X. Conflicting Interests

Will I always know this divide?
Living host to this war inside
Take this ghost of me with the tide to die
And release my heart to come alive

Lorian Naciri. 17.
District Two Male.

Well, he definitely has his work cut out for him- so much so that Lorian's secretly hoping the Ones forgot about last night's proposal to spend the day training together. More specifically, he's hoping Sapphira didn't remember. Gremory's a bit too prideful, but ultimately somebody Lorian can manage. Sapphira, on the other hand? She reeks of vainglory and hubris and ultimately isn't fit for a top-notch alliance like Lorian's. So what, she trained at One's Academy? All that means is District One doesn't know shit when it comes to preparing Tributes for the Games. Even if Sapphira's at the bottom of her class, she shouldn't have been allowed to train in the first place. It's almost comical that Lorian sees more potential in Gremory, even if he hasn't spent a day in the Academy.

"What are the odds they abandon us?" he asks Belacaine as they make their way inside the Training Center. The room's been painted a fresh coat of sky-blue, and along the walls sit racks of imitation weapons just waiting for the Tributes to pick them up. Various training stations are scattered around as far as Lorian's eyes can see, and signs point to other rooms containing even more facilities. He always thought that Shindy's was nice; it's the best funded of the Core Four, after all. But it might as well be a junkyard compared to the Capitol Training Center and all its luxuries.

"I'd say it's a tossup." Compared to Sapphira, Lorian's District partner isn't all that bad. It's a low bar, of course, but Belacaine has at least some brain cells in her head. She has to; otherwise, she wouldn't have come up with the strategy of behaving like a total ditz in front of the other Tributes. The goal is to make the Outer-District kids think that there's no Pack of trained Tributes for them to worry about. As soon as the two of them saw Sapphira fawning over the horses attached to her chariot yesterday, Belacaine decided she could and should play dumb around her as well.

Still, she's Belacaine Beaufort, and he's Lorian Naciri. Her surname's associated with fraud and trickery, while his goes hand in hand with valor and glory. If his father saw him acting nearly friendly with a Beaufort, Lorian might as well be dead.

(There's a lot Lorian could do that'd make his father wish he was dead, but that's beside the point. Just because there's no way for him to meet Aldric Naciri's impossible standards doesn't mean he's not going to try.)

"And why would you say that?" Lorian asks as he sits down in a metal folding chair and gestures for Belacaine to sit at his side.

The girl smirks. "I'm only half convinced Sapphira was sober during our conversation, and Gremory seems to want to go wherever she does."

Gremory's odd fascination with Sapphira may be the weirdest thing about the Ones. The man's taller than Lorian will ever be, enough that he could plummet her if he wanted to without much thought, yet he hasn't. For better or worse, Lorian gets the feeling that Sapphira and Gremory are a two-for-one deal. All he can do for now is hope she's mellowed out enough that she's tolerable. The last thing Lorian wants to do is make an enemy out of the most intimidating-looking Tribute here.

The good news is that if Lorian and Belacaine's potential partnership with the Ones doesn't work out, plenty of other Tributes seem promising. The boy from Three appears more easygoing here than he was during the Reaping recap, and he already demonstrated some degree of physical prowess when he toppled that Peacekeeper. The Seven boy also looks like he's capable of fighting, based on his stern expression and built physique. However, with Tributes from the Outer-Districts lies a problem. Crimes in Districts besides One and Two have always been more intense, so there's a good chance both Three and Seven were voted in because they're dangerous. Odds are, whatever earned Sapphira and Gremory this death sentence, it's less severe.

Then again, Belcaine's a bloody murderer, for Panem's sake. She's entertaining, yes, but there's still blood on her hands, another reason Lorian mustn't get too close to her.

"Well, well, well, I was hoping I'd run into you two!" Lorian turns his head to see Sapphira standing behind him, last night's dumbstruck expression still on her face.

He chuckles and fakes a smile. "Good morning, Sapphira."

"Yes, good morning," Belacaine echoes him.

Sapphira curtsies with dramatism Lorian's learned to expect, then says, "I am positively delighted to be training with you on this fine morning. Apologies for Gremory's tardiness. I promise we're capable of arriving somewhere at the same time; it just hasn't happened yet."

Of course she fucking remembered, Lorian muses. Honestly, it was silly of him to hope otherwise. Since when did things go Lorian's way anyway?

"Well, I'm excited for Gremory's arrival, and do quite hope it's soon." Like an actress in a film, Belacaine mimics Sapphira's high-pitched voice doused in enthusiasm. "Was your sleep last night as good as mine was? Oh, the Capitol accommodations really are just so lovely!"

"Why yes, it was; I slept just like a baby!"

Lorian wishes he could relate. He's never been the best at staying asleep for long periods, but it's a hell of a lot more difficult here. His bed back in Two may have been uncomfortably stiff, and his sisters' bickering might have been a nuisance, but it was still easier for him to rest. Probably because his mind was, well, less active there, to put it lightly.

