Jeremiah King, 18
Training Center, Capitol
D9M
July 2, 329 AEDD

Jeremiah thought the Tribute Parade went well, considering the whole thing with Maize and the Five boy. He received confirmation at the breakfast table, where his prep team chattered about the buzz he and Maize generated. They had the standout costumes of the non-Career tributes, and Kingsley eagerly reported that several wealthy Capitolites had already approached him with offers of sponsorship. They skewed towards Jeremiah, but a few were also interested in Maize.

The Avox at the cooktop looked expectantly at Jeremiah. Kingsley had to prompt him. "What ingredients do you want in your omelet?" he asked. There was a topping menu sitting on the counter. He picked from the list at random.

"Bacon. Green bell peppers. Jalapeño peppers. Cheddar cheese. Onions. Mushrooms."

"Good choices," Kingsley said, ushering him to the table. The male Avox served him a glass of chilled grape juice and piled odd pill-shaped potatoes onto Jeremiah's plate, fresh from the oven.

"What are these?" He speared one with a fork and had to hashashah since it was piping hot and it burned his tongue a little, but the salty-greasy perfection already had a chokehold on his palate.

"Tater tots," said Kingsley as Jeremiah attacked the rest of them, doing some rather uncouth scarfing in the process, and then the omelet Avox arrived bearing her finished creation on another plate. He dug in and was pleased to discover it had a spicy kick to it. Oh man, does he love bacon! And the cheese had melted into strings and the onion was tender and partially caramelized, so it's sharp and sweet at the same time. The not-spicy peppers crunched between his teeth.

When he'd finished it all off with another glass of the grape juice, Kingsley dismissed him to his chambers for a pre-Training shower. He was surprised by the amount of buttons and knobs inside the shower. It took him a moment to adjust it to his preferred temperature, but once he got the hang of the controls, it was easy to choose a shampoo. It didn't lather at all, but his hair felt lighter than it's ever been. The conditioner was rich and creamy, and he let it sit for several minutes while he perused the soap selection. He chose one with an icon advertising thick foam, if only because it was the most novel texture available. Its crisp scent was unfamiliar, but Jeremiah decided he approved of it.

When he finally stepped out, an automatic stream of air instantly removed the water from his hair while somehow leaving his curl pattern undisrupted. The towels were soft and plush. He chose one, patted himself dry, and tied it around his waist before entering his room, where a set of clothes had appeared on a newly made bed. They fit him perfectly, designed for his exact measurements, with D9M emblazoned on the back and sleeves of the shirt and the right pocket of the pants. The shoes were snug but not tight, and Jeremiah already felt prepared to practice his weaponry skills.

He met Maize and Johnnie, his mentor, in the living room. Maize's mentor was once again missing. He and Johnnie had discussed his strategy extensively on the train ride, so as they left the suite and headed towards an elevator bank, Johnnie only gave him a few reminders. "Avoid the Careers," he instructed. "Stay with your allies, and be a credit to your alliance. Don't reveal your hand too early. Make sure you all learn some survival skills."

Maize pressed the button and the light above one elevator illuminated. It emitted a pleasant ding as the doors opened. Jeremiah and Maize stepped in. The elevator rocketed upwards and spat them out into a corridor lined with Peacekeepers. There was a set of double doors at the far side. Jeremiah threw them open, and suddenly, he and Maize were in the Training Center.

A catwalk stretched back into a wall, with a small circular stage at its end, thrust into the center of the room. A throng of tributes surrounded it. With relief, he realized he wasn't the earliest, but also wasn't the latest. Maybe four pairs of tributes were present, along with the Twelve girl. He spotted District Three, District Ten, and District Six, where his allies stood together. He walked over to them. Tributes murmured to one another uncomfortably. The trainers flanked the catwalk, facing inward, standing in a sort of Peacekeeper posture.

There were no Peacekeepers present. Probably because the trainers were all experts in combat, but Jeremiah felt strangely unsupervised. The double doors opened. District Seven walked in and drifted over to the Threes. Over the course of about fifteen minutes, the Eights and the Elevens trickled in too, and Jeremiah moved to greet Xanthe. She brought her hands together and tilted her chin to the sky. He wasn't sure what she meant last night at the Tribute Parade, about the High King, but he understood that she made an awful good pity kid to draw sponsors and make his alliance perceive as less threatening.

Suddenly, the doors flung open wide. The Careers strode in at once, including, Jeremiah noticed, the Twelve boy. They all displayed identical, practiced expressions, the faces of haughty politicians and pompous soldiers. Jeremiah countered this with a warm, relaxed vibe, which seemed to set off some alarm bells in the One girl's head. Her gaze, which slipped over the rest of the tributes like water, caught on him for just a nanosecond.

Where are the Fives? he heard someone whisper. Don't know, said someone else. But the Peacekeepers hauled them in. Both were bound by handcuffs, and Jeremiah could see the crazy in their posture. The stiffness in Amy's neck read as something else entirely, and Aran just looked hungry. For violence? For something more lecherous? A trainer glided over to the Peacekeepers, who retreated from the room. They looked somewhat uneasy, as though they were invading someone's inner sanctum. Once they left, the trainer removed the Fives' handcuffs and pocketed them before returning to his post alongside the catwalk.

