Reprisal: The 329th Hunger Games (Closed SYOT) Chapter 11: Pre-Games: Goodbyes, a hunger games fanfic

TW/CW: Fahad's POV discusses alcoholism, Beemo's has some internalized fatphobia, Pace's has a Peacekeeper talking about how he wants to kill all the people in District Eleven because they're so rebellious (sorry I couldn't come up with a better way to phrase that), Odicci's contains some slut-shaming with a brief mention of fatphobia, and Brielle's involves an overbearing visitor who touches a character against his wishes and an Avox being verbally abused and slapped.

Fahad Azerola, 17

Justice Building Reception Chamber 2, Ten

D10M

July 1, 329 AEDD

The Reaping had been mortifying. Fahad still felt lightheaded, dehydrated, and overall, just not good.

Dyani was in the visitation room with him. He still hadn't been allowed any water to rinse out his mouth with, and he was getting downright parched, not that the escort knew or probably cared. Connall's parents certainly wouldn't approve of their son's friendship with someone as poor and unremarkable as Fahad, so he knew he wasn't going to get a goodbye with him, something that bothered him more than it should've. Dyani was there, though. Dyani was like him, with nobody to hold down the fort at home, nobody to worry about him or preach about how annoying broke people were. Dyani understood.

Dyani was cuddling him, which was atypical for her. Dyani wasn't opposed to hugging, but she didn't much care for extended periods of physical contact, yet here she was, cuddling Fahad, because Fahad was a touch-starved mess who had practically begged for her affection, and who was Dyani to deny what was likely to be her closest friend's dying wish?

Fahad should have been strategizing or reminiscing or chatting, at the very least, but he wasn't. Instead he was cocooned in a fluffy Capitol-made blanket, crying into a fluffy Capitol-made pillow, on a fluffy Capitol-made recliner. He didn't like the unfamiliar pomp of the accommodations, but he had to admit they were luxuriously comfortable compared to what he was used to.

"I'm scared," he croaked. He immediately flushed with embarrassment, because it was a stupid thing to say, and probably really obvious, because no duh, the Hunger Games made everybody scared. That was kind of the point. Fahad was pretty sure that even the Careers, the toughest of tributes, sometimes lay awake at night with apprehension, and even so, he felt horrified with himself for admitting his fear to his closest friend in the world, which was even stupider.

"Why?" Dyani asked.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to die. Somebody's gonna rip my fucking guts out with a sword, and that's if I'm lucky and don't get sepsis or go hypothermic or die of dehydration." He was suddenly more aware than ever of his tongue, dry, yet clammy-feeling in his mouth. He was dehydrating right now. Not fatally, of course, but it was a preview of what might happen to him in the arena, and that made him almost want to laugh. Hunger Games Lite, he thought to himself. Like Miller, but instead of microdosing public humiliation, you're microdosing death by natural causes.

Naturally, thinking about public humiliation led him to remember the incident at the Reaping, which set him to wondering what the sponsors had thought of it. Fahad knew he was stronger than he looked. He could withstand some starvation, some pain. He could keep moving. He was used to barely scraping by. He was definitely shameless, but he wasn't a quitter by any means, and he hoped that maybe some of the Capitolites had noticed his resolve. You needed to be able to handle the Games mentally in order to win, but Fahad was unlikely to win. Withdrawal didn't mix well with any activity that required alertness, stamina, or restraint, but–"Everything's going to work out," Dyani offered.

"There's no way. We both know I'm as good as dead." Fahad could feel himself pouting, really settling into his seat on the struggle bus. He used alcohol to delude himself into believing he wasn't miserable, but every once in a while, he got like this, getting wrapped up in his own despondent attitude, wallowing in the strife, refusing to let Dyani tear his burdens from him. He clung to the pessimism, embracing his fate. There was no way he would ever make it out alive.

Dyani made a disappointed tutting noise and Fahad shrank, trying to backpedal as soon as she let go of him and began trying to get up. He whined after her, but she patted him on the arm. "I'm coming back. I promise." Dyani took promises very seriously, so Fahad tried his best to trust her, to trust that she wasn't abandoning him in his moment of need.

She wasn't. She returned with the escort in tow, the woman whose shoes he'd thrown up on. "This is Imogen," Dyani said. Fahad sulked, looking at the ground, where a plush rug sat. He noticed that the escort—Imogen, apparently—had on a fresh pair of heels, and a little of his guilt dissipated, although he still had no idea how she was staying upright on the aforementioned rug in her stilettos.

"Sorry for throwing up on you," Fahad offered in a small voice. Imogen tried to make eye contact with him, but he ducked her gaze.

"No worries," she said airily. "I've had worse. Your friend said you needed something to drink? And maybe to eat too? I have to say, I was so worried for you when you were sick onstage. I can't imagine how awkward that must have felt." Fahad was reluctant to tell her that she was making him feel worse, so he looked to Dyani for guidance.

"Yeah, he needs water. He hasn't had any since before the Reaping."

"But he threw up! Of course he was given water. We stopped the ceremony and the Peacekeepers even handed out refreshments!"

"To you and the Victors," Dyani stressed. "Fahad didn't get any."

"Really? I specifically requested that the assistants get you something to wash your mouth out with. Are you sure?" Imogen peered a bit closer at Fahad, gauging his expression to determine if he was telling the truth or not.

"I swear they didn't give me anything, Miss." Imogen looked genuinely taken aback.

"Oh, you poor thing. You really didn't get any water, did you? And you must be hungry, since your breakfast is, um, no longer in your stomach. Peacekeeper!" The one by the door instantly flew to her side, eager to be summoned. "Fetch a glass of…Fahad, do you prefer your water cold or room temperature?"

"I've never had cold, Miss. Except for melted snow in the winter?" Imogen took on a forlorn expression.

"A glass of cold water, please, for the young man." She turned to Fahad. "There's no kitchen here, but in perhaps ten minutes, we'll be on the train and you can have just about any snack you can imagine, or an early lunch, if you'd prefer."

He suddenly felt guilty about wasting the apple and sugar cube Dyani had procured earlier that morning. He was going to apologize, but the Peacekeeper had already arrived bearing a glass of water with clear chunks floating in it, a kind of opaque steam having developed on the outside of the glass. Imogen must have caught on to his confusion, because she provided an explanation, unprompted. "It's condensation. It comes from the ice cubes."

Fahad took a cautious sip as the cold drink was handed to him and, instantly, the cloud of icky, complicated feelings began to loosen its chokehold on him. His head cleared. Best of all, the taste of vomit residue on his tongue lessened in potency. "Are there any other things I can get for you? Or things I should know?" asked Imogen.

"No," Fahad said at the exact same moment Dyani said "Yes." Imogen looked between them.

"Well, which is it?"

"Fahad's an alcoholic," Dyani said. "If you send him into the Hunger Games, it's going to be ugly. And he's going to be in so, so much pain, and he won't even have any friends to help him deal with it. Can you please not make him go?"

"I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid that's not an option. No, no! There's no need to cry, Fahad is in very good hands. The Capitol has special medicines to combat addiction and withdrawal. I'm sure my supervisor will authorize him to receive such a medication. The Gamemakers would never permit him to enter the arena with a disadvantage like that anyways."

Fahad was only moderately soothed by this, but Dyani looked significantly calmer. For a moment, he had been sure she was about to burst into tears. Imogen tapped her watch, looking to Dyani, who sat back down next to Fahad, gingerly pulling him into her. "If I die, keep my house," he told her.

"You won't die," she chided, pressing her forehead to his. Fahad took the opportunity to rest, feeling this sanctuary of a person as much as he possibly could. Somehow, Dyani bundled him to his feet. "All you have to do is make a friend. Find someone as similar to me or Connall as possible and let them take care of you."

"Nobody likes taking care of me. Not even you."

"I don't like it because I'm too poor and fucked in the head to do it how I ought to, not because I don't love you."

"You love me?" Fahad knew the answer, but he felt like he should make sure.

"Yeah baby, I love you. Stay safe out there, okay?"

"Why do you always boss me?" This was a game. Fahad was so familiar with the words coming out of Dyani's mouth that he could've said them with her.

"'Cause you're my baby, baby." She booped him on the nose. "Be good. Don't die."

"I won't."

"I mean it, Fahad." Huh, that's a new addition.

"I know. Goodbye, Dyani. I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye." And just like that, he was alone with Imogen.
"Let's go find Mare," she said. "We're going to get you guys on that train ASAP. You might want to think about what kind of food you'd like."

A thought came to him. "Do you have apples, Miss? Or sugar?" She giggled, like he was making a joke.

"We're the Capitol. We have everything!"

Jeremiah King, 18

Justice Building Reception Chamber 2, Nine

D9M

July 1, 329 AEDD

Jeremiah King was in higher spirits than his district partner. Since entering the Justice Building, Maize had spent much of her time crying and worrying. Jeremiah understood her plight, to an extent—if he was half the size of his district partner in a killing competition, he'd be afraid too. The escort, Kingsley, whose name Jeremiah heartily approved of, had used the Justice Building to have a quick group meeting to explain the schedule for the rest of the day.