Last night, Lorian could hardly go an hour without waking up in a cold sweat. When he did, there was only one thought racing through his mind.

"Either come home having successfully proven yourself to me or don't come home at all."

Even though his father didn't directly say that, based on Lorian's nightmares, Alaric might as well have. It's like Lorian's subconscious knows the one thing he doesn't want to hear but has made the unfortunate decision to repeat it again and again: that he's a failure. All Lorian Naciri will ever be is a failure, so he might as well give up now. No matter how hard he tries, he'll always amount to nothing. No matter how many hours he spends working his ass off, his effort won't be enough.

"Girls will be girls, huh?" A tap on his shoulder shakes Lorian out of his introspection. He tilts his head to the left to see Gremory above him.

Assuming the One boy's referring to Sapphira and Belacaine's blabbering, Lorian nods in agreement. Yes, Belacaine's exuberance is all a ruse, but there's no reason for Gremory to know that now. "That they will be; that they will be."

"I'm glad you see things the way I do," Gremory intones. "Seriously, I am."

It's been hard for Lorian to get a clear read on Gremory, truth be told. As enigmatic as he is, though, the one clear thing is that he's somebody better to have as a friend than as a foe. The fact he seems to nearly respect Lorian can only mean good things.

Before he can say anything further, a bell rings from the front of the room, prompting Lorian to turn his attention there. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Gremory's taken the other seat next to him, again a good sign.

"Salutations, my most revered Tributes!" The man who rang the bell says, his voice shrill and raspy. Everything about the man is honestly intimidating, from his pallid complexion and furrowed brows to the visibly pointed tips of his nails. The veins popping out of his biceps are enough to make Lorian pat his own, sighing when he concludes his pale in comparison.

"Man, woman, and child alike all know me as Hollister Crowe," he continues. "Over the course of the next three days, you have been blessed with the opportunity to prepare for the swiftly approaching Games. Of course, you are free to neglect what lies ahead and brood in the corridors, but that would be quite unwise. I vehemently recommend you all make the most out of these facilities.

"What if I don't need practice?" A short hand flies into the air from the first row. "I'm ready to get on with the good stuff, thank you very much."

"I'm glad to see that you're enthusiastic…." Hollister looks down to read the name on the small boy's pants, "Mr. Deathrage." He walks closer to him and projects his voice, "But, some of your competitors cannot say the same. And thus, I would most deeply appreciate it if you refrain from gabbing during my instructions."

Despite Hollister's angry tone, all the Deathrage kid can do is laugh.

Hollister sighs and then points at all the fancy equipment behind him. "Before any of you get too galvanized, all of these weapons are factitious, so don't even try to maim one another before the Games officially commence, as you'll only be making a cretin of yourself."

"Is that a challenge?" A flamboyant male voice shouts. "By the way, what does the word 'cretin' mean?"

Lorian glances at Sapphira, who suddenly seems less annoying in comparison.

This time, Hollister completely ignores the interruption and resumes his speech. "During our third and final day of training, we'll be pulling you aside for private sessions. Beyond that, there's no rigid schedule for what you do during your limited but indeed valuable time here. I'll let you know when the day's training session is over, and feel free to take meals at your own discretion. I wish the touch of Midas be bestowed upon you all and—"

"Don't you mean to say, may the odds be ever in your favor?" Again, the Deathrage kid cuts him off. "If you're going to enforce a bunch of horseshit rules on us, the least you could do is talk to us properly."

"I intended to vocalize as such before you heckled me," Hollister says with a pensive scowl. "Alas, I am no longer obliged to, as you have taken the duty upon yourself. I'll be wandering the room in case you need anything, so don't hesitate to ask. With that, you're dismissed!"

"So, what are we doing today, boss?" Gremory asks as Lorian rises to his feet.

"W—what?" Lorian stammers. He really should've come up with a plan of action for today before he got the Ones involved.

Gremory leans onto Lorian's chair. "You're the boss, aren't you? If I'm not mistaken, the boys from District Two usually know what they're doing most with these alliances. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I just assumed—"

"You assumed right!" Lorian fumbles. "I just was a tad tired; I'm sorry you caught me off guard. But yes, yes, we have got a long day of training ahead of us. I was thinking that the first thing we could do is maybe some sparring? How does that sound to you, Gremory?"

"That's exactly what I would've said," the One boy drawls. "There's no need for you to be so tense, Lorian. You've got this."

He's right. Lorian Naciri is here for a reason. Even if that reason is his father, Lorian's here because he has the chance to prove himself. There's no way he'll give that up now.

Moxie Adegoke. 19.
District Six Female.

From atop the climbing wall, the training center is her jungle.

When she's thirty feet up in the air, Moxie can see everything clearly. From the Careers clamoring in the corner like panthers at a watering hole, to a long-haired boy pacing back and forth like a lizard, Moxie sees them all. Her eyes widen as the boy from Three approaches the Careers, a mere owl to their vicious predators.

She sighs. This isn't going to work out very well for him, now is it?