A man strolled down it towards the tributes. He was about medium height, with dark brown skin, a springy Afro, and the sort of musculature that takes years of regimented exercise to achieve. He paused at the circle and addressed the assembly.

"My name is Orion Zenobia, and I am the Head Trainer of these Games," he said in a clear tone. "You will have three days in the Training Center to acquire new skills, followed by a ten-minute audience with the Gamemakers during which you may demonstrate those skills. You will be assessed on a scale from zero to twelve. Your training score is a key component of attracting sponsors. An impressive performance may compel someone to purchase a lifesaving item for you in the arena, whereas a lackluster score may cause sponsors to look elsewhere in search of less risky investments.

"Please visit the many stations around the room. Each one is overseen by an expert trainer who can coach you, answer any questions you have, and work with you individually. I highly recommend that all of you familiarize yourself with basic survival concepts such as water safety and first aid. The more you know, the less reliant you will be on your sponsors' charity. Trainers at weapons stations may determine that you have more aptitude for a different combat method and send you to the corresponding station."

"We'll break for lunch at midday. Water and restrooms are available at all times. Please note that while you may spar with trainers or automatons, fighting with other tributes is strictly prohibited. There have already been multiple incidents during the Pre-Games process, so we will respond swiftly to any threatening behavior. Please see me with any questions." With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the tributes. A set of stairs pressed out of the podium and he descended them to the training floor, the catwalk receding into the wall behind him as soon as he touched the ground.

Jeremiah and his allies gathered together near the tree-climbing station. The Careers, without any communication, all immediately went for the weapons stations. The other tributes took a little longer to figure out where to go.

The alliance wasn't sure where to go first, so it was decided that they would actually try climbing trees. None of them had ever tried before. They thought Xanthe should go first, since she was the smallest. The trainer had her start out on a tree with rough bark and several sturdy branches, one that he said would be easy for beginners. Xanthe was fairly nimble and succeeded in her attempt, but she was the only one. Danny couldn't climb it. Nobody was quite sure what happened, but he definitely didn't make it up. Vica's body couldn't figure out where it was supposed to go, and as for Jeremiah, he couldn't launch himself up into the branches. He tried hauling himself up from the ground, using the branch like a chin-up bar, and it snapped like a twig from his weight.

Vica wanted to go to the archery range, and they all thought that was a better use of time than becoming competent tree-climbers. It turned out that, at short range, she was pretty accurate, but beyond fifteen yards or so, her arrows started to skew wildly. The alliance decided to split up and do some more weapons training. Jeremiah headed over to the boxing ring, where, barefisted, he rapidly tore through a slew of trainers and robots. One of the trainers approached him, bearing a small box. "I have a weapon to show you," she said.

"I don't use weapons," Jeremiah said.

"You'll like these. Trust me." He let the trainer open the box and reveal a pair of spikes. "They're called bagh nakh, or tiger claws. Fist-load daggers." He fit them onto his hands. They were a little too tight, but he liked the way the iron didn't interfere with his punches, yet could turn a backhand into a deadly blow. The trainer set up another training dummy. "Test them out, will you?"

Three seconds later, the dummy's silicone brain was spilling out of its face and Jeremiah noticed the small Career, Nascha, watching him from across the room again.

With a sigh, he slid the bagh nakh off. He knew he shouldn't attract too much attention, so he met back up with Vica and they went off to identify some edible plants.

Yeah, he wasn't too worried about his chances of survival.

Beemo Hudson, 13

Training Center, Capitol

D3M

July 2, 329 AEDD

Twyla had woken Beemo up early. "We need to be the first ones at the Training Center so we can speak with Orion Zenobia in private," she'd explained. The mentors had agreed, so the team had gone through its new morning routine ahead of schedule. The District Three tributes had arrived an hour ahead of time, and as it turned out, Orion was as excited to see them as they were to see him.

Well, maybe excited wasn't the right word. Beemo hadn't exactly been looking forward to using weapons, but he had a natural love of learning, and it was clear from the start that Orion was pleased to have such willing students. He expressed frustration that so many outlying tributes just chose something at random when the trainers were available to assess their natural aptitude. He had Beemo and Twyla answer a few questions about their strength and flexibility, and what they thought would be the biggest problems if they were faced with combat.

Orion had agreed that poisons were a good choice for Beemo and recommended that he work on picking up natural distillation and synthesis techniques. He introduced Beemo to a trainer specializing in poisons, someone with shiny auburn hair named Roy. Twyla was more worried about freezing up in the heat of the moment and being unable to fight back, so Orion had recommended a rather obscure weapon for her: emeici. They were two small sticks, one for each hand, ending in barbs and attached to rings designed to slot over her middle fingers. There was a trainer who could help her learn more advanced techniques, said Orion, but she was probably fine without much instruction.

"It only works at short range, but if you're attacked, just put your hands up to defend yourself. Chances are, your attacker will impale themself on the points." Those were odds that Twyla was willing to take. She was much more concerned by the arena itself. The emeici could help fend off another outlier in an emergency, but if the Career Pack cornered her, there would be no getting away. Twyla had come to terms with that, apparently, but Beemo had greater ambitions.