After both tributes had been given time to receive their visitors, they would get to take a car ride to the train station, and then they'd be shuttled to the Capitol and, at a building called the Remake Center, immediately meet their prep teams, who would give them spa treatments, and stylists, who would help them into their costumes for the Tribute Parade later that night. Before the Tribute Parade began, the tributes would be allowed to mix for the first time backstage. Then, they would be brought to their respective chariots and ride in district order until the horses halted in an arrangement around the balcony from which the President would deliver a speech. The horses would return them to the Remake Center, and once the tributes disrobed, they would be escorted to their district suites and have a good meal with their tribute teams, followed by a good night's sleep.

Jeremiah had few objections to the plan. Partly, he knew that there was nothing he could do to change it, but mostly, he just didn't see a whole lot wrong with it. He was a relatively social person, and he was used to grand treatment and being waited on. A short ride on a high-speed train that was fully stocked with everything he might need and more, that would end with adoring fans greeting him at the station? That sounded pretty good to him, and so did the spa treatment and costume. What most excited him was the opportunity to meet the other tributes for the first time. Maize seemed like a decent person, and Jeremiah did feel a smidgen of pity for her, but he had bigger fish to fry. He wanted allies.

Jeremiah was a very capable fighter on his own, but he also understood the value of teamwork. The family mob had taught him that everything was easier when somebody had your back, and in these Games of life or death, he wasn't taking chances. He was intelligent, but Curtis was the true brains of the operation, so he eagerly awaited his arrival.

"Visitor for Jeremiah King," announced the Peacekeeper holding open the door.

"Boss!"

"Jeremiah." Curtis's voice was filled with pride. "Jeremiah, you're going to be a hero. Once you win, we'll all have immunity from the law. Truly, this is the best possible thing for our enterprise, and it fell right into our laps!"

"I'll win, Boss."

"Of course you will. I've devised just the right strategy for you. You're going to need allies."

"I assumed so."

"Good! You've always had my intuition. Alright, you know you need allies, but they mean nothing if they're not the right kind of allies. You want a good mix of people who are knowledgeable and people who are devoted. You can't plan for the arena, so make sure to team up with someone who knows them already. You should have one or two dogged nonconformist types, because if you can find out what they love and or hate, you can lead them into doing your bidding. And also, maybe have a pity ally too, some young kid who wants a big strong protector. It'll soften your image, and we all know you'll need that."

"So what do I do after that?"

"You need to stay popular and stay in charge. I know that you struggle to approach other humans with anything other than cold indifference, but you've got to save your ruthlessness for when you're in the arena. Until then, you need to inspire confidence, but not arrogance. Don't act like you're better than the Careers."

"But I am better than the Careers."

"Oh, you're better than one Career, probably, maybe even two, but you're not better than six. If you piss off the Pack and establish yourself as a threat, there's no way you'll make it out alive. Don't be a bully, and don't push people around. It'll come back to bite you when the fighting starts. You're going to take a softer tact. Be strong, confident, and encouraging, but act like the underdogs. You can slide under the radar in a group, but you'll stand out on your own. If you're a cocky loner and you get an eight or nine, you're a serious threat; if you're the leader of an alliance and you get an eight or nine, but your allies are in the four-to-six range, you're another nobody, at least until the field thins out. Let yourself be cushioned by the mediocrity of those around you.''

"Boss, I do really appreciate the thought you've put into this, and I think it's a great idea, but–"

"But you want to know why you can't team up with the Careers?"

"Yes! They'll want me, won't they?"

"They might, but you can't count on it. What you can count on is that they'll take care of their own first. If supplies get stolen, who's getting blamed? If there's a dicey fight, whose aid will they rush to? Really, they'd see you as more of a burden than an asset, because you don't use weapons."

"My body is literally a weapon!"

"Yes, my boy, but in a sword versus skin competition, the sword always wins. Plus, you know that outlier Careers have a high rate of betrayal attempts. The risks will outweigh the benefits for them, and the same goes for you. If you do join up and one doesn't like you, they'll claim they saw you sneaking out of camp, or plant something in your bag, and then there will be six people bristling with weapons surrounding you and you can kiss your keister goodbye."

"I see."

"Avoid this possibility by refraining from getting too big for your britches. Be humble. You're used to being the strongest person in the district, and you'll be facing threats you can't easily overcome. It will take patience, discretion, and humility." Jeremiah felt less like he was receiving valuable advice, and more like he was being lectured.

"Boss, I'll be fine."

"You don't know that. This is the first true challenge you've ever had to face. Perhaps I should have sheltered you less; this sort of blustery showboating may very well be your downfall. Know your limits, Jeremiah. Be conservative. You are no longer untouchable, and you can't afford to forget it."

"Boss, I'll be careful, but this plan is so…unlike you. Since when have we hid our abilities out of fear?"

"When there's a smug little gang that keeps needling us, mistakenly believing that we can't touch them, what do we do?"

"We make an example out of them and squash them like a bug."

"Correct. The Careers are able and willing to do that to you." Jeremiah was having a hard time grasping that he wasn't the best in the room any longer, but this finally seemed to make him understand.

"Really? They would do that?"

"In a heartbeat. Jeremiah, you've been an enforcer for years now, because you're tall and muscular, but you've never been pit against someone your own size. Metaphorical size. You fight sloppy, and normally, that doesn't matter. It gets the job done, but those days are over. The Careers train from a young age in proper weapons techniques, and they're chosen from a field of highly skilled competitors. You didn't have to beat out anyone else to get here. They're the syndicate that controls the town, and ordinary crooks like you have to stay out of their way."

"I understand, Boss."

"You'd better hope you do. I don't want to lose my grandson because he's too stupid to behave like a normal person around trained murderers. These people work a lot cleaner than us, and if you fail to acknowledge that, you have no hope of achieving Victory."

"I know."

"Very well, Jeremiah. Good luck. I'm very proud of what you've done, and I love you very much. We all do, and we'll miss you so much when you're away from home."

"Thanks, Boss."

"What are you waiting for?" There was a friendly, conspiratorial twinkle in Curtis's brown eyes. "Go forth and conquer, kid!" He departed with a friendly slap on the back, and Jeremiah felt a sort of bittersweet sorrow, the first such feeling he'd ever experienced.

"Goodbye, Boss."

"Goodbye, kid."

Beemo Hudson, 13

Justice Building Reception Chamber 2, Three

D3M

July 1, 329 AEDD

Beemo and Twyla had made the unusual choice to introduce their families to one another in one visitation room before branching off into their respective goodbyes. Twyla had suggested that, since they were district partners as well as the same age, and they had decided to ally with one another, they should get their families on the same page about it. Beemo had wondered if she had ulterior motives, but he couldn't think of any. Both of their families would be worrying and/or mourning in the near future, and they'd probably prefer to do so collectively rather than individually. Beemo knew his own parents would welcome that.

Twyla's family showed up first. There were three adults, two men and a woman, and three Reaping-age children. The woman seemed to be the head of the household, introducing herself and one of the men as Mrs. and Mr. Kuiper, Twyla's aunt and uncle. The second man introduced himself as Arthur Behring, Twyla's father. The three children must have belonged to the Kuipers, since Twyla said they were her cousins April, Belinda, and Clarence. Beemo, an only child, wondered what it was like to have such a large family. Everyone expressed fear and disappointment over Twyla and Beemo's selections for perhaps a minute or two, and then Beemo's parents hustled in with Hopper, who was conversing with someone familiar: Techie.

Beemo's parents introduced themselves as Carol and Teach, and Hopper and Techie as Beemo's friends. The adults all decided that they needed to have a conversation away from the prying ears of children, so they opened up the second visitation room, went out into the hallway, and instructed the assorted friends and cousins to say goodbye to the respective tributes.

Hopper, gangly and talkative as always, brought Techie into the opulent chamber. Beemo admittedly felt a little jealous that it was Hopper, not him, chatting with her, but that was quickly overshadowed by the realization that Techie had come to say goodbye to him, which meant she didn't hate him, and that perhaps, just maybe, his best friend had been right all along. Hopper came right over, Techie alongside him, and immediately said, "You have to come home, Beemo. District Three needs a Victor."

"I'm not exactly Victor material." Beemo gestured at his waistline. "Besides, you need a good mentor to win, and we haven't had one of those in a while." It was an undisputed fact that the mentors were cruddy.

"Of course you can win. You're the smartest boy at school. It's awful that you got picked, but you're more cut out for Victory than anyone else in this district." Techie's compliment did its job, and Beemo suddenly felt much more confident in himself.

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah! So what's your strategy so far?" Beemo considered that. What was his strategy? Did he even really have any plans beyond teaming up with his district partner?

"Well, I'm going to be allies with Twyla. We figured it'd be best to stick together."

"Are you going to ally with anyone else?" asked Hopper.

"We're not sure yet. We'll have to meet the other tributes first." Beemo at least assumed this was the case, but he and Twyla hadn't actually discussed it yet. Luckily, from what he understood, there would be plenty of time on the train for strategizing. Would any other tributes even want to ally with them? Little kids from District Three weren't exactly famous for doing well in the Games. Especially not fat ones.

"That makes sense. We're going to miss you, you know," said Hopper.

"I'll miss you too."

"I'll miss you more," said Techie. For a moment, Beemo wasn't sure he remembered how to breathe.