As expected, the Three's dismissed once the One boy pounces at him, running away with terror in his eyes. The fool's likely made a target of himself, and come game time, he'll be torn apart limb by pathetic limb. Such is life in the animal kingdom. Such is life when there's a food cycle in play, and those who are foolish and vulnerable are bound to get caught.

From the climbing wall, Moxie's above it all. She's an eagle soaring high in the sky, her talons sharpened in case her prey comes near. Here, she's free to observe her competition, free to pick out her targets uninterrupted. Or at least she is until—

"Moxie!" Edric calls from below. "How long are you going to stay up there?"

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, "As long as I want. Is that a problem with you?"

"No! Not at all," her District partner stammers. "I was just wondering how long I should stand here, waiting for you."

"You don't have to wait for me," Moxie tells him. "Go off and do whatever; it's fine."

Edric's taken to Moxie like a moth to her flame. Without her consent, the boy's decided it's in his best interest to follow her around like a pathetic little puppy, claiming he's only doing so until he can "get off on the right foot," whatever that means. It's not that she doesn't like Edric; Moxie simply fails to see any use to him. Though he's physically imposing, his docile nature renders him nothing but dead weight.

But it's all right. She'll find other, more productive partners soon. After all, she has entire days to form an army that'll adequately compliment her skills. Moxie knows how to survive on her own thanks to the streets of Six, but she knows next to nothing about weapons and medicinal practices. She can try to learn here, but ultimately three days isn't enough for anybody to master something.

What makes the Tributes of the Quell different from any other year is their viciousness. Based on the Reaping recap, Moxie knows that most of them range from vaguely threatening to downright horrific. While she wants to get to know as many people as possible, there are some that she knows she's better off straight-up avoiding, like the boy from Eight who has been throwing knives at a target and maniacally laughing for the past half hour.

Others, though, seem more stable. Such as the doe-eyed girl from Seven who looked upset when the escort called her name, but overall seems relatively harmless. There's got to be something about her that makes her special, though. Otherwise, she wouldn't be here. The same goes with the Five girl who wanders around the Training Center like a pathetic frog. Moxie can tell she too must have some sort of purpose. Nobody gets voted in for being ordinary.

(That includes her. Though she can try her best to deny it, Moxie too, is here for a reason. There's a considerable amount of people who want her dead because she ruined their lives, and there's no way to hide that. She may liken herself to a ferocious lion on a day-to-day basis, but ultimately Moxie Adegoke too is destined to be caught under the nets of humanity.)

Moxie lowers herself to the ground inch by inch, a picture of who she'll talk to today painted clearly in her mind. Though her hands sweat as she grips the sturdy climbing holds, she takes deep breaths to keep herself calm, cool and collected. When her feet touch the ground, Moxie immediately hears the sound of footsteps shuffling toward her. It doesn't take much thought for her to know who it is.

"I told you that you're free to go off and do whatever you want," she says to Edric, a sheepish grin on his face.

"I didn't want to," the boy responds with a careless shrug. "We're in this together, for now at least. Right?"

"Right." Moxie nods. She's sure the real reason Edric didn't want to go out and face the other Tributes is that he's terribly afraid. He really shouldn't be since he's definitely seen worse on the streets of Six, but alas. If Moxie can smell his fear, the others can as well. Being so visibly mortified is a fast track to death, so Edric needs to shape up quickly.

She wanders away from the climbing wall, not needing to look back to know that Edric's trailing behind her. "I was thinking it'd be beneficial if you and I got to know some of our competition."

(Correction: it'd be beneficial if Moxie got to know some of her competition. He's just following along in case somebody she can dump him off with comes along. Or maybe, Edric will prove himself useful enough that Moxie's willing to stay with him longer. She doubts it.)

"Are you sure?" He asks, clearly alarmed.

Moxie shakes her head. "I'm positive. There are twenty-two Tributes besides us. If we want to survive, it's vital that we're in as many people's good graces as possible."

Edric scuttles up to Moxie's side and grins. "Alright, yeah. That makes perfect sense. I agree."

"I knew you would." She presses her lips into a line and begins to scan the room for today's targets. Moxie quickly looks at the Seven girl and perks up, only to realize who she's talking to.

Last night, the boy from Ten made an embarrassment of himself, and everybody else suffered because of it. Rumor has it, that he tried but failed to kill his horse at the parade, but whether it's true is yet to be determined. By leading to the temporary sedation of everybody around him, Ten's made himself hated. Reputation is everything here, and talking to somebody so vastly disliked would give Moxie a downfall. Sure, Ten's goofy expression means he's probably harmless, and the whole horse incident was a misunderstanding, but Moxie still has no desire to risk it in case anybody else is lurking like she is. Ten and Seven seem to be getting along nicely, so that gives Moxie some good intel. For Seven to be so willing and eager to associate with somebody so hated, she must be the forgiving sort. Kindness gets you killed, but luckily, it wouldn't be Moxie who's exhibiting it. She makes a mental note to approach Seven when she's alone.