After the initial group meeting with all of the tributes, he and Twyla had regrouped with Tom and Brielle to plan their activities for the day. Brielle and Beemo were doing individual weapons work, and Twyla and Tom had gone off together for lessons on foraging. Sitting alone at the poisonous plants station with Roy, Beemo was feeling better about his abilities. He got the feeling that Roy was deeply invested in their field of study. Plant interactions with the human body were complex, and Beemo knew plenty about them from his classes at school and his parents' anecdotes about their work, but even he felt a little lost as Roy delved into the symptoms of tropane alkaloid poisoning.

The general idea was that Beemo could create a mental cookbook of poison recipes so that no matter what type of arena the Gamemakers thrust him into, he would be able to brew up fatal reductions and coat some sort of projectile weapon with them. Beemo could have happily listened to the chemical explanation of why each poison had the effects it did, but Roy was adamant that he get reasonably accurate with some sort of dart as soon as possible.

There was a type of dart called a throwing dart. It had the body of a crochet hook, except the hook itself was replaced with a sharp point. There were also throwing knives, but Beemo didn't quite have the technique for those. The instructor at the throwing range tried to help with his form, but he decided to just give up on them. He was okay with the darts, but like the knives, they could be quite deadly on their own. After about twenty minutes of minimal success, he returned to Roy.

"It's okay," they said. "I expected that. Poison works more reliably on those, but you'll do alright with a blowgun and some curare. You remember how to derive it?"

"Find a tropane alkaloid and pick the new root growth. Crush the seeds. Add a little water, simmer and reduce for concentration. Make sure to not touch it."

"Right. Some rocks will make a decent mortar and pestle. Use a stick to scrape it up. Heating over ashes or coals on flat black rocks is best and fastest. Mark it with charcoal or ochre to make sure you don't accidentally use your little poison crucible to cook food by mistake."

"Okay." Roy produced a blowgun.

"This is a hollow tube. You load the dart here, see? And then you blow sharply at the mouthpiece to force the dart out of the tube. Let's practice with a training dummy." They handed the blowgun to Beemo, who examined its structure. He pointed it towards the dummy and blew experimentally. The dart traveled in the general direction he wanted it to and stuck in the dummy's side. "Very good!" said Roy. "Your darts are poisoned, remember, so it doesn't matter where they make contact. The closer they are to a major blood vessel, the quicker symptoms will set in, but anywhere will do if you get a good solid stick. Let's discuss the weapon's covert uses."

As it turned out, blowdarts came in all different sizes. Beemo learned that the smaller the tip, the less of a chance the victim would notice they had been struck. The longer the poison had to seep into the bloodstream, the more likely the attempt was to succeed. If a target pulled out the dart right away, it might not be fatal. The small-tipped darts came in larger and smaller body sizes. The large ones worked the same as the usual darts, but if the victim had a nearby ally, would probably protrude enough to be obvious. The smaller size was clearly the most effective choice for Beemo's purposes.

It was also the most difficult to use. The darts were so slender that a breeze could send them off course, and so light that they required considerable effort to propel across longer distances. It was like the difference between throwing a pencil and throwing a feather. Over an hour, he honed his technique until he could consistently get the dart exactly where he wanted it. Roy wheeled out a rotating fan to blow currents of air in varying strength across the throwing range, and Beemo learned how to attune his attacks to the wind.

Eventually, Roy pronounced him proficient enough to regroup with his allies. Brielle had gone over to the dagger station and gotten a half-decent handle on butterfly swords. The trainer had chosen them for their similarity to chef's knives, which she was familiar with using. She had been content to pick up a few offensive and defensive moves and decided that she could probably figure the rest out in the arena. Nobody in the alliance was willing to skimp on survival skills. Beemo's mentor, Astrix, had strongly recommended that all members of the group learn how to find food and water.

"That's how the Gamemakers apply pressure to you," he had explained to Beemo after the Tribute Parade. "If you're dehydrated or starving, they'll take advantage of your desperation."

"Won't they send mutts after us if we're too stagnant?" he asked.

"Sure. But if you're hungry enough, you might risk eating one of their environmental mutts, which would be a very poor choice indeed, but last resorts are still, well, resorted to."

Tom turned out to have an excellent understanding of foraging and plant life in the more temperate regions of Panem, such as his home district. "How come you're so good at this?" Twyla had asked.

"I spend a lot of time outdoors," he said vaguely. "Twyla and I have been brushing up on other biomes we might find ourselves dropped into. We're doing the desert now. Want to join us?"

"Sure," Beemo agreed. He had a strong understanding of what plants were outright poisonous, but knew nothing of what was edible. There were plenty of plants that were ineffective as poisons but could produce truly dreadful results when eaten. He and Brielle teamed up to examine a ring of laminated flashcards. Each one had a photo of a plant, with the reverse side revealing whether it was edible or not. Neon colors, tough leaves, and bitterness were nature's warning to predators, and Beemo quickly learned to recognize each plant. He might not have been especially physically fit, but rote memorization was just as much of a lifesaver if you went about it properly.