"Aww, what a cute couple you'd make!"

"Hopper."

"Kidding, kidding. Not!"

"What are your thoughts on goodbye hugs?" asked Techie. Beemo blushed, and realized he had nothing much to lose. Whether he died or became a Victor, nobody would be able to make fun of him for liking her.

"I'm open!"

"You two should kiss." To his shock, Techie said,

"You're right, Hopper, maybe we should." Cliché as it was, he thought his heart might've skipped a beat. "Would you be okay with that?"

"Please. Yes. Very much so." Techie giggled, which Beemo found mostly endearing and cute, and a little surprising too. Techie was usually so serious in class, but he was beginning to understand why her posse of friends liked her so much. She was nice, and forward, too, which he supposed was a good thing, since he never in a million years would've straight-up asked someone if he could kiss them. He imagined that Hopper knew he'd been right, and had collected Techie because she really did have reciprocal feelings for Beemo.

Hopper was his best friend, but also just the best in general.

Techie leaned in. Seeing her out of uniform was a little strange, and Beemo thought that the pink blouse looked good on her, but the maroon skirt suited her more, formal and adult, flaring out a little just below her knees. She had on dainty white socks and black dress shoes that were too big for her. They had a tiny heel, which made Techie even taller in comparison to him (he was shorter than most people, including her), not that he minded. Her dark, curly hair had been tied back in a braid with a pink ribbon. As she got closer, Beemo could see a tint of shimmery makeup on her lips. Would it make the kiss feel weird? Would Beemo simply get a sparkly but still authentic kissing experience, or would the lipgloss change the sensation entirely? He didn't have a control group; he had no prior kisses to go off of, no baseline.

In the end, it was kind of clumsy, but not unpleasant. The lipgloss had turned out to be slightly sticky, but it hadn't really interfered with his enjoyment of the kiss as a whole. Beemo wasn't sure what all the fuss about kissing being a magical thing was about, but he would agree that he felt like he and Techie shared something real following the kiss. Hopper looked positively gleeful, his matchmaking successful.

Then Carol and Teach knocked on the door and Beemo had to hurry up and say goodbye to Hopper and Techie for what he knew might be forever.

His parents came in, pasting big smiles on over their grave expressions. It wasn't enough to fool Beemo, who knew that they were worried beyond belief, but it sufficed to make him feel at least a little more prepared to face the sort of horrors beyond comprehension that would make themselves known to him in the arena. He swallowed tightly. "Mom. Dad. Hi."

"Oh, Beemo. Shall we discuss?" His mother's smile wavered.

"We have to," said Beemo.

"We do have to," his father agreed. "I don't like considering the possibilities, but it's our job as parents."

"Yes, it's our job as parents," his mother echoed. Her voice contorted in her throat. "It's our job to guide you through this as best we can."

"We're frightened as well, Beemo. We don't want to consider the possibilities, but I'm sure you understand that we must."

"We must consider them because we love you and we desperately, desperately want you to be safe," said his mother.

"Possibility Number One: Twyla and I die horribly in the opening minutes of the Hunger Games."

"That possibility is, unfortunately, not unlikely. Younger, non-Career tributes have a hard time in the Bloodbath. Your best option is to avoid it completely," Teach said.

"We won't have supplies, though."

"Make sure you study food and water acquisition during the training period. You'll pick them up much more quickly than you would weapons skills. The best way to not die is to avoid the area where the death is happening. Just make a short, quick sprint to the tree line."

"Suppose they chase me?"

"Beemo," Carol assured him, "We've seen many more Games than you have. I'm forty-three and I've been watching them since before I was your age. That's more than thirty years! And not once have I ever seen a Career pursue another tribute far past the treeline during the initial brawl. Do you know why the Careers are the best?"

"Because they're surrounded by a team of the other best tributes."

"That's right. The moment they leave their allies, they lose that tremendous advantage. I've seen groups of outliers take out Careers who've been separated from the pack. Their unity protects them. They need the supplies in the Cornucopia, so they need to defend it. They fan out to protect it and their allies because it's a strategic advantage, but even though they want kills, it's less of a priority than securing the Cornucopia."

"You've been studying the Hunger Games?"

"Of course we've been studying! We record observations and statistics every year. The longer we live, the more Games we see, the greater sample size we have to base our findings off of. We do it because we're scientists and we like to find patterns, but also because knowing those patterns might help save our district's children."

"Mom, that is so cool. Unironically. That is maybe the coolest thing you have ever done outside of your actual job."

"And," Teach said, "The good news is that the Careers are a pragmatic bunch. It doesn't make much difference in their eyes if they get to the punier tributes sooner or later. They care about getting rid of the external threats before the Pack tensions get too great. It's just smart to deal with the most dangerous people while morale and membership are at their highest."

"They're stupid in other ways, though, and Beemo, that is very good for you. You have noise on your side. The Careers tend to act with impunity because they know they're the top alliance. They're rowdy and noisy and kind of stomp around the arena, so you'll hear them coming with plenty of time to spare. What's more, they're so loud that they tend to not hear anybody else."

"So they won't hear me but I can hear them?"

"Exactly."

"Assuming that you make it past the Bloodbath and the initial hunting stage, there are more possibilities. One is that the Careers stumble across you and you die."

"That's true," said Carol, "But there are a number of things you can do to minimize that risk. When you're making camp, try to find a location based more on cover than concealment. If they do happen upon you and you're hiding, you're stuck. If your location has cover, especially thick trees, you're in a much better position. The long-ranged fighters might not be able to pursue you at all, and the short-ranged fighters will have a harder time cornering you. I'd recommend–"

"Sixty seconds left," interrupted a Peacekeeper. "Hurry up, will you?"

"Anyways, Beemo, you're a remarkably intelligent boy, and we love you so very much. Listen to your mentors, stick with Twyla, and do your best. Everything's going to be okay." She opened her handbag and withdrew three miniature people crafted in plastic: a lady in blue, a man in magenta, and another, older man in goldenrod. They belonged to the Hudson family Clue board. "Which one? For your token."

"Professor Plum, please." It was Teach's piece.

"We love you so much. We know you can make it home, honey."

"That's right, just think things through. You've got this." There was a crushing family hug, with Beemo in the middle. It didn't seem right that his parents, forensic scientists who regularly had to look at dead bodies for their jobs and didn't mind it one bit, were now going to be watching a murder competition and praying they'd taught their son enough to survive it.

The Peacekeeper wrenched his mother off of him. "Time's up, boy." Carol touched his elbow, gentle brown eyes shimmering with tears. Teach set his mouth in a hard line.

"Mom, Dad, goodbye. I love you!" The Peacekeeper dragged him into the hallway, where he was hustled past Hopper and Techie. "Goodbye!" he shouted.

"Beemo!" Techie yelled after him, "Remember the Abrin!"

"The what?"

"Intro to Postmortem Analysis! The Abrin, Beemo! Synth–" He was abruptly dragged out of earshot.

Oh. The Abrin-Tetrodotoxin thing he'd won bonus points for in class. But Tetrodotoxin came from pufferfish organs; how was he supposed to find those in the arena? But Techie said Abrin! And Abrin comes from the rosary pea. It said so in the additional reading I did. And the rosary pea is a highly invasive species found in nearly all tropical and subtropical regions! Techie was right, the extra reading was invaluable. Beemo had always preferred the winter months, but he hoped to be sweating in the arena. Hopper had said only that morning that the Gamemakers would want to do a water-based arena, like, for instance, a nice tropical island. If Hopper was right, as right as he'd been about Techie's reciprocated crush, then Beemo knew exactly what to do and how to do it, for the reading had gone into much more depth than just the location of the plant that Abrin was made from. It contained information about the synthesis process as well.

If Hopper was right, then Beemo knew how to win the Games.

J. Pace, 18

Justice Building Reception Chamber 2, Eleven

D11T

July 1, 329 AEDD

Pace's mother practically flew into the reception chamber the instant the stone-faced Peacekeeper opened the door, desperate to see her middle child before they were carted off to certain doom. "Pace!" she gasped. "Pace, I'm here!"

"Mother. Uh, hi. It's good to see you." Pace was significantly less hysterical than their mother, but maybe even more relieved to see her than she'd been to see them, even if they were less obvious about it. Their mother was a notorious busybody, and she could nag pretty much anyone into doing what she wanted. She was terrified of Peacekeepers, just like everybody else in District Eleven, but maybe she'd be able to make one budge and release Pace into her care instead of the Capitol's.

Ha. That would never happen, no matter how much they tried to convince themself that it was a possibility. The Hunger Games were an inevitable reality, that they now had to face all alone, without so much as their mother to guide them through it. "Pace, you have to win!" she burst out. "I mean it! If somehow you can just manage to win, you won't die and you can come home and we'll all get to live together in a big house and everything will be fine!"

Ah, yes. I, having been twelve years old for less than three weeks, can definitely outlive completely adult Careers who have spent the better part of a decade training to murder someone exactly like me in exactly this situation. What they actually said was "I can do it. I know I can." They were going to die. Of course they were! Little kids like them didn't win the Hunger Games, especially not little kids from poor families in outlying districts, but how were they supposed to tell their mother that this phase of the Games was called the Goodbyes and not the Good Lucks for a reason?