Luckily, Moxie still has people she can talk to today. It's not hard for her to find the girl from Five, her lanky figure and bright yellow jacket making her stand out in the crowd. Moxie turns to Edric's ear and whispers, "We're going to talk to her first."

"Why's that?" He mutters back.

Moxie doesn't bother responding to him.

She prowls closer to Five until she's within speaking distance and sighs. The girl only looks somewhat distracted by the book she's reading, so surely she'll be willing to have a little talk with Moxie.

"Excuse me." Moxie taps the Five girl on the shoulder and watches as she flinches.

Her mother always taught her that there's nothing more important than making a good first impression. As a politician, Kiira Adegoke was consistently proper and poised when meeting someone new. She'd tell Moxie there's nothing more important than making new connections because the more people who like you, the more people who won't hurt you.

(The more people you can take advantage of without batting an eye.)

The fact Five's alarmed by Moxie's initial gesture is unfortunate, but Moxie still has time to redeem herself in the other girl's eyes.

When she doesn't respond, Moxie taps her again. "I said, excuse me."

"P-pardon?" Five stammers, looking away from her book but still not at Moxie or Edric. "I-I'm s-sorry. You can h-have this b-book if y-you want."

"I don't," Moxie assures her. "I just noticed that you were alone and saw it as a chance for me to introduce myself."

"Oh." The other girl exhales. "Y-yeah… Hi!"

"Hello there." Moxie extends her hand and curls her lips. "I'm Moxie Adegoke from Six. Behind me is Edric, my District partner." Her eyes trail down to the surname written on Five's sweatpants. "Is there something else I should call you, or is Ms. Sabyn fine?"

"Ripley! T-that's my name," she blurts out. Ripley seems to realize that Moxie's hand is still extended and grabs onto it tightly. "It's n-nice to meet you."

The other girl's palm is ridiculously sweaty, so Moxie wipes her hand off on her pant leg when she lets go of her. Ripley's clearly afraid of Moxie, despite her not putting in any effort to make her feel as such. That definitely has its advantages, but still, Ripley's somehow more pathetic than Edric. Moxie never thought that'd be possible.

"What's District Five like?" Edric asks, probably trying to be helpful. Small talk's never been Moxie's style, but it's still worth it for her to know a thing or two about Ripley besides that she's ridiculously tall and probably afraid of her own shadow.

"I-it's nice!" Ripley answers. "I spent a l-lot of m-my time working in m-my mothers' h-hospital. T-that was nice."

"That seems lovely," Edric exclaims, trying to keep the conversation going.

Ripley sighs. "It wasn't."

Edric glances a look of disappointment at Moxie. Little does he know, she's the furthest thing from upset. Just that brief interaction between the two of them has taught Moxie that there's a benefit to continuing a relationship with Ripley Sabyn. Working in a hospital means she'll know what she's doing if Moxie gets hurt. That's already more than what Edric can do.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Moxie says. "District Six is its own separate mess, so I can relate."

"T-thanks?"

"Look, Edric and I have lots to do today, but our primary focus is meeting with the other Tributes to get a good sense of what we're up against," she continues to drawl. "How'd you like to work with us? Just for today, at least."

Ripley eagerly nods. "T-that'd be g-good, yes."

Good indeed, good indeed. Ripley doesn't know it yet, but she's just begun the process of digging her own grave.

When all is said and done, it'll be abundantly clear these are Moxie's Games and nobody else's. All she needs to do is continue to ensure the puzzle pieces fit together.

Aleister Darski. 18.
District Nine Male.

Like a match dipped in water, Aleister feels extinguished.

Back at home (if he could even call Nine that), he was at the top of his game. With his flames by his side, he climbed up Nine's social hierarchy, snuffing out anything that dared to get in his path. He could feel the Devil himself consuming his body with glory and divinity. Aleister Darski was weeks away from having the entire world between his fingertips. He was so terribly close to finally becoming king…

And yet, he's here in a room surrounded by twenty-three pariahs who'll be clawing at his skin in less than a week. He wishes he could say it's humbling, falling from the sky-scraping mountain he'd worked his way up on top. He wishes he could take being voted into the Games as a compliment, a surefire sign that he's feared by Nine the way he always wanted to be. Aleister wishes he could find some sort of a silver lining amidst all of this nonsense, but alas.

There is no sugarcoating the truth of just how vile this situation is. The past two days of Aleister's life have been nothing short of a nightmare, and he has a sinking feeling things are only going to get worse.

It'd maybe be better if he knew he had Olve back at home cheering him on. Ah, but Aleister has no such luck. The man he found a home in, his lover, likened him to a fool. He threw Aleister to the wolves, leaving him alone without anybody who admires him, much less anybody who'll give a flying fuck if he dies.

"What about it don't you get?"

Aleister's been standing silent in the justice building for the past three minutes, but he still has no clue what substantial thing he's supposed to say. All he can do is flounder like an infant as everything he knows is pulled out from under his feet.