J. Pace, 12

Training Center, Capitol

D11T

July 2, 329 AEDD

Pace was still getting used to the whole Hunger Games thing. They were the youngest tribute of the twenty-four. It had been a poor birthday present. Nobody else was twelve, but there were three thirteen-year-olds. The Threes had paired up with the Sevens, and that left Pace with only one other tribute close in age: Ash, the girl from District Eight. They were feeling a little intimidated following the conflict at the Tribute Parade. Seeing one tribute so flagrantly attacking another was beyond the pale, and Pace was rather reluctant to strike up any conversation after that. They'd gone in with grand plans to recruit allies, but they ended up sitting with the mentors, Elodie and Aubrey Jean, as they gossiped about the other tributes.

Pace did not like their district partner. Xanthe was preachy, rude, and her accusations of "degeneracy" were most unwelcome. They had been perfectly polite to her, cordial if crisp, but Xanthe seemed to lack all courtesy. She had flatly dismissed them as a heathen, complained that the High King had not provided her with an adequate district partner, and made a snide remark about Elodie and Pace being "meant for each other" since they chose not to genuflect to her wishes. Pace had heard all about what Elodie thought as they waited backstage for the Tribute parade.

"I'm really trying to be understanding," Elodie had told Aubrey Jean, "But she's got her heart set on this thing. Refuses to let me talk about her allies at all, since the High King can supposedly do it all on his own." Pace privately thought that maybe Elodie ought to let Xanthe do it all on her own, if that was the case, but Elodie was a lot more patient than they usually were. Pace would have been happy to have Elodie as a mentor, but Aubrey Jean seemed equally competent. Both were the sort of adults that seemed to remember feeling powerless as children and thus resolved to treat their own tributes with dignity. Pace quite liked their mentor, and, obeying their mother, was following his orders to the letter.

Aubrey Jean decided that Pace should try to figure out spears, and also that they should learn how to find water and food. "Edible plants?" they had asked.

"Don't bother." Aubrey Jean said he had it on good authority that it would be a tropical arena, which meant beaches, deserts, or maybe a rainforest. He said they should focus on fishing and that learning how to use a spear would help them catch most small game.

"I have bad vision," they'd warned. "Maybe a knife would work better?"

"Nope. A short spear, for stabbing, not throwing. Trust me." And Pace had trusted him, faithfully exploring the water station and finding the trainer's instructions fascinating. They were learning how to assess desert mountains for signs of underground aquifers when Ash showed up.

"Hello," she'd said. "I'm Ash."

"I'm Pace." Ash shook their hand.

"Learning all about water?"

"Sure am."

"Mind if I join?" Pace considered that. Ash seemed like she wouldn't be much of a bother, not the type to interrupt Pace's focus with idle chatter. After the trainer caught her up on the task, she worked quietly and solidly, closing her eyes and turning over the rock samples in her hands. "This is the limestone, right?" she asked.

"It is." Pace, who'd been struggling to identify their samples, felt a little jealous. Why couldn't they have had a knack at recognizing rocks? But Ash was very nice about it and didn't brag, which made them feel better. "There are other methods too," the trainer added, referencing Pace's failure. Certain types of stone tended to correlate with the presence of groundwater, but they hadn't grasped the distinctions very well.

"Let's hear it," Pace said, admittedly frustrated.

"River beds that appear dry when observed visually may contain water just below the surface. Let's discuss where rivers tend to occur in the landscape." The trainer unrolled a topographical map of Panem, indicating a wavy blue line with a banana yellow fingernail. "This is the Colorado River. Notice how it runs along these mountains? It's an extreme example, but small streams appear commonly along foothills. If they're sandstone, as these mountains are—" she tapped another rock sample— "They will collect water when it rains, which will remain even after the water on other types of stone is gone. If no foothills exist and you're dealing with a different type of landform, consider investigating north-facing canyons. Water won't evaporate in these chilly canyons, which are unaffected by the hot afternoon sun."

The trainer fired up a portable television, then clicked the remote several times. "What's she doing?" Pace whispered.

"Not sure," Ash whispered back.

"I can hear you." The trainer sounded faintly amused. "I'm going to show you real-life examples of these strategies in action. We're taking a look at Hunger Games highlights. Ash, do you recognize anyone?" She pressed play. There were several camera angles displaying portions of a desert arena, which turned into a bird's eye view. The recording jumped to a slim brunette girl rappelling herself down the interior of a canyon. The voiceover belonged to a Master of Ceremonies whose death predated Pace's birth.

"—she has not had water for two days, but this intrepid tribute has finally reached the dry river canyon. Notice how careful she is to avoid snagging her rope on that jagged rock wall." The tribute turned her face to the camera.

"Ethel!" Ash exclaimed. The trainer laughed.

"Yes, Ethel Linnenem. She knew what she needed to find. Here, watch. I'll mute the commentary." Pace observed with rapt attention as Ethel's boots touched bottom and she ducked under the rock wall. She crouched and unscrewed the cap of her canteen, and the camera angled to reveal a stream of water on the near side of the canyon floor, where she dunked the canteen and added water purification tablets. "Ethel didn't find any ridges or sandstone, so she climbed to the highest point possible to get a good view, then hiked across the arena to reach the canyon. As you can see, this is not always feasible, but I'll let you in on the secret of winning the Hunger Games."