How could they break it to their mother that they would be coming home as a corpse? How were they supposed to just lay down and accept that themself? How was a twelve-year-old supposed to deal with the knowledge that they were about to hug their mother for what they knew would be the last time?

"Listen to your mentor, Pace. Listen to the adults and do what they say. Bless your contrarian little heart, but I am begging you, obey the experienced older people for once in your life, because your life is something we need, and if someone difficult and snotty can help preserve it, you need to take their advice and complain about it after you're safe for good."

"I will." They weren't sure if it would be as easy as their mother made it seem, but they weren't about to tell her that. Besides, they were planning on listening to their mentor anyway. They found structure suffocating, sure, but they would make an effort. They would attempt to pay attention. They would try to be polite and respectful, if only for the sake of their future prospects and not for the benefit of their entourage.

They would try their best, and they told their mother that. Then she hugged them tight and smooched them on the cheek, in that nasty-wet way only she did, and then she left so they could have a moment with their siblings. Malachi refused to look them in the eye. Their best friend. Their favorite brother. Their childhood hero, who had sworn to protect them and then failed to follow through when it mattered most.

Except, of course, that it didn't matter. Saying you would die for someone and actually doing it were two very different things, and Pace knew that it was unfair to blame him for a predicament that was the Capitol's fault alone, but it was easy to point fingers and tell themself that it shouldn't have been them. Their mother had stood the whole time she had been in the extravagant room, but their siblings gathered around them where they sat, at the vertex of the (really, really) soft pink couch that was shaped like an uppercase L. The littlest one, Iris, was crying over their absence already. Their mother was too no-nonsense to be sentimental with, but here, with their siblings, they could lower their defenses. However, all of them had to leave too, though, and the visceral pain of being yanked from their older brother's embrace by a Peacekeeper wasn't something Pace thought they'd ever be able to recover from. It was worth it, though, because their father had arrived, had left in the middle of his shift, put down his shovel and walked out and risked getting fired just to see them for the last time.

Their father was the patient parent. Their mother commanded, gave orders and got results. Their father explained the whys of life. Their father was the one who'd tried to teach them when argumentation was and wasn't effective, who'd reasoned with them for hours and let them play devil's advocate to blow off steam after a bad day, who could make his wife's frustration melt away with a smile. Their father had to go too, though, and left willingly when it was time, blowing them kisses over his shoulder the whole way out.

Then it was time for the main attraction. Grandma Iliana stomped in, her tatty old scarf tied in a bow under her chin, her walking stick banging down hard with every step and accidentally landing on the toes of the Peacekeeper by the door, all with that pissed-off gleam in her eye that Pace had come to love. Grandma Iliana was a cranky old misery-guts, and they loved her for it.

"This isn't ideal," she snarled, accidentally swinging her handbag into the gut of a second Peacekeeper standing guard in the corner who'd made the mistake of interrupting the path of her erratic pacing with his body. "Stupid fucking Capitolites, dragging away my favorite grandkid to an early grave!"

"Hi, Grandma."

"Hello, Pace." They watched, with equal parts dread and awe, as she approached a third Peacekeeper, who seemed to hold an understandable amount of fear of her, considering what had happened to his colleagues. Pace's grandma was the kind of person who, when angry, spoke in exactly the same tone as she normally did, just very loudly, which was exactly what happened in this particular instance. "My name is Iliana Pace. What's yours." she said. (Not asked, said.)

"Uh, Lieutenant Trev Jareds, ma'am. How may I assist you?"

"My son's child was just Reaped for the Hunger Games and I need you to un-Reap them. Quickly."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't do that."

"Protect and serve, my ass."

"Watch your mouth, lady!" yelled one of the other Peacekeepers, the one who'd taken Malachi away from Pace. "Or do you want to end up like your old friend Wisteria?"

Grandma Iliana blanched. "Not particularly, no, but I'll happily take one for the team if it means my grandkids are safe." Grandma's got guts, Pace noted. They remembered Wisteria Hitchcock's execution. She was one of their grandmother's closest friends, and the freshest reminder of why Peacekeepers and Capitolites were never to be trusted. Pace hadn't seen the killing themself, they were at work in the fields, but Grandma Iliana and Father had, and they had described it as horrifically brutal. The fact that she could stand firm in front of a Peacekeeper and openly be defiant was just kind of nuts, and honestly, Pace was impressed.

Lieutenant Trev Jareds, the Peacekeeper Grandma Iliana had been talking to, or more accurately, at, came to her defense. "I'm sure she was just getting caught up in the moment. This is an understandably shocking situation. People get emotional."

"If by 'people' you mean whatever this district trash is, then sure. Shoot 'em all, I say. Everyone's a rebel out here."

"Don't say that. You know, the Head Peacekeeper was…" Grandma Iliana took the opportunity to clunk over to Pace, who was still sitting on the sofa.

"Damned power-tripping losers, if you ask me," she griped. "Hey kid, here's some free advice. When you're in the Capitol, don't do what I just did. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. 'Grandma, what if they're stupid and annoying and I know better?' Well, you might, but I've been watching the Games a lot longer than you have, and I say your mentor won't be half bad. When Aubrey Jean won, we were all surprised, because he was a lot like you. Stubborn, lots of attitude, didn't give a crap about what the pushy old people thought he should do. When Elodie won, she said in her Victory interview that she succeeded because he took her needs and wants seriously as her mentor. Give him a chance."

"I will, Grandma." Pace might not have respected many people, but their grandmother was the one adult they'd always admired, and this wasn't the time to question her (historically accurate) judgement.

Soon, she was taken away too, and Pace was all alone with four Peacekeepers in an echoey, empty room. Then there was a quiet, petite knock on the door, that Pace instinctively knew belonged to quiet, petite Cake, their Capitol escort. "Hello, uh, J!"

"Pace," they corrected instinctively. "No J, just Pace. I had to put a first name on the form, but…yeah, just Pace, please."

"Oh, um, alright! Hello, Pace. Are you ready to head to the train? Do you have everything you need for a safe trip? Eyeglasses, medications, things like that?" She really thinks people in Eleven can afford those, huh?

"I'm good, I think."

"And your token?" My token. I don't have a token in mind, do I? I mean, I want a token, obviously. I suppose I might have something that could be a token. They dug in their pockets for answers and came up with a pair of wooden dice. Oh, yeah. I was playing with Iris and Isaac last night before work.

"Yes, I do."

Odicci Harbore, 18

Justice Building Reception Chamber 1, Four

D4F

July 1, 329 AEDD

Odicci's best friend had always been her mother. Allium (never Mom) had always been there for her. Looking back, it was easy to see that she and Saffran had never been a good match. Saffran had fed a different, rougher part of Odicci. He had fueled her ambition for Victory, but not necessarily paid her much mind as a person. Allium had never particularly cared about the training, but she was a supportive force in the background. Odicci was proud to have inherited her father's hotheadedness and passion for the sport, but she was even prouder to have inherited her mother's firm, quiet sense of justice.

Her parents' emotional responses had always warred with one another, but it reached a tipping point when Saffran had blown up at his boss and gotten fired. Allium, the breadwinner, had threatened to stop buying him custom clothes from the Capitol unless he found another job. Instead, he'd used the last of the money she'd given him to hire a divorce lawyer. Odicci had wanted to stop training following the divorce, but he'd been the one to convince her that she should continue.

Allium had never complained about it. She continued managing her fleet of crab ships and raking in the money. Meanwhile, Saffran jumped from one job to another before he inevitably lost his temper and was let go from each in turn. It had been years since Odicci had seen both of her parents in the same room as one another, but they were both holding it together in the Justice Building reception chamber.

Because it was her day, and despite their differences, they were good parents who knew that her success was the priority. "Odicci," Saffran began, "We need to discuss your strategy."

"Yes, Father."

"Have you met your district partner yet?"

"I have. We had a chat at the post-selection mixer. He didn't trust the champagne either."

"Smart."

"He poured mine out in the flowerbed at the end. It killed the plants, if you can believe it. He said I was smart to avoid it. He had sparkling water from a sealed bottle."

"You might've been killed," Allium said. "You already survived the first challenge. You're equipped for the Games."

"Was that Lewis boy pleasant? Easy to work with?"

"Yes. He was friendly to just the right degree. I don't anticipate any challenges working together."

"He looks poor."

"And?"

"Well, poor people do strange things sometimes."

"Okay." Odicci figured it was better to avoid arguing this point.

"Have you begun devising a strategy yet?"

"We have. I'm going to push the other Careers to let him lead the Pack."

"You trust him that much? Already? Odicci, I thought I'd taught you better than that."

"And I thought we were supposed to be a united front."

"Why aren't you trying for Pack leader?"

"Father, people don't take me seriously. They feel like they don't have to respect my authority. Half the time they don't even see me as an equal, let alone leader material. Being seen as a weak leader won't be half as advantageous to me as being an auxiliary to a more robust leader."

"What if he's not as good as you think he is?"

"Then the Pack will turn on him. Really, I've got this."

"And what will be your strategy in the private sessions?" Allium broke in.

"Well, seeing as I'm not going to be the leader, I think–"

"Young lady, you need to be the leader!"

"Hush, you! Go on, Odicci."