"I just…" Aleister says, his voice trembling. "Why me?"

That's a stupid question. Why wouldn't cunning and callous Olve Katratzi take advantage of pathetic and vulnerable Aleister Darski, a forlorn rich boy going through a rebellious streak? Aleister, who's a moron for thinking that familicide is the way to a man's heart. Lord, why did he believe agreeing to atrocities would make him lovable?

"Honestly? Because you were the first person dumb enough to fall for my shit," Olve drawls. "I know things sort of got carried away, so I'm sorry it's leading to you being sent to die or whatever."

"Or whatever?" Aleister shouts at the bastard. "Or whatever, my ass! This is my life you played with. If I die, it's going to be your fault. You realize that?"

(If Aleister dies, it's his own fault. Despite Olve's persuasions, it was him who tied his parents up with rope, him who set them on fire without batting an eye. It was Aleister Darski who made a name for himself as a force to be reckoned with, and it's his fault his own end may come so soon.)

"I don't care, Aleister," Olve spits back. "It's not like the Devil's real enough to punish me. Nine's going to be better off without somebody as weak as you. Try not to beat yourself up over it."

When he leaves the justice building, Aleister doesn't even look Olve in the eye. That scoundrel isn't worth his time. Hell, nobody here is worth Aleister's time anymore.

(Is it so bad that he just wanted something as vile as himself to believe in? Is it so bad that despite Olve's insisting that the Devil is but a ruse, Aleister's going to believe anyway?)

He ambles across the training grounds, not daring to raise his head. The other Tributes are nothing but trouble to him. If Aleister could make Nine bend at his feet without Olve doing shit, he can conquer the Games without anybody else.

(Aleister's already destroyed his family. There's no need for him to ravage anything else.)

Still, he can't shake the sensation that people are staring at him, despite his attempts to act as normal as possible. Wherever he goes, he feels people's eyes glaring daggers, their vision making blood drip down Aleister's back and follow him like a trail. He's being watched, possibly hunted, and there's little he can do about it. His District partner, Helen, a sycophantic religious freak that Aleister's parents would've loved, already told him that he's an oddity. She scoffedwhen she said that anybody in their right mind would stay away from Aleister. That it's best a freak like him is only observed, never touched.

His eyes dart up to the girl from Eleven, who's staring him down from the corner and occasionally writing things on a pad of paper. Aleister scoffs at her, "Do you have a problem with me?"

Though she continues to stare at him, Eleven remains dead silent. Aleister glances at her, letting his lips curl into a wicked smile. Again, he calls, "Ma'am, do you have a problem with me."

Again, he goes unanswered.

He shouts at Eleven again and then once more. It takes three more times before she finally blinks and whispers, "Sorry. Were you talking to me?"

"Of course, I was," Aleister hisses, venom in his tone. "Why the hell were you staring at me?"

"I…" Eleven's eyes wander off somewhere in the back of her head. "I was just staring at the y'know… The punching bags behind you."

"You were staring at them instead of punching them?" He inquires. "Now why on the Devil's bloody earth would you—"

"Because I asked her to, obviously." A flamboyant but still male voice cuts Aleister off. "Great job drawing the punching bag, A-chill-pill!"

Eleven nods. "Right."

A tall figure dressed in yellow steps in front of Aleister and stands next to the Eleven girl. "Let me take a look at that; why don't you?"

Eleven tries to pull her paper away, but ultimately the figure, who Aleister now identifies as the boy from Five, gets a hold of it. "Yep. These sure are punching bags!" Five looks over at Aleister, crosses his arms, and pouts, "My ally and I are sort of trying to have a conversation here. Do you mind?"

Aleister rolls his eyes and leaves the two of them be. It's best not to make enemies until he has a lighter in his hand once more.

(He can't help but envy whatever budding friendship Five and Eleven seem to have. Aleister knows that everybody who gets too close to him is bound to get hurt, but still, he craves some sort of human connection. Sure, it hasn't gone well for him in the past, but still, he wants.)

(There's so much that Aleister Darski wants. Something to believe in that won't destroy him in the end, somebody to care for that he won't fuck up. There's so much that he wants, yet so much he knows he doesn't deserve.)

He scours the rest of the Tributes in the room, knowing it'd be stupid of him even to try and get to know any of them when they'll all be dead within a month. No, as much as Aleister wishes he could bond with his fellow outcasts, anything he does will be futile eventually. Making connections may temporarily ease the mental burden he's placed on himself, but it won't help him win the Games.

Right, because winning the Games and returning to Nine would be so good for me, he muses. If he wins, the only thing he'd really be doing is spiting Olve and proving that he's not as pathetic as his ex-lover said. Is that really a worthwhile motivation? If Aleister returns to Nine, it's not like he'd have anything worth living for there. His siblings hate him, and rightfully so, and it's best he doesn't continue to think about his parents. Aleister ruined his life in Nine, and if he continues to isolate himself here, at least he won't create something worth ruining.

Still, he wants something.