If Pace wasn't listening before, they sure were now. "What?"

"The Gamemakers will never present you with a totally infeasible challenge. If there's a steep canyon, they'll include climbing gear in the supplies. If there's no climbing gear, you know you'll be able to climb down without any particular expertise. They do this with everything. If it seems impossible, it's only because you're thinking about it the wrong way. The problem is that unless you get those supplies at the Cornucopia, you won't know how to approach some things."

"So should we go for the Cornucopia?" Ash asked.

"No. Focus on surviving the Bloodbath. Chances are, you'll get sponsored something if you make it out alive."

"Hm." Pace realized that they had been at the water station for the whole morning so far. They needed to divide up their time wisely, since there wouldn't be any more if they wasted it. "I might go to the first aid station for a while," Ash ventured. "You should come too."

"You're not in charge of me," Pace said.

"I'm not trying to boss you. I'm asking if you'd like to join my alliance."

"Alliance?" They were surprised. They didn't think they had been modeling great potential ally behavior, but they had intended to work in a team. Ash seemed smart and capable. She did seem like good ally material, they thought. And she knew how the dumb rock identification worked. "Who else is in it?"

"My district partner, Kenny, and Aspen, the Twelve girl. They'd love to have you."

"That'd be great," Pace said. It came out with an unintended sarcastic ring to it, but Ash didn't seem bothered.

"Come on."

"The first aid station is the other way."

"But the alliance is this way. Don't you want to introduce yourself?"

Pace found that they did.

Nascha Eirena Czarin, 18

Training Center, Capitol

D1F

July 2, 329 AEDD

Nascha was having a productive morning. The Career Pack was an effective fighting unit. With four members at the sword station and the other three handling spears, the Pack's expertise was becoming rapidly apparent to the rest of the tributes. Nascha, Orpheus, Haylia, and Tybalt all held near-identical rapiers, sweating through their moisture-wicking training uniforms, working on a collaborative exercise.

The exercise was Tybalt's idea. He thought it would be good preparation for the Bloodbath, but more importantly, it would intimidate the other tributes out of any foolish thoughts of resistance that might have been flitting through their minds. Four Careers versus seventeen dummies. If anyone bothered to count, they'd notice that the amount of dummies was equal to the number of outlying tributes, but the performance was too captivating for anyone to bother adding up the combatants. Four fighting styles were showcased at once, and Nascha made sure to keep as much focus on her allies as she did on her robotic enemies. When the Pack eventually thinned and she had to duke it out with them, she would know what to expect.

Orpheus's combat had a theatrical quality to it, and Nascha got the feeling that he'd choreographed every move mentally before the trainer even turned on the dummies. As the seventeen automatons stiffened to life, weapons in plastic hands, she realized just how accurate Orpheus's predictions were. If he could anticipate his opponents' actions with such accuracy, that could be a real problem. She watched as he got ahead of a robot's dagger and neatly lanced its throat open

Haylia was the opposite, but her technique was equally effective. She adapted, smoothly pivoting from one side to the other. Nacha noted the physicality of her movements. She stayed mostly rooted, but her free arm lashed out to catch a dummy's wrist on the backswing. As she twisted, the dagger tumbled from its grasp. The rapier traveled through the dummy's ribs. Nascha saw the influence of hand-to-hand combat in Haylia's strategy. She would be tough to beat.

Tybalt had a punchier style of fighting. There was an abundance of force in each thrust of his sword, each riposte carrying killing velocity. He waded through the counterattacks with sheer power, the transduction of his strength through the light weapon representing his general combative attitude. The dummy was just overcome.

Nascha defeated the dummies before her with similar adroitness. Oddly, she'd never managed to properly characterize her own fighting. She set her mind to the task before her, as did her allies, and together, they beat back the waves of dummies. It only took a few minutes, mostly because the dummies were designed to fight, not run away or hide, but the show of strength seemed to make an impression on the other tributes.

She hadn't just been observing the other Careers. They'd been chatting all morning, and Nascha was beginning to pick up on the subtleties of the group dynamic. She had never been the best when it came to dealing with other people's emotions, but she wasn't stupid. Orpheus and Nikita had been pulling gooey faces at each other across the breakfast table, and although Nascha didn't understand why they both busted out laughing when the Avoxes brought out a banquet tray of pancakes, she understood that events had transpired overnight.

Romantic events, to be specific. The exact kind of events that Nascha thought were best relegated to those who had undergone their last Reaping without incident. Certainly not the kind of events that were well-suited to Career tributes in the Hunger Games. Events that had perhaps taken place last night—she couldn't be sure, she'd been doing far more important things—but what did Nascha know? Just that when people got in the way of her ambitions, there could be collateral damage, and she didn't want that for Orpheus.

Haylia had confronted her about it by the water fountains after the group had demolished the final dummy. The situation needed to be addressed before anything bad had the chance to happen, and as his district partner, Nascha figured she needed to act in his best interest, even if it meant a frustrating, awkward conversation. He was so wrapped up in his new fixation that he was completely blinded to the rest of the tributes, and that was going to be a problem. She drifted over to Orpheus and led him to the other end of the room by the agility course.