"I think that I don't want to draw too much attention, but at the same time, I want to assert myself as a threat. I know I'll get at least a nine, but I don't think I'll be satisfied unless I get a ten." Saffran sat back approvingly.

"Now, that's what I want to hear more of! You need to be ambitious if you want to win. Let's have some more of that, hm?"

"Yes, Father. Now, I won't be able to really make a plan for a while, which is inconvenient because I have a nice long train ride to look forward to. It's the biggest stretch of time I have to plan, but everything depends on who else is in the Pack. Do you know when they'll air the Reapings?" There was hesitation.

"Um, let me go check," said Allium.

"Alright, we'll come back to that. Odicci, what are you hoping for in the Pack?" Saffran asked.

"I'm not sure. Can we, like, talk through it? I want some advice."

"Absolutely."

"So, I know you don't trust him totally, and I think that's smart, but I'm backing Nathaniel for leader whether you like it or not. I'm not making leader. When it comes down to it, if it's him versus anybody from One or Two, I've got to pick him, and it's better for district cohesion if I stick with him from the beginning."

"Okay, I see where you're coming from. But what if you decide that an opponent from One or Two would make a better leader than him?"

"If that happens later on, when we're in the later stages of the Games, I'll need to weigh the pros and cons depending on the circumstances, but if we're in the Capitol or just getting into the arena, absolutely not. The Pack can't fracture that early, especially not because I can't hold it together for my district."

"I see why you did so well on your exams. That's the correct answer." Allium came back in.

"Okay, so I spoke with Sterling and he has good news. You're the third-last district, so as soon as One and Two's Reapings finish, there'll be a very short delay until they air. You'll be able to see the recap towards the beginning of the train ride."

That was great news. Odicci would have time to discuss the other tributes with Nathaniel and their mentors after all. They'd be able to plan together. More importantly, though, her time with Saffran was running out. Her channel of communication with her father, the person who'd had the greatest influence on her training, was about to close, and she had to press through to the final seconds available to her. The good news was that another rapport would spring up in his place: Kaylee Pike-Jones, her mentor. The question was now one of who made the better resource.

Saffran would be furious if he knew that she was questioning him, but Odicci hadn't inherited the full sum of his arrogance. She assumed that the more coaching she could get her hands on, the better, and that perhaps, just maybe, someone who'd been in the exact same position as her and became a legendary Victor was more qualified than a divorcee who couldn't even hold down a steady job. She and Saffran had a complicated relationship.

"Thank you, Allium, and now back to young Odicci. You need to spend all of your training tine intimidating the other tributes. You've trained for a decade to survive the Games. There's nothing three more days will do for you. Your most critical job during the pre-Games is to strike unimaginable fear in every single outer-district tribute. Do whatever you can to make them fear you."

"Father, I'm not so sure that's the best idea. I should spend at least a little time doing actual things, right?"

"If you mean practicing with your weapons, then by all means."

"But suppose I want to spend an hour at first aid. That would be time well spent, right?"

"You're losing me."

"Check my logic: I want to be a valuable deputy to Nathaniel, who will lead the Career Pack. The other tributes already have a healthy fear of Careers in the abstract. We do some hardcore weapons practice and they're petrified, right? Scaring them won't be hard, especially not if we've got a few people always with sword in hand, but if I dip a toe in the survival stations, it might come in handy in the arena. When you're looking for somebody to bump off, you don't pick the medic."

"Saffran, that's a very good point. Why shouldn't she at least get refreshed on some survival skills? She's had ten years to train with a weapon. Three days spent on something else might make a critical difference. I've watched the Hunger Games. A lot. I remember being seventeen and losing my chance to volunteer because I'd gotten pregnant, and Miss Albacore–you know, she'll always be Miss Albacore to me. I'm a grown woman, but she'll always be Miss Albacore–told me I couldn't volunteer. I was six months pregnant. You can't win the Games at six months pregnant, but I was furious anyway. I thought I could do better, Odicci, I thought I could do so much better than anybody else she might send in, because I was the very best at my weapon. I thought, truly, that survival skills were for losers. And then I watched the girl who took my place, the boy who went in with her, and the Ones and Twos, and I was jealous at first, but then I watched them all die of natural causes. Every single one. And I knew that I'd hate for my baby to turn out like that, so I tried to keep you from training. I told Saffran to let you make your own choices, and you've chosen good sense over hubris. This sort of thinking…you're not thinking like a Career; you're thinking like a Victor."

"Allium?"

"Odicci. You are the smartest, strongest person I've ever known. You've made your own choice. You must come back home."

"Allium, why are you telling her these things? Do you want her to be afraid? A coward? She knew what she was signing up for."

"Nobody, nobody knows what they're signing up for. What was the first year you watched, Saffran?"

"The 300th, of course. Ethan Floy and his wife had their Quell. And their daughter took the 325th."

"And how old were you?"

"I was seven. And then eight. That was a long Games, my birthday fell during them."

"Eight's too young. You got it into your head that you wanted to get yourself a Victory right when you started training, but Miss Albacore couldn't stand you. Kicked you out. And then you gave me a daughter, and you told our tiny, precious eight-year-old that she'd be worthless if she dared let Miss Albacore down, dared to not be the best, to experience childhood, to want more than murder, all whilst living off of my money, sleeping in my house, and telling my daughter that I don't love her because I want to keep her safe. It was never about her success, you vain, vacuous mooch, it was always about yours. You only want her to win so you can tell the whole world that you deserve the glory for training her up. You want to live vicariously through her because you never got the chance to live vicariously through me."

There was a long and terrible silence.

Then Allium continued.

"I wouldn't have fared any better than the girl who took my place. Forgive me for wanting the best for my baby; it's obvious you'd know nothing of the sort."

There was a second silence, uglier and more permanent.

"Odicci, if you're smart, you'll listen to me, and not your whore of a mother who got herself a bun in the oven at seventeen instead of being a clever girl and choosing glory instead. Listen to me, your father, her better, and maybe you won't get fat and useless eating gelato."

Odicci felt obligated to do something. She watched the minute hand on the clock creep forward, and she knew what she had to do to preserve the time she had left. To better her chances in the Games. When she spoke, it was hollow and didn't sound like her.

"Peacekeeper? Please remove my father from the visitation chamber." The Peacekeepers acted instantly on her orders. "I'm sorry, Father," she whispered, feeling guilty just the same.

Allium laid a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, there's so much to say and so little time. He always did the advice part, but I suppose that falls to me now."

Odicci hadn't planned on laughing, but she suddenly felt like they were back on the terrace, gelato dishes in hand, having a good gossip. "What did you ever see in him?" she asked, snickering.

"Oh, bad boys are just my type! That chafing against authority, doing things with them that you're not supposed to do, it's fun. I was a big rule follower, but they feel dangerous in a good way. They like to think they're corrupting you when they take you skinny dipping in the marina or train hopping on the Shoals. Have you seen the Shoals?"

"I mean, I know what shoals are. Sandbars."

"Tell you what. We're running out of time, so you can go ask Kaylee when she's in a good mood. But the point is that bad boys love feeling like they're finding the 'real you.' They like thinking that they're turning you into a bad girl to match them. They all mature, but the trick is predicting whether they're like the majority, who keep the shenanigans in their back pocket but settle down, or like your father, who started drinking and decided to make them his full-time occupation instead of something more sensible."

"Is love worth it?"

"Not until the Games are over. But love works out most of the time, it really does."

"Allium, any last pieces of wisdom?"

"Put away your morals for a while. I know that you're passionate about rescuing the defenseless and all that, but you need to come home. Then we can revisit mercy and all that. And do talk to Kaylee about the Shoals. I think you'll find it…enlightening." She winked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll find out. Good luck, Odicci. I love you. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"I love you too." She leaned her head against Allium's shoulder.

"Today's a Friday, Odicci."

"It is."

"A Friday in July. Which is summer. Have some gelato on your balcony tonight, after the parade. I hear they have hibiscus." A Peacekeeper approached them.

"I apologize, miss, but you're at time. The train is waiting."

Odicci wasn't sure how to end things, but Allium was already sailing away in a breeze of perfume and fluttery skirts. "I believe in you!" she called, and then started whistling a faint tune. She turned back and winked again, then began the tune anew.

Odicci tried the melody out for herself as the Peacekeeper ushered her the other direction down the hallway, and it played some kind of strange chord in her bones, so she kept whistling it, sometimes trembly, sometimes sure, until she reached the waiting limousine.

Brielle Rawlings, 16

Justice Building Reception Chamber 1, Seven

D7F

July 1, 329 AEDD

It didn't matter what Kiarra said to comfort her. Brielle knew there was no way she was coming out of the Games alive. The worst thing she'd ever faced was her father, and still, he'd almost won their fight. And he wasn't even trained! He had carried no weapon. He would have overpowered her had she not gotten to the rolling pin in time, but what were the chances that a rolling pin would conveniently appear during the Bloodbath?

Brielle didn't know how long the Careers trained for, but she knew her father hadn't had the time for much practice because he had to work to make a living. If the Careers went to a special school for years, if they had focused solely on one trade, then they would have a tremendous advantage. A girl her age could work as a lumberjack, but wouldn't have a patch on one of eighteen. Two years of experience sat between them. And the grandfathers who patronized the diner? Some of them had put in fifty years or more with their axes. There was a massive discrepancy in skill level. Regardless of whatever natural talent she might wind up discovering, the Careers were sure to have discovered theirs earlier and acquired much more experience.