Aleister glances at the boy from Seven, tall, dark and handsome with hair as long as his. The boy flashes Aleister a sinister smile and a familiar feeling blossoms in his heart for a brief moment. He looks away immediately. Aleister can't go soft here of all places. He's supposed to intimidate his competition into staying well away from him. If they were in their right minds, they'd know that Helen was right when she said Aleister should be avoided at all costs. Alas, the other Tributes are here for reasons just like he is. There are bound to be screws coming loose in their heads.

He worries it's inevitable that somebody wants to be by his side. He worries that eventually somebody will come along, and he'll allow them to, only to destroy them in the end. He worries he'll be taken advantage of, just like with Olve. There's so much for Aleister to fret about despite his worries being mere hypotheticals. He knows the Devil will guide him towards the path right for him, but still he lives in fear.

A light tap jolts Aleister back to his senses. He looks down to see the boy from Twelve beneath him, the same one who interrupted the Head Trainer's monologue this morning. Aleister rolls his eyes at him and scoffs, "What do you want?"

"I know what you are," Twelve declares with a confident grin.

Despite his confusion, Aleister decides he should walk away from the boy. However, he has no such luck. The boy wraps his hand around Aleister's left wrist and then begins frantically tapping again. "Hello? Don't you want to know what I know you are?"

"What do you mean?" Aleister sneers, writhing his body to get Twelve off of him.

Unfazed, the boy continues, "You're an incubus, aren't you?"

Aleister's eyes light up. Olve taught him of the incubi who'd serve the Devil by awakening people's true desires in the dead of night. Aleister has never been able to tantalize another, but he still appreciates the assumption.

"I consider myself more of a familiar, but thank you," Aleister tells the boy before realizing, "Wait! How did you know that?"

"It's pretty easy for me to tell who on this planet was born to serve my father," Twelve says with a smirk. "You do serve him, right?"

Aleister's brow raises in intrigue. "Well, it depends. Who exactly is your father?"

"Um, the Devil, obviously." The younger boy rolls his eyes and cackles to himself.

Aleister can't help but feel as though he's being messed with. It doesn't make sense for him to suddenly be approached by the "son" of the figurehead he's worshiped the past year and a half. It doesn't make sense that the Devil's child would be put on the same pedestal of Panem's worst rejects. No, the son of the Devil should be praised, not here. There's no way this kid's actually related to Aleister's infernal god.

"Do you not believe me?" Twelve eggs Aleister on. "That's honestly fair, but like… if my dad wasn't the devil, then why is my name literally Lucifer? Well, actually, you can call me Lucy if that's easier."

(Is it because the Devil isn't real? Is it because deep down inside, Aleister knows that the Devil doesn't exist, just like the man in the sky he mocked his parents for worshipping?)

No. The Devil has to be real, and maybe his son appearing is a sign that good things are coming for Aleister. Perhaps young Lucifer is a sign that he was right to still believe in the Devil, even after Olve's betrayal.

"I'm Aleister," he introduces himself. "I will admit, Lucy, I'm confused as to why you're here. If your father's truly the Devil, why did he allow you to be voted into these Games."

Lucy licks his lips. "Um, because he wants me to reach my full potential and prove myself to him, duh. When I saw you, I was thinking maybe he sent you to be my guardian. By the way, dad, if you're listening to me, I don't need your help. I can do this on my own; I'm almost thirteen!"

Aleister nods. Suddenly, everything seems to be coming together. Of course, the Devil knows that Aleister's far too gone to ever reintegrate with the people of Nine. Thus, he sent Aleister to the Capitol to protect his own son in his search for power and dominance.

That's a tall order for sure, but it's one that Aleister will fulfill if it means making his dark lord happy. After all, the Devil's the only thing Aleister can please after he's let everybody else around him down.

Melchior Kolmogorov. 18.
District Five Tribute.

Yeah, they're not too sure why they approached the Eleven girl either. Maybe, and this is just a mere hunch, it was because she was staring down Melchior like a hawk all morning, which, like, they can't exactly blame her for. Half the time, Melchior forgets about the blue and purple scar winding down their entire body like a bolt of lightning, but they could definitely see why it'd be a spectacle for any ordinary person.

Or maybe Melchior was just bored and saw the Nine boy accosting Eleven as an easy way to jump into a conversation. Call it hubris, but when Melchior saw her drawing, they knew she couldn't be drawing the boy who looks like just about any average Joe, only with long hair. Eleven had to be drawing the totally insane, incredibly intelligent, beautifully badass, genderless trash angel with a divine marking from the cosmos imprinted on their skin.

"You're welcome, by the way," Melchior says to Eleven once the Nine boy is far enough away that he won't be able to hear them.

The girl whispers, her voice endearingly eerie, "Thank you, but I really could have handled Nine on my own. If I ignored him enough, he would've disappeared like a trow after sunset."

"Now tell me, what the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?" Melchior asks, far more entertained than they should be.

"It's a type of monster that robs people of their precious belongings during the day but disappears at night," Eleven answers, rolling her eyes as if she's stating the obvious.