"Hey," she said. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Nascha lowered her voice.

"Nikita. I understand that you like each other, but it's upsetting Tybalt."

"What's upsetting Tybalt? I don't follow."

"You haven't noticed? He doesn't like to see you making lovey eyes at Nikita. You're not the only one that has a crush, and Tybalt's not too happy that you beat him to the punch."

"Nikita doesn't like him back, though," Orpheus said, a little too confidently for Nascha's taste. "So, no harm done."

"Orpheus, you don't know that for sure. The important thing here is that we've got a love triangle on our hands, it involves half the Pack, and we can't afford to offend. Tybalt might be going at this poorly, but you need to lay off the flirting. For all of our sakes."

"Do I have to?" He looked a touch hurt, and Nascha wondered if she'd been too direct. Social interactions had never been her strong point.

"Not to be mean, but, um, yes. He's been glaring at you all morning."

"He doesn't seem to like me much," Orpheus admitted. "Are Nik and I really being that obvious?"

"Nik? You're already doing nicknames?"

"Well, yeah. Should we not?"

"Not in front of other people. It's things like that. You think you're being subtle, but, just, you're not. You keep looking at each other across the room and grinning. When Nathaniel calls us to order, you're always finding casual reasons to touch each other. Haylia pulled me over asking me to talk to you about it because of just how pissed Tybalt is."

"Haylia?"

"She felt like she had to intercede. I don't disagree." Nascha studied Orpheus's face. There was no anger, but he looked upset with himself. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's fine. I can stop."

"You don't need to," Nascha said, suddenly feeling guilty. "I'm sorry for being snippy with you. It's not fair to ask you to stay away from your boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Oof, that one had slipped out without Nascha realizing. "We're not actually dating, you know."

"And that might be for the best," she agreed, "considering that there's only one Victor. But you're entitled to a relationship if that's what you'd like. Just, maybe be a bit more private about it? The other tributes might also have noticed."

"That would be bad."

"I mean, you can bet that I'm paying attention to the others. Jeremiah's going to be a problem."

"In that case, Jeremiah's going to be a Bloodbath."

"Career Pack!" Nathaniel stood in the center of the Training Center, hands on hips, looking like a leader. In compliance with their agreement, Orpheus and Nascha immediately went to meet up with the rest of the group. Nathaniel preferred the display to be as public and synchronized as possible, so all six of the Careers converging on him observed one another to reach a uniform gait and walking speed. The Pack formed its usual huddle. "Lunch begins in ten minutes," said Nathaniel quietly.

"And?" asked Tybalt. He looked to be in a foul mood. Haylia gave him a soft nudge.

"And we were thinking about running a mile as a group." Odicci smiled. "For intimidation, but also, we'll earn our dessert."

"Good idea," said Nascha. She had always preferred hiking, but she could run. The alliance followed Nathaniel to the track.

"Remember, stay on pace. Feel free to chat and laugh, the other tributes will notice. Once we're done, control your breathing. If you sound winded, we all look stupid. Got it?" Nobody raised any objections, so he stepped onto the start line and hit start on the display timer, which was visible to the entire room. Nascha fell in with the other Careers. Nathaniel led, setting a stiff pace. Her heart pounded with exertion from the run, but also from nervousness about the stunt she was going to pull. She recognized something of herself in Tybalt, the drive to keep going, the need to surpass her competitors, a complicated relationship with the truth, confirmed by people who would know. She'd done her research. Had he? She turned to him almost smugly, intuitive enough to understand what exactly she was getting into.

"So how did you win the Volunteer slot?" His façade slipped for just a moment. His raised eyebrows slouched, his jaw softened, and some of the cultivated intensity fell out of his gaze. The mask of haughtiness slid right off, the last remnants leaving his jutted chin. Then it abruptly sprang back up again.

"Beat the other Academies' male nominees."

"That's not what I mean. Why did Antonius Treek nominate you?"

"Who told you I'm from Treek?" This was Tybalt as Nascha wanted him, pivoting on the defensive.

"Admira. Speaking of mentors, is Fabian as good as Treek says?"

"How do you know that?" Tybalt was looking more alarmed by the minute. Excellent, thought Nascha. His evasive responses revealed more than the truth probably would have.

"Admira. Again. Word is you're upset that Haylia over here got a mentor she trained under." Haylia, a few paces ahead of Nascha, turned back, swishing her ponytail and grinning.

"Petra's wonderful, and Fabian too. But Treek has a soft spot for our friend here. Like a father, wouldn't you say, Ty?" It was friendly phrasing, but it took Tybalt a moment to determine if Haylia was insulting him or not. He came down in the middle, with a cautious reply.

"We're close, I guess."

"I know you are. But I heard you weren't Treek Academy's only golden boy." A hint of menace crept into Nascha's voice.

"Is that so? I mean, even the other male nominee was a far cry away from me. There was no second choice." He sold the lie well, but Nascha had an ace up her sleeve.

"You were the second choice all along, right?" She played it as banter, and Tybalt mirrored her in tone and apparent levity.

"If not me, then who?" Panting, she checked the clock. 6:48 with about a hundred meters to go.

