor. In class, they taught them that once the uniforms had been adorned by medals won from military action. But as the Dark Days faded into the past, soldiers gave way to Peacekeepers in training, and they into Careers. Verena hardly thought she had done anything to earn a chest full of medals (she couldn't even say for certain what most of them were for - where did the red dagger on a blue background come from?), but there they were nonetheless.

If it was up to her, she would do away with all the tradition and formality and march up on stage looking the same way she did when training or camping. But District Two tradition was one opponent that she couldn't stand up to, so here she was. Laced into itchy clothes and tight boots that made every motion she took robotic and stiff, her hair neatly washed and combed and tied into a ponytail so tight that she was certain that her hair would rip from her scalp any moment now.

From outside the waiting room came the sound of trumpets and snare drums. A small, black and white television broadcasted the ceremony. Even just watching it from a screen made her feel uncomfortable. She had never liked Tribute Day. The crowds were too tight and crammed in, the people all too stiff and proper, and even though it was held out in the open air she felt so boxed in that she never felt more trapped elsewhere in her life.

But this time would be different. This time, she would be on the open stage, just her and whichever boy they had gotten to replace Lucio with last night (her father had told her a half-dozen times already, but she didn't care to remember. What was the point in getting to know someone who would need to die for her to live? If she could go without even so much as learning his name, that was all the better to her). This time, she wouldn't be stuck in the audience, squirming and waiting for the moment she could burst free. This time, the trumpets blaring outside weren't the usual sharp, obnoxious noise that she struggled to block out in any way she could.

This time, it was her song of freedom.

"Well then," her dad said. He looked to the double doors that led out to the stage and looked more than just nervous. Sad, nearly. "This is it."

"I'm ready," she said.

He patted her on the shoulder, the same way that he would when she was little and would loose an arrow or throw a spear for the first time and hit its mark. She wasn't sure why he was looking at her now suddenly like she was little.

"I hope so," he said."

She bristled away from his touch. "This isn't goodbye," her voice prickly.

"It might be, Veri."

She paused at that and looked up to him, confused now. "You're my mentor."

He sighed, and the sadness in his eyes was joined with disappointment, though she couldn't figure out what for. "Do you remember who I told you is your new district partner?"

She shook her head.

Again he sighed. "Veri, you need to remember these types of things. I know how you feel, but things are different now. The Hunger Games, the arena - it isn't like training. It's about more than just stabbing things. You need to use this," he tapped her on the forehead. "And you need to realize that you cannot go this alone. You'll need your allies in there, whether you want to accept that or not. And you won't make them loyal to you by trying to ignore their existence. They exist. They'll be there, regardless of how you act."

There was no point arguing with him. His mind wouldn't be changed, and she knew that her's wouldn't be, either. She still wasn't even convinced that she wanted to be a part of the Career alliance, much less learn or care about them in any sort of meaningful way. She had always done best alone, why switch up what had worked for her so far? For 15 years she had done plenty fine alone.

"Tyrannus Rex," her dad said, after a long moment of silence. "That's your partner. Remember his name, at the very least."

"Rex?" She asked. "Like Theresa Rex?"

"Good," he said. "Good. Yes, as in the only son of Theresa Rex. And so why does that mean that I can't mentor you? Tell me."

She thought for a moment. "They don't want you to play favorites."

He nodded, looking relieved. "Exactly. But, remember, while we can't play favorites, they-" he motioned to the television, which was now showing a viewing party in the streets of the Capitol. "-they can. And they will." He leaned in close, squeezing her on the shoulder. "Make sure that it's you."

"Okay," she said, and she tried to mean it. For him. To give him some sort of peace or calm.

"Okay," he echoed. He wrapped her up in a hug and it was all that she could do to not pull away. "I love you, Veri. Me and your mom both love you, no matter what. You remember that, okay?"

She didn't reply to that, but he didn't seem to notice. After what felt like an hour of being wrapped up so tight that she could hardly even wiggle her arms, his cue sounded, and he let her go. He didn't so much as look back at her as he marched out the double doors and out into the cheering crowd. She supposed Theresa Rex would be up there with him to represent her own son.

For her dad's sake, she tried to pull up memories of Tyrannus Rex. Who he was, what he looked like, what sort of weapons he trained with, what weaknesses he might have. She could recall a boy with an eyepatch, a few (probably all imaginary) stories of where it had come from, and the vague memory of seeing him training whenever she made late night visits to the academy the last few months. She knew that people seemed to spend as much time laughing with him as they did laughing about him.

None of that felt particularly worth the strain of trying to remember one boy among the dozens she trained with, though. With her dad gone, she felt free to let his advice slip away. He had his own way, and she had hers. He loved her, but he never truly understood her enough to realize that.

The song outside was growing louder, stronger. She could feel it calling her, like some magnetic pull that she wanted to race toward. Away from District Two and stuffy military suits and lectures on strategy and blunted steel. It was her song of freedom, blaring out with an open invitation to follow it into the arena. To the wild. Hunt or be hunted. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest.

The clothes she was stuck wearing suddenly felt even tighter and more ill-fitting than before. She began to pace back and forth, waiting for the trumpets to crescendo and call her out on stage. For her to march across stage with strings on her limbs lifting up her arm in a salute to her district partner and then to her district. To open up her mouth and pull out the words her dad made her say to him one thousand times to make absolute certain that she wouldn't forget them. He could never answer her why it mattered that she said the same exact thing that four hundred Tributes had said before her already.

The real answer was that it didn't. Just like all of the other things that they constantly tried to force onto her in this district, it was all false. Empty and hollow and disconnected from reality. The only thing that mattered was survival, and the only thing that counted towards survival was strength. And strength she had. She knew how many people doubted her already - how many more would begin doubting her once she showed herself to Panem. She knew what they saw.

Soon. Soon there would be nothing holding her back. No rules. No expectations. Nothing but her, the wilderness, and undeniable proof for all the world to see who she was. The strongest. The fittest.

A victor.

A/N: Thank you to the submitters of Verena and Tyrannus for sending me these two amazing characters! I'm excited to get to tell their stories and hope you enjoyed getting to see this first preview of them! Let me know what you think of the District Two pair!

Next week: windswept