"Wow, you are so strange and unsettling," they say, enraptured by the girl's oddities. "I think I'm sort of obsessed."

"Thank you?"

Actually, yeah, the reason Melchior approached Eleven is that they simply saw something in her. They're still not too sure what exactly they see, but there's most definitely something of mania and lunacy in her eyes. That's the sort of person Melchior can definitely rock with. Yeah, yeah, back in Five, Kelvin sort of had a stick up his ass, but it sure was a stick with a penchant for pandemonium and havoc. Hopefully, this Eleven chick is similar enough.

And if not? Well, fuck it. It's not like Melchior has any reason to be too pressed about this whole "Big Scary Hunger Games" ordeal anyway. Okay yeah, sure, their mentor Solis warned them that there's a risk of death in the arena, but perhaps Solis failed to consider: Melchior Kolmogorov is physically incapable of dying. Not to toot their own horn, but Melchior sure does have a lot of skills from science to, well, other types of science. Is dying a science? Well, it's biology, they suppose, but that's not one of the sciences Melchior's good at.

(They're clearly not great at physics or chemistry either if they managed to get struck by lightning and set an entire city block on fire within three minutes.)

But yeah, so what if Eleven decides she doesn't want in with Melchior? They'll just, ehh… find somebody else to fuck around with. That, or they'll just hang out by themself, which damn really would be boring for however many weeks he's going to be here for.

Though they rarely admit it, Melchior's sort of a sucker for company. Being alone's fun and all, but scheming with a buddy is even better. They even told Kelvin back at Five's justice building that if they for some reason die in the arena (again, that's very unlikely), it's been a pleasure working with him. Melchior meant it with their whole chest, too; seriously, Kelly's a good kid.

They're also glad that they had Ms. Hadley with them at school. She genuinely cared for Melchior, same with all her chemistry students, and, well, he's still not particularly used to being cared for. Fuck a bitch named Gertrude Meizner, isn't that right? Ms. Hadley's the kind soul who told Melchior that they have potential, and while yes, it's gotten to their head a lot, they'd rather have a gigantic ass ego than sit around sulking like a pathetic bastard bitch-them.

So yes, hopefully, Eleven will be the third member of what will now be a holy trinity of glorious gremlins that enable Melchior Kolmogorov to do whatever the fuck they want. Hopefully, she'll— Wait, fuck! I don't know what her name is.

"Hey, yo!" Melchior taps Eleven on the shoulder, "I'm kind of tired of referring to you in my head as 'Eleven,' because that feels very Capitol and elitist of me. I guess I could just call you 'Achillea' like it says on your pants, but like, I assume you have an actual name. Personally, mine's Melchior. In case you were curious. If not, well, I get—"

"Thana." She cuts them off, probably for the best, because the longer Melchior goes on without being interrupted, the more likely they are to say something they'll regret. Well, something they'd regret if they were capable of regretting things, that is. Regret doesn't exactly fit with their live fast, die never because immortality lifestyle.

Not knowing what to say, Melchior snaps and points finger guns at Thana. She crinkles her nose in confusion and asks them, "So do you just always talk very loudly and try to overwhelm the people around you?"

Overwhelming? Puh-lease! Melchior's the furthest thing from overwhelming. All they did was claim to be Thana's ally while she was already in an uncomfortable situation, look at the notebook she clearly is keeping private, and yap at her like they're a bat out of hell. Okay, wait. He can sorta-kinda see why that'd be overwhelming.

"I mean, yeah?" Melchior replies. Their eyes dart down to Thana's notebook, now returned to her hands but still open on the page that features a drawing of Melchior. "I also just think your drawing is pretty cool, and by transitive properties of coolness, that also makes you really cool."

They mean it too; Thana's art is real nice, even if her drawing of Melchior doesn't really look like him. Instead, it looks like some weird disfigured beast-thing with a bunch of pointy points and tentacles, which is pretty damn sexy. The only reason Melchior knows it's themself in the drawing is because of the lightning bolt scarring and the number five in the top left corner.

"Yeah, you're an interesting one," Thana mutters, seemingly talking to herself even though Melchior's right there. "Then again, I suppose the point of this whole Quarter Quell is to exonerate the eerie."

"Cool?" Melchior says, doing their best to mask their confusion. "Now, I'm going to ask you again. What the actual-factual fuck is that supposed to mean."

She sighs. "It means that these Games are full of people whose Districts decided they're eccentric enough that they wouldn't miss them if they were dead. I'm shocked you haven't realized that by now."

"Yeah, I get that much, but you didn't need to say it all fancily," they remark, putting their hands on their hips in feigned frustration. "How do you even know big smart words if you're from District Eleven? Isn't that just poverty land?"

"Books still exist, you know!" Thana refutes, a hint of laughter in her voice, fucking finally. "Or would I be too crass to assume that you know how to read?"