"A little shit by the name of Milos Caballero. Well, awful people seem to encounter awful ends, don't they?" She took in his shocked expression as they rocketed across the finish line. They peeled off to where Nathaniel and Haylia stood, having been just a few seconds faster. Once Orpheus and Nikita, then Odicci, completed the task in turn, Nathaniel turned the group in the direction of the dining hall doors. Nascha linked her elbow with Tybalt's. "A little birdie told me something that I believe you'd find very interesting."

Alecto Bonometti, 31

1 Hornbreadth Way, Capitol

Interim Hunger Games Announcer

July 2, 329 AEDD

The President of Panem had a special ringtone. The first time Alecto heard that horrible brrrrinnnnng, he was seventeen and it was Lula Jacobsen calling for Pandora. It was her second year as a Hunger Games escort, and she lived with Alecto in a kitschy apartment during the offseason. When the fireworks had gone wrong, the Master of Ceremonies was one of the many government officials that didn't survive the blast. So Pandora was chosen as the replacement.

Alecto found her sitting next to the window with a case of beer. Tallboy carcasses littered the ground, their aluminum skeletons crushed. She'd slurred out something about destruction, a great loss. Manicured nails trembling, she lit a cigarette and blew a billowy gray smoke ring through the window, where it hovered in the heavy summer air.

"Your psycho sister blew up my best friend's parents. Nigel's what, six? She orphaned a fucking kindergartner."

Alecto hadn't known what to say besides, "Marceline's dead."

"I half expected it."

"The phone's for you. They want you to be her successor."

"She named me. And now she's gone."

"I'm sorry."

"Why do they want me? It's only my first year as an escort."

"Maybe Marceline wanted you to have one last gift." Pandora's wrist shook as she delicately ashed, tapping the cigarette on the side of the ceramic tray. "It's straight from the President. His secretary wants to know if you want the job. Right of first refusal, she said."

Something had changed in Pandora. Some irreconcilable rubicon sprang up between the Coquettes and whoever they would become in 329 AEDD, and nothing could repair it. Pandora had stubbed out the cigarette resolutely and followed Alecto to the sideboard, where the landline lay speaker-up. She brought it to her ear. "Pandora Mink speaking. I'm interested in your offer."

That was fourteen years ago. And yesterday, the brrrrinnnnng had arrived once again, the telephone vibrating in its cradle. Alecto's fingers had closed around the handle like it was a hot coal. It had to be about Pandora. Something terrible had surely occurred, another shooter, maybe, but no, it was about Ivan Cardozo. He had been killed by poisoning, and a substitute Hunger Games Announcer was needed. Fucking finally, thought Alecto. Ivan had caused him and Pandora an awful lot of pain, and it was about time someone dealt with the snake. But Lula was calling to recruit Alecto as a guest host. "You'll have so much chemistry with Pandora," she said soothingly. "Please, just until we can find a replacement."

Alecto had actual business to attend to. He was supposed to be looking after the Avoxes. But duty called, so he had agreed to comment on the trite costumes in service of his country. After the parade, Pandora had taken him on a surprise excursion to 12 Witherkemp Road. She had referred to the event as an afterparty, but Alecto was sharp enough to understand there was something else going on. Nikolai, who owned the house in question, had also invited Flossie Merveilleuse, Linus Cannon, Karen DuMouchel, and Jacqueline Muriel. Nigel Fassnacht sulked, morosely eating hors d'œuvres until Nikolai relented and let him join the guests, but only after swearing him to absolute secrecy.

They gathered in the parlor. Sipping on a Cosmo, Alecto felt a bit out of his element. He hadn't been friends with Flossie, Nikolai, or Karen in any meaningful capacity since the Coquettes, but more importantly, he was the only person in the room without a government job.

"We're an elite team," Nikolai said. "And we will not permit any details of tonight's meeting to leave this room. It is a matter of national security." A strange start, thought Alecto, who was beginning to grasp that this was not a glitzy cocktail-fest, but something carrying repercussions much more dangerous than a hangover.

"Today, Linus recovered a coded message on Peacekeeper letterhead from Konstance DuMouchel's unopened mail. Flossie's going to take a look at it."

"What's the code?" asked Flossie. Nikolai presented her with a slip of paper. There was a series of numbers, with spaces and punctuation. Alecto read it: 31343435 2443 442315 32343115. 1415423444 43441144243433 4442111325 2134424454 33243315. 141532113314 511533221511331315. –11

Flossie identified it instantly. She grabbed a cocktail napkin, borrowed the pen from Nikolai's shirt pocket, and began sketching a key. "It's a five by five box code. Vertical by horizontal. It translates letters into two-digit numbers, so we take the beginning of the first word. 31. Three vertically, one horizontally, so that comes out to an L. Then 34. Three vertically, four horizontally. O." She decoded the rest of the message. "It says LOOP IS THE MOLE. DEROT STATION TRACK FORTY NINE. DEMAND VENGEANCE. –A. Ivan told me you had acquired another message."

"So you said," Nikolai agreed. "Interestingly, Linus figured out that his death wasn't caused by poisoning, but anaphylactic shock. The Bloody Mary glass tested positive for shellfish." Flossie's face took on a slightly pained expression.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"Don't be. You killed a traitor to protect all of Panem. The public will be informed that Ivan Cardozo died of medical complications resulting in respiratory compromise." This was a shock to Alecto. Flossie's admission of murder, Nikolai's cavalier attitude about it, and all this talk of national security and protecting Panem?

"I'm sorry," Alecto said, "I've never been to any kind of 'afterparty' before, but how do you know it was Flossie? Why are you covering up Ivan's murder? I'm just, you know—"

"This is all very new for you," Pandora supplied.

"Yes."

"Perhaps I'd better start at the beginning," said Nikolai. "One month ago, an unknown Peacekeeper snuck a recording and transcript into my office. It was of a woman named Wisteria Hitchcock in District Eleven. The transcript noted that the material was used to convict her of treason and execute her. I never authorized that death sentence, so we know there's a corruption problem in the districts. And then explosives were set off in my office to destroy my safe at the same time the unidentified Peacekeeper attempted a mass shooting and an additional explosive was planted in the Presidential library."

"That's, um, a lot."

"According to the transcript, there's a mole in the Capitol. Someone high up, who is aiding the rebels in engineering an uprising. As for these double agent Peacekeepers, I don't know anything about them. I don't know their motivations." Alecto was hesitant to ask the question that was really gnawing at him, but Pandora knew him well enough to understand. He looked to her for permission.

"Nikolai won't be upset," she promised.

"Are we doing the right thing? I mean, exposing the rebel mole won't rescue us from rogue Peacekeepers."

"I'm using the rebellion as a distraction. The real concern is whatever mole Konstance is wrapped up with. She's colluding with this Peacekeeper faction, I guarantee you. I want to make things better for the districts. Everyone in this room wants to make things better, if you catch my meaning. But we can't do that if I lose control of the Peacekeeping force. And I'm concerned about the source of the transcript."

"Why are you so worried about who leaked it?" Alecto asked.

"Are you wondering why you're here?"

"Yes."

"Megaera Arkinnian's fingerprints were found on the transcript."

Alecto lost his grip on his empty glass. Pandora snatched it out of the air and gingerly set it on the coffee table. "Meg?"

"I know you've not seen your sisters in quite some time, by choice, but I'll be frank with you. The fireworks sabotage just before Meg's death, the bombs set in my office, and the one in the Shakiras' library were all discovered to be butane-based. Someone certainly has a modus operandi." Nikolai raised a knowing eyebrow. Alecto had no choice but to tell the truth, secure in the knowledge that Nikolai wouldn't blame him.

"Meg engineered it with Ivan and someone else. She wouldn't say who. She threatened to kill me, Hope, and Tiz if we turned her in. Hope said she was going to the Peacekeepers anyway, but Meg told her to think it over at the party that night. And then, three days later, Meg was found in the fish pond and Hope must have freaked. She put on her mourning veil and everything when she went with Tiz to identify the body. She said she felt too guilty to report it and she'd testify against me if I did. I cut them off, and they cut me off. I haven't seen either one since."

Nikolai looked at him seriously. "Linus thinks that your account makes perfect sense when aligned with our limited evidence."

"Megaera never died," explained Linus. "Yes, her sisters identified a body, with similar characteristics, but the bloating phase distends features considerably. It would have been easy to swap out the real Meg for a sibling close in age. She probably killed Hope and took her place. She'd only have to drug her at the party, swap clothes with her, and place her in the koi pond. Hope would quietly drown, and a black mourning veil would be an excellent way to conceal Meg's differences in appearance. Without a DNA sample, it would be impossible to detect the substitution."

Then Linus explained his plan. And the next morning, back at the home he shared with Pandora, Alecto Bonometti made a crucial discovery. He was doing research on the tablet Nikolai had provided, and, out of curiosity, looked up LOOP in the Peacekeepers' citizen database. Then, on a whim, he tried LOOP Peacekeeper. The lone result read: L.O.O.P. (Acronym.) Commonly pronounced /luːp/. Locomotive Operator(s) of Peacekeeping. Expand to view list of active L.O.O.P.?

He selected yes and searched alphabetically. Abbott, Cassandro. Antigone, Paloma. Armistead, Ronan. No Arkinnians to be found. He dejectedly skimmed the rest of the list, and with a start, focused on the pixelated letters. Bonometti, Tisiphone. He clicked on her profile. L.O.O.P. Senior Marshal First Class Bonometti passed the officers' admittance examination in 315 AEDD. Thirteen years' service. Clean record of conduct. Service Matriculation—Expand to view positions previously held? Alecto scrolled down to Regions Serviced: The Capitol, District Six, District Eleven, District Twelve—Expand to view stations frequented? He tapped yes. And then, at the very bottom of the dropdown list of locales, was De ro t Station, Track 49.

Hey y'all!

It's been a bit, but I'm here with the first training chapter. As you can see, alliances are beginning to form. Who do you think was Nascha's source for all that dirt on Tybalt? Does anyone have strong opinions on the subplot? In any case, Reprisal is going to be on the back burner for a couple of weeks as I make the final push on Prudence and Gumption. Reprisal will, however, be my main project this summer, and should conclude this fall. As always, thank you for reading. I'm looking forward to seeing you next chapter!

—LC :)