You couldn't cheat time. If she was running behind on tickets, there was no way to make somebody's burger cook faster. Well, there was: you could skimp on quality, cooking it at too high of a temperature or pressing it with a spatula, but that would burn it or squish out all of the juices and the customer would end up with a gray, dry lump of sadness. The only way to hurry the natural passage of things was to produce poor work. In the Hunger Games, this would mean taking her time and learning a few things properly, prioritizing the most important skills, not rushing around and doing everything badly.

You couldn't fake experience. If she and Kiarra interviewed a potential new cook and put him on the line, they'd learn instantly whether he'd lied about his capabilities. If he tried to dazzle her with fancy cooking words, he might be able to trick the diners, but he'd stick out like a sore thumb in any professional kitchen for his incompetence. In the Hunger Games, this would mean there was no point in pretending to be someone she wasn't. If some twelve year old from District Ten believed her, it made no difference. The Careers would smell her out and hunt her down for her treachery.

None of these thoughts were especially comforting. Kiarra had come, but she'd had to hurry back to cover for Brielle in the kitchen. Her visit had been short and sweet, and she'd given Brielle the locket off her own neck for a token. Kiarra loved her, that much was certain, and Brielle knew the short goodbye was for the best. Neither of them were particularly good with feelings, and Brielle got the sense that an emotional farewell wouldn't be any more soothing, so she tried to focus on what lay ahead of her.

Sitting alone in a leather recliner, she brought back images of Liam the almost-Victor. In his interview, he had spoken highly of his mentoring team. Mahogany and Fiona Marie would be, according to him, assets to any tribute. She tried to look forward to meeting them. What would they want her to do?

First of all, she should get on friendly terms with Thomas, her district partner. He was a mystery, but she thought that maybe they could become allies. He hadn't been unpleasant to her, and on their way into the Justice Building, he had whispered some dry commentary on Valerian's wardrobe choices to her, and she'd actually snickered. He seemed to keep mostly to himself, but Brielle got the idea that even if they didn't team up together, they wouldn't be enemies.

Since she had nothing better to do, she wandered out into the corridor and over to Thomas's visitation room. The door was shut, and she heard harsh tones behind it. A girl seemed to be arguing with Thomas, demanding some sort of emotional conversation. She didn't feel great about eavesdropping, but she did anyway. "Please, Tom! Please, you'll feel so much better if you just tell me! I can help you! We can fix this!"

"Stop it, Willow. I don't want your 'help!'"

"Please! I know you have a good heart! You just don't want to show it! Please tell me everything, Tom!"

"Don't fucking put your hand on my chest! Leave me alone!"

"I can feel that you're very angry right now, but you don't have to do this! Take some deep breaths!"

"Shut up! Peacekeepers, could you get rid of her, please?"

"No! Please! He'll go crazy if I'm not here to look after him!" Brielle couldn't take any more. She gathered her courage and opened the door, addressing the girl.

"I need to speak with him at once."

"This is a bad time, could you—" she protested.

"This is a great time. Do come in." Tom seemed relieved by her appearance. She entered, crossing to the sofa he occupied and sitting next to him. Willow screeched in protest.

"You can't just do that! He's a lunatic! He'll hurt you, I'm the only one who can keep him calm when he goes on his rages! You can't kick me out!" Brielle looked at the clock and said sympathetically to the nearest Peacekeeper,

"I'm sorry to barge in like this, but she's over time. It's very important that I speak with him." The Peacekeeper nodded in understanding.

"Young lady, it's time to go."

"No! You can't!" Brielle watched as she was carried out of the room, and the door shut.

"So. You're Brielle. I'm Tom. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. Who was that girl?"

"Her name's Willow. She thinks I'm a monster and I just need some tender loving care to be all happy again."

"Mm. That sounds frustrating."

"She's melodrama personified. Thanks." There was a moment of quiet before Brielle asked,

"Why does she think you'll go nuts if she's gone?"

"She's, um, very nosy. Knows entirely too much about my childhood. I try to be patient with her, but as soon as I kick her out, I tend to lose it a little. Not at her. She just thinks that because I only express anger when she's gone, it's because of her. It is, but not in the way she sees it."

"I don't know anyone like that, but I feel you about the childhood. Mine's been…bumpy."

"Mine too. I don't recognize you from the orphanage. Got family?"

"Yeah, just not the traditional kind. My old neighbor started taking care of me once my parents were gone. She's like my aunt."

"Is she good to you?"

"I love her. We run a diner together. She deals with my shitty father for me."

"My father was shitty too."

"Bad dad club."

"I thought it was funny. What you said about Valerian earlier."

"Thanks. I don't like Capitolites much. They wear makeup made with dead animals."

"Environmentally minded?"

"You have no idea."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with that. We all have different values." There was a pause.

"Wanna go bother Valerian?"

"I'd love to." Together, they left the room and meandered down the hallway. In the distance, they faintly heard their escort's shrill, affected voice barking at an Avox. "What a blessing," Brielle said sarcastically. They approached from behind, tiptoeing. He was in a small kitchenette and had backed the Avox into a corner, shouting at them (something about a fruit plate). As the tributes neared, the words became clearer.

"—lazy! See if I don't report you to your boss the instant we set foot in the Capitol, you see if I don't! Lazy thing, forgetting the nectarines. Forgetting the nectarines! If there were none, you go and get me some!" He turned and saw them. "Why are you here? I'm conducting important business."

"The blessings never end," Tom whispered to Brielle. She suppressed a giggle. Before Tom addressed Valerian. "We're all finished with our goodbyes. Can we go to the Capitol now?"

"No! No, you cannot go to the Capitol now! There is clearly an hour set aside for goodbyes and it's been less than thirty minutes. The car isn't here yet. Go do something else. As I said, I'm conducting important business."

"Really?" Tom asked. "Because it seems like you were just intimidating the Avox. I'd hardly call that important business."

"I will have you know that this Avox neglected to provide nectarines for the fruit plate!"

"What."

"Nectarines! It didn't bring nectarines for the fruit plate I had ordered to be prepared for you should you become hungry during the car ride. Stupid!" He seemed to be working himself up even more and turned his full attention back to the Avox. "You're pathetic at your job! Can't even get a simple fruit plate right! Nectarines! It's not a fruit plate if it's missing nectarines!" He smacked the poor Avox across the cheek.

"What are nectarines?" Tom whispered to Brielle.

"They're a type of fruit. Like a plum, but not. Kiarra, my aunt, she told me all about them."

"Nectarines! But no! So you brought peaches instead. Peaches! Peaches, I will have you know, are a spring fruit! Does it look like spring? They took your tongue but you still have eyes. Use them. Does this look like spring to you?" He smacked the Avox again, and Brielle intervened.

"Hey, I'm sure they didn't do it on purpose. I've never had a nectarine or a peach. It doesn't really make a difference to me." Valerian eyed her suspiciously.

"Me neither," said Tom. "You've already hit them twice. I'm sure they'll remember the nectarines in the future."

"Why don't you take a break? This is obviously very taxing for you. Take a little breather and then call the car!" Brielle suggested.

"Hmm. You know what? I do deserve a break. I have been suffering a very difficult morning. Go nuts with the fruit plate. It's already ruined." As Valerian left, he shot one more hateful glare at the Avox. The tributes waited for him to leave, then went over to the Avox. Tom knelt down by their side and patted their shoulder.

"Hi there. It's okay, we won't hurt you." The Avox looked at him with large, frightened eyes. Brielle found a stack of clean rags in a drawer, the type chefs carry to keep their workspaces clean. She wet one under the cold tap and brought it over, pressing it to the Avox's face.

"Don't worry. We'll tell our mentors what really happened. I'm sure you won't be in trouble. How about we all have a snack?" Brielle fetched the fruit plate. She took a wedge of an unfamiliar fruit, what she assumed to be peach. It was sweet and floral, with a slight firmness to it. "These are peaches, right?" The Avox nodded. "They're so good! Here, Tom." Tom took a wedge for himself.

"That's delicious!" They slowly tasted the oranges, each portion free of rind and webbing, then the apricot, then the grape. Eventually, Valerian reentered the room with a look of fierce determination.

"Car's here."

"Already?"

"Car's here. Our other Avox is driving. Is everyone ready? Everyone's ready. Alright. Onwards."

Ash Maris, 13

Justice Building Reception Chamber 1, Eight

D8F

July 1, 329 AEDD

Ash's friends stopped by for quick goodbyes, but then the Peacekeepers snapped when they got a little too loud and kicked them all out, so she waited for her father to be let in. The Justice Building's reception chamber was more luxurious than she could have anticipated. If she sold the fur rug sitting under the coffee table, small as it was, she could feed her family for a year. It felt unfair to her, like in addition to making her fight to the death against twenty-three other tributes, the Capitol was mocking the poverty of its less fortunate citizens. She expected to see a lot more of this in the coming days.

When he arrived, her father agreed with her. It was a bad business for all of the tributes, but Ash had particularly disliked it because in most of the poorer districts, the tributes only knew that the room was expensively furnished, but it was a special type of torture for her, being from the textile district. She knew how much each piece of fine cloth would bring her if she could find a way to get it out of the room and into her apartment somehow. There was a velvet sofa with silk pillows and a thick plush throw blanket draped over the back of a wooden rocking chair. In District Eight, if you sold a sofa like that, you'd never have to work again. Buying it and putting it in the Justice Building to make sure tributes are "comfortable" just came off as insulting, as a reminder of the Capitol's power, and Ash would have guessed that it was intentional.

Ash's father felt like she had a shot. "Your mentor can't be that bad," he'd reasoned. "We only had a Victor six years ago. That's pretty good for us." Embarrassingly enough, it was. Ash knew that in the Career districts, people took pride in the amount of Victors they had, and if they went a few years without winning, it was considered a point of shame. In the outlying districts, however, people mostly looked forward to the bounty of money and food that the Capitol bestowed upon the VIctor's district each year.

The Careers didn't have to worry about such things. The people of District Eight didn't care much for the Hunger Games, but they watched intently all the same, knowing that each new Victor meant that surviving on meager wages would be a bit easier, and they might even obtain some comforts. Ash had been seven when Brennen Woolspeth won, and the Capitol had provided fine fabrics to be made into winter clothing for the citizens. The winters could be bitterly cold, and Ash remembered being given a warm red coat. She wore it until it was too small to button anymore, and then it was given to a neighbor, too precious to be remade into mittens and a scarf without it being a dreadful waste of material.

"Forget about it," Ash had said. "I can't win." It wasn't that she didn't plan on trying. She wanted to survive. It was just that there were Careers, and stronger, older tributes. There would be times when being a small, young girl might help gain the Capitol's favor, but once she actually got into the arena, there was nothing that could protect her. Even the Gamemakers couldn't intervene in certain situations, not that the Gamemakers planned on looking out for her. The strategy seemed simple: make some allies, train hard, and hope for the best.

It wasn't a very promising plan. Ash didn't think she was prepared to face the Capitol, the jeering adults, the prospect of an early death, but was it any worse than the slow demise of working to death? She might get lucky, encounter an efficient Career during the Bloodbath. Ash was young, but she'd watched the Hunger Games for a few years so far, and she knew that in general, the earlier deaths weren't as bloody. The later ones tended to be torturous and drawn-out to maximize the drama, not that Ash understood why the Capitolites wanted to see children killing one another in the first place.

"What are you thinking about in the way of allies?" asked her father. He had never enjoyed watching the Games, but he faithfully paid close attention each year for the sake of his daughter, hoping against hope that he'd never have to provide her with advice.

"Others my age, if there are any." That was a terrifying thought, being the only young tribute in an arena of adults! There had once been a year like that, she remembered her father telling her, when he was of Reaping age. District Twelve had produced a tiny twelve-year-old and the next-youngest tribute was sixteen. Nobody had particularly enjoyed those Games.

"And what will your strategy be?"

"I don't want to make enemies." It wasn't unusual for tributes to form rivalries before the Games began and immediately try to kill each other once in the arena. It could be very one-sided. She would try not to upset anyone. Even Kenny, her district partner, although he might decide to lash out at random. He seemed the type to lean into the rivalry thing, and she wondered if he would antagonize the Careers. If he did, she definitely couldn't be friendly to him, lest they see her as sympathetic and decide to kill her.

Then there was the matter of sponsors. The sponsors couldn't do everything, but generous sponsorship had saved tributes' lives in the past, at least for a time, and Ash knew her chances of winning would be marginally greater if she could impress a few Capitolites. There were a variety of ways tributes achieved this. Some groveled. Others were attractive, or funny, or arrogant, but those were traits for older tributes, and Ash knew that her fawning skills needed a lot of work before they'd sway a crowd in her favor. She figured that her best chance was simply being docile and winsome and hoping someone wealthy found her charming enough to spend money on. Were Capitolites sentimental? She didn't know, but perhaps one would be reminded of their own daughter and sponsor her out of sympathy. She didn't know what children her age did in the Capitol, but maybe they would recognize her as one of their own?

"Sorry, honey. I'm not feeling very talkative today." Her father looked exhausted, and Ash didn't blame him. The looming threat of disaster had sucked the energy out of them both.

"Neither am I. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too. I hope you come home, though."

"Yeah. Do you think I'll succeed?"

"Maybe, but it's more about chance than anything else." Ash considered that.

"You're right, but I want to see if I can get sponsors. If I say nice things and wear what my stylist chooses for me, I might be okay." She wanted to add some criticism about the Capitol's stupid tribute fashion show and how ridiculous the whole stylist ordeal actually was, but the Peacekeepers flanking the doorway made her reconsider.

"What arena do you want?"

"Somewhere I can run, without a lot of things to trip on. A meadow, maybe?" It didn't matter what she wanted. She would just have to prepare for any eventuality. She would study how to find water and food, how to make shelter, and how to defend herself if necessary. Perhaps she would be fortunate. Her father presented her with a pendant necklace of Ash's late mother's wedding ring, and they shared a final goodbye before the Peacekeepers made him leave. Then Ash was ushered into the hallway and found Opiter waiting with Kenny in an equally lavishly furnished antechamber.

"Hello, Ash. Are you ready to come to the car?"

"I think so."

"Is there anything you'd like before we depart?"

"Actually, yes. Is there any way my father might get the rug from the visitation chamber? He just loved it so much, and I–"

"Of course! Anything for our tributes!" Opiter seemed eager to offer help. Well, that was a relief. At least her father wouldn't suffer financially if and when she died. "So, we've arranged a special car ride to the train station, and when we embark, you'll have your own personal bedrooms and bathrooms. It'll take us just a few hours to reach the Capitol, so you can have lunch, or any other food, at your convenience. Tonight, you'll have the opportunity to eat dinner after the Tribute Parade, and again, you'll be able to eat whatever you'd like in between meals. On the train, you can strategize with your mentors, Ethel and Brennen, and upon arrival, you'll meet your assigned stylists and prep teams. Does anyone have questions?"

"No," said Ash.

"Do we have to?" asked Kenny.

"Yes." He led them into a plaza at the rear of the building, where a long black car was parked. "To the train station!" he ordered the driver.

Tybalt Alistair Martell, 18

Justice Building Reception Chamber 2, Two

D2M

July 1, 329 AEDD

Alistair and Elizabeta Martell showed up to say goodbye to their son, which Tybalt supposed he should have expected. They were not sentimental people. Socialites with drinking problems, they had always been very clear about their expectations, which had led to some tragic events in the past. Tybalt had been very pleased with the impression he made at the Reaping and he did not want his parents to ruin it.

Mostly, they just talked about their absence of disappointment. If there was any actual pride present, it didn't reveal itself to Tybalt. "Now, son, you have fulfilled your birthright, just as we decided," his father intoned.

"Yes, Father."

"Now you're going to bring us a Victory, right?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Then we have nothing further to discuss. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Don't let us down." His parents left, leaving Tybalt in a much worse mood. It was as if their presence siphoned the joy out of the air itself.

Then Antonius Treek visited. Tybalt had not been expecting him, but was Treek was still upset with him for kicking off about Haylia, he'd surely gotten over it by now. Indeed, Treek was much more encouraging. "Well done! The Reaping went exactly as planned. Are you ready to absorb a little more of my wisdom?"

"Of course."

"What questions can I answer for you?"

"Should I lead the Career Pack?"

"Well, that's complicated. Do you want to?"

"It's less that I want to lead and more that I don't want anyone else leading me." This was a slightly more forthcoming response than he'd been planning to give, but such things tended to slip out when Treek was around. Treek just had that effect on people.

"It might be wiser to hang back and see what the other Careers want to do. If someone's raring to take charge, maybe push back, but if whoever wants to lead seems calm and reasonable, there's no need to resist."

"Will Haylia want to lead?"

"No."

"Good."

"Tybalt, Haylia is not your enemy. Not any more than the other Careers are your enemies."

"She's disloyal to the system."

"She's your ally and your district partner. You do not have to respect her. You do have to get along with her."

"...Fine. What do you know about District One?"

"Fabian will show you the Reapings on the train. He will plan your strategy from now on."

"I'd prefer it if you planned my strategy."

"That's not an option."

"Fabian's inexperienced."

"Fabian won the Games more recently than I have. He understands how this group of Gamemakers likes to operate. If you don't trust him, he and Petra could always trade tributes. Or mentor you together."

"Out of the question. Petra will favor Haylia."

"Then go into the Games with no mentor, get zero sponsor gifts, and die of sepsis. Don't be difficult on purpose." Tybalt considered this. If Treek thought it was best to trust Fabian, he should probably trust Fabian.

"Okay. I'll listen to Fabian. What do you think the arena will be this year?"

"Last year, it was a plain forest. It probably won't be that again. Maybe a snowy arena? We haven't had one of those for a while."

"That's not very helpful."

"I can't see the future. Deal with it."

"What's my strategy?"

"It depends."

"What's my initial strategy?"

"Ask Fabian." Tybalt was becoming increasingly frustrated by the non-answers Treek was giving him. It was almost as though he wanted to convey that Tybalt needed to get used to asking Fabian for help, not him, which was something Tybalt didn't want to hear. It wasn't fair that Haylia got to be mentored by her trainer and he didn't. He knew the rules. In Quarter Quell years, the districts could choose who mentored, but in normal years, the most recent Victors were given the job. This might have made sense in the outlying districts, since those Victors typically wanted to avoid mentoring, but Careers liked mentoring. Fabian's tribute had done well the previous year, Tybalt thought, at least until he'd gotten fifth place.

"All of his tributes died. The girl and the boy, both years."

"Plenty of my tributes have died."

"Your first tribute won."

"And? We had five consecutive Victors. That's not usual. After that, we had a dry spell for twelve years, and the five of us traded off. Every year, our tributes died, and then we brought home Circe, and she's never had a mentoring success. During the Quell, Izzy and Ethan mentored Petra, and then it was her turn to mentor the female tributes."

"I always liked her. She was a good trainer. How come she didn't get herself a Victor?"

"Certain things can't be helped. I mentored alongside her once. She did everything right. Her tribute just didn't make it. It's not her fault what happens in the arena. If you die, it's not because of Fabian. Sometimes it's bad luck, or the Gamemakers, or a mistake the tribute made. Nobody said the Hunger Games are fair."

"This isn't exactly boosting my confidence."

"My point is that I'm no better than Fabian. I bet you never knew that Circe didn't have any mentoring successes when she joined the Academy as a trainer. You were ten years old. You adored her."

"I did. She taught me a lot."

"That doesn't change just because she never brought back a Victor. She's equipped you with valuable knowledge. Your skillset as a Career trainee is an amalgamation of the specialties of many different Victors. We all have different things to teach you. Learning Fabian's approach will make you stronger, not weaker. Part of being a tribute means knowing whose strategy to use. When you're in a tough spot, think of what Fabian would want you to do. What Circe would want you to do. What I would want you to do. What Spiro and Theophania would want you to do. You've been trained by many accomplished Victors with diverse opinions of how to win the Hunger Games, not to mention all of the other trainers who work at the Academy. What you do will depend on whose idea best corresponds with your talents and circumstances."

"Could you clarify that?"

"Sure. This morning, you had to win a hand-to-hand combat match. You used different techniques than I did when I won mine a long time ago. You're 6'3". I'm 5'4". I had to fight against people a foot taller than me and I still won. How I might evade a mutt is different than how you might. Being a Career means seeing all of the options that have worked for other people and picking which one will work for you. That's not something any mentor can teach you, it's a sixth sense that develops during the pre-Games. Some tributes have it. Some don't. As Academy Heads, we only nominate those we believe will have it when they enter the arena."

"So you believe in me."

"Of course I believe in you." A Peacekeeper spoke up.

"I'm sorry, but you're almost out of time."

"Well, I think that's a nice note to end on. Make good choices. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye." Then Reeta rapped on the doorframe and summoned Tybalt to the waiting limousine.

Lula Jacobsen, 64

Presidential Mansion, Capitol

Presidential Secretary

July 1, 329 AEDD

Capitolites always had to watch their step. That was the first of the many hard lessons that Lula Jacobsen had learned as the Presidential Secretary. The Capitol was a cutthroat place, full of informants and turncoats. Somebody was always listening, watching, preparing to engineer some "accident" or another to bump off those in power, and every twenty years or so, some such plot would succeed, opening the door for a younger generation to seize control. Many of the assorted Games staffers and ministers had caught the timing just right.

Enter Nikolai. Lev Fassnacht, a lifelong cohort of Konstance and Willoughby, had been among the victims of the most recent attack, a mere fourteen years ago. The Hunger Games Commencement celebration had gone horribly wrong. When the firecracker flares went up, they had exploded in dazzling supernovas of butane that wiped out nearly eighty percent of the government sector, and most of the government officials with it, and so, a legacy, Nikolai had been only sixteen when Lula made her first call to him: "Hello, this is the office of President Willoughby R. Shakira, Lula Jacobsen speaking. Is Mr. Nikolai Fassnacht available?"

"Yes, this is he. Is my father okay? The Center of Peacekeeping is fortified, right? It's still standing. The fireworks display was scheduled during the Peacekeeper workday, and Father hadn't wanted to miss it. He should be fine, right? But he hasn't been answering my calls. And my mother hasn't been picking up either, and I know the Senate building was struck. I'm just so scared, and I don't have the first idea what to do about Nigel, and–"

"Nikolai." Lula remembered that Nigel, his younger brother, was only five, or was it six? Sixteen and six were too young. This boy was still tender, but he had a duty to fulfill, and Lula had a duty to inform him of it, no matter how gut-wrenching it was to deliver the news.

"Yes?"

"Nikolai, I'm so, so sorry. Your parents didn't make it." There was silence for a few seconds.

"No, no. No! They have to just have been displaced or something, right? They fled and you lost track of them. That's it, right? Somebody has to have made a mistake!" That had been Willoughby's hope, too. He'd had the charred remains DNA tested twice over, but science didn't lie. His most reliable henchman was gone, along with his wife, a shrewd negotiator who'd pushed many a pre-scripted agenda into law.

"Nikolai, nobody has made a mistake. Head Peacekeeper Lev Fassnacht and Senator Ophelia Covingshire are no more. My condolences. However, because of their passing, decisions have been made. You, Nikolai Kazimir Fassnacht, are officially the Head Peacekeeper of Panem, effective immediately. And you have a meeting this evening with the President himself, over an early dinner. I'm dreadfully sorry, but the wheels of the nation must keep turning, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter."

"What time is this meeting?"

"Half past five, sir. Black tie dress code." Lula had half-wondered if he was going to no-show, but Nikolai had arrived early, in his best suit, with a fountain pen, a notebook, and plenty of intelligent questions. Over time, he'd become Willoughby's right-hand man, just as his father once was, and therefore, Lula's main point of contact. He had cleaned up many messes over the years, including the aftermath of the original disaster, but Lula had yet to see Nikolai handle a catastrophe in real time. Although she hated to admit it, she was becoming increasingly concerned that he was just one more crisis away from falling apart at the seams.

So, being the logical woman she was, Lula had resolved to get her fears assuaged, and had therefore given Nikolai a call. She got a call back, which was a good sign. Nikolai was inviting her to his home office, considering the state of his usual one at the Center of Peacekeeping. "What time works for you?" he had asked.

"I actually have an open block today. It's just maintenance from noon to whenever the tributes arrive, so if you're flexible, that'd be great. If not, two days from now would be the earliest? If that's okay?"

"Two to three o'clock today would be great."

"That works for me." It really would, which was very lucky. Lula was swamped. She had to connect everybody with the people they needed, arrange and rearrange their schedules, and talk to about a bajillion different officials who needed to get this or that by yesterday. She would be extremely busy until the Hunger Games ended, really, and possibly even beyond that, considering the Capitol contact that Nikolai and his team were on the hunt for. She was so busy, in fact, that another call came in while she was still getting directions to Nikolai's house, so she'd had to put him on hold and beep Linus Cannon.

Linus was a bit of an odd duck. He was chilly and distant, but always polite with the staff, and never impatient or demanding like so many of the other self-important goobers that Willoughby regularly pawned off on Lula. Not many of the officials liked him, but he had proven himself to be a valuable asset in the search for the rebel, and instead of calling Lula for every little thing, had actually picked up his ass and walked the three blocks himself and waited in line like a normal person and spoke directly to whomever he needed to coordinate with, something that would never occur to most of the people Lula encountered. If he had reached out to her directly, it was obviously important. Lula would have felt silly admitting it, but she was a tiny bit honored: this was something only she could help with. In relatively higher spirits, she greeted him cordially, even though she was fairly sure he wouldn't return it. "Mr. Cannon! How do you do?"

"I have some news about our rebel, but I'm a bit unclear on the proper procedure for disseminating it to all the people it ought to reach, and I was wondering if you could help me."

"Of course. Who would you like it to get to?"

"Well, I'm sure you're aware that the mentors have all been enlisted to help out. They should probably receive it, so they can better know who to keep an eye out for. It wouldn't hurt to loop in Nikolai Fassnacht, so he can tell the Shakiras himself. I think my brother-in-law will appreciate it more coming from him." That wasn't a bad idea, Lula thought, given the strained relationship.

"I can do that for you. How about the Gamemakers? You have been using their lab to run tests; I'm sure they're curious about the results."

"I don't think it would be beneficial to trouble them with information so far afield, especially this close to the Games. Except for Jacqueline Muriel. It's imperative that she learns of this."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry, the reasons are classified, but Nikolai Fassnacht signed off on it himself, so feel free to ask him for confirmation if you need to. I certainly understand why you'd want to double-check. It's a scary time to bear responsibility, what with this whole situation and all."

"Isn't that the truth! Well, I can absolutely do that for you."

"Great. It was really bothering me, and then I remembered how my sister Eurydice…"

Hey y'all,

It's, um, been a while. But I'm back with consistent updates to both stories. Huzzah! In other news, Nikita's submitter has opted to change his faceclaim, which you can see on the blog. If you have any new predictions about subplot things, feel free to say so! I live for cliffhanger ellipses.

–LC :)