"I can read great, thank you very much!" Melchior snickers. "Great, and a whole bunch of other words. I just prefer to read non-fiction. Now I know what you're thinking, gee whiz Melchior! You're such a fucking nerd for reading non-fiction. Guess what? It's even worse than you think! Not only do I read non-fiction, I read textbooks."

Melchior's aware that it's insanely cringe of them, but contrary to popular belief, he kind of really does fuck with learning. They spent their earliest days in school learning about grammar and long-division and all sorts of boring bullshit, but ever since they've gotten to the good stuff, Melchior's made academia their bitch. They never thought their chemistry class would turn into them creating flavors of gummy candy for Ms. Hadley, nor did they think it'd enable them to turn Gertrude's moisturizer into anti-anti itch cream, but it sure as hell has been fun. If they'd known earlier that paying attention in class would enable them to watch as their bitch-ass orphanage owner lady scream her tits off 'cause her whole face is up in hives, Melchior would have done so earlier. Sure, knowledge can be boring at first, but what you choose to do with it doesn't have to be.

"But why?"

Melchior can't exactly say Thana's reaction is unexpected; still, a smile curls on their lips, "There's a whole bunch of interesting stuff in there if you look hard enough. Like, have you ever wondered how they make candy?"

"Not really," she quickly answers. "Mainly because Eleven's version of candy is just fruit covered in maple syrup, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out how that's made."

"Okay, but if you were wondering, you'd be able to figure it out by reading a chemistry textbook," Melchior further explains. "And you could also learn what chemicals you need to start a fire."

"Fire?" Thana stammers before Melchior can say anything else. Her eyebrows raise into curious arches, and her lips twist into a smile. "What do you know about fire?"

Pleased at this new opportunity to impress somebody, Melchior beams. "Well, first and foremost, fire is a chemical reaction that gives off light and heat. For it to burn, it requires oxygen, fuel, and—"

"Yeah, I know that." She interrupts, her entranced expression fading back to neutrality. "I thought you were going to tell me something that's actually interesting."

They begin to shake. "Um, well, did you know that if there's enough water inside a tree's stem and then there's a wildfire, the tree can explode."

"Sure did," Thana says with a playful nod. "In fact, I saw it myself."

"Okay, well, did you see spontaneous combustion ever?" Melchior isn't used to being challenged like this. Kelvin took everything they said and interpreted it as the words of a god, and usually, Ms. Hadley was the one doing the talking and explaining. "Because that's what happens if there's too much friction within a fuel source. Like if there's some hay, and it's rotting because, well, it just is, it can rub against itself and then explode."

"Yep." She offers him a light chuckle. "Thank you for the trivia, though; I'm sure that was fun for you."

Thana turns her head to the side and begins to walk away, but not before Melchior follows her. "Hey dude, wait up! Where do you think you're going without me?"

"I don't know," she says with a shrug. "Probably training, because that's what we're supposed to be doing here, you know. If we don't want to die, at least."

Please. Little does Thana know, no amount of training will change the fact that Melchior simply will not be dying. Still, she continues to intrigue him.

"Can I train with you?" they plead. "I know that we're almost done with today's training session, but maybe tomorrow and then the day after? I just think maybe it'd be fun. We clearly have a lot in common!"

"Like what?" she asks, frustrated.

Melchior shimmies his body side to side in an inviting manner. "We both know a lot about fire!"

"And?"

"And perhaps, it would not be bold of me to assume that the reason we are both here has to do with some sort of a fire?" They continue sort of sure that they're talking out of their ass. "If you theoretically wanted somebody to start another fire with, I would probably be your best option. I'm just saying…."

Thana smirks. "Fine. I'm willing to see where this goes tomorrow."

And thank the lord for that. Melchior rubs their hands together and smiles. Oh, I like where this is going. I like where this is going a lot…

Tip Toes - half•alive

Yeah yeah, that was a doozy, I know. Unfortunately, they don't get shorter from here. I'd apologize, but this one is on y'all for making a cast that has so much to say. It's okay, I love them very muchly.

So yeah, one of three training chapters. That's stunning, I know. The alliances are beginning to reveal themselves and I'd say by the end of next week's chapter, you'll all have a pretty good idea as to who's allying with who, at least for the time being.

I feel like I say this every week but thank you so much for all the love. This fic is my pride and joy at the moment so to see so many people also enjoying it truly warms my heart. Again, thank you to RB for beta-ing, even if you didn't read parade yet and are confused what the fuck your son did.

Another special shoutout to Erik because I guess I'm like obsessed with vim or something. Nah, this shoutout is more specifically because ve's graduating college today and said yesterday, "It's really embarrassing for me that im more excited for wtp tomorrow than graduation." I agree, it's incredibly embarrassing. But real talk, Erik, I am so proud of you for graduating and doing so well at uni as well. I know this past year has been hard for you and there were a lot of late nights, but I'm so glad everything worked out in the end.

Now it's time for this week's question: If this fic was a series of incredibly niche Ao3 tags, what would they be?

Okay, this is all I have for now so I'll see you next week with more of my bullshit.

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds