Vetiver Brune, 18, District 10

Vetiver eats lunch alone, in disbelief it's still only the first day of training. Coming here, his only hope was to brush up on survival stations and find his way around a weapon or two.

(He spent a lot of time thinking about allies. The benefits and drawbacks. How he would go about securing them.)

He was just starting to wonder if the idea was too preposterous for him when she came out of nowhere and offered it up to him on a silver platter.

It confused him. He didn't know her, yet here he was taking it in at face value.

(He did see her train, as well as Owain. Both seemed strong, if not a little displaced from one another.)

(Maybe he needs to get to know them better.)

(How the hell does he get to know someone? His attempt with Owain earlier was embarrassing at best.)

Animals are so much easier. They wear their hearts on their faces. The big smiles, the excited spins, the playful yips from his pups. He'd give anything to return to them.

(Yet the cost of return is high, and Vetiver can't think about it too long or it'll make him sick.)

Lunch is over and he's back at his survival stations. He briefly considers joining Astel at weapons again, but she seems perfectly content to train alone.

Maybe it's a part of her strategy, to remain discrete about their alliance, or maybe she prefers the silence too.

Either way, Vetiver continues along his way.

He finds his place at the shelter building alongside a younger tribute. Based on the heap of straw forming a sleeping spot, Vetiver assumes the boy has been there for some time.

Noticing a new stationmate, the boy gives Vetiver a wide smile. A contagious one, at that.

(When was the last time Vetiver smiled at a person?)

The boy quickly returns to his creation, not interested in any further interaction. Vetiver turns to his own supply of shelter-building materials. He assumes at some point, they were neatly organized at the station before half a dozen tributes rearranged everything.

No matter. He knows what he's looking for.

Vetiver is no stranger to sleeping in the elements. More often than not, he and his pups made it to the house after a long hunt. For a few nights, that effort was futile. One night, in particular, Vet had strayed further from his usual path. Both he and his dad were out on separate hunting journeys, right after their quota had been raised again. He had been hunting all day, yet had nothing to show for it.

When his dog finally caught the scent of something off the usual trail, he had to take the opportunity. Down and down the path they went, effectively entering an endless chase.

(He couldn't leave empty-handed, not again.)

So he pushed his pack too hard and by the time he accepted defeat, the sun had long set and he had long since been on his main path.

(He was lost.)

Unwilling to put his dogs in danger, he went to work creating a meager shelter and sleeping spot for everyone in the party. Fortunately, the weather was temperate and calm that evening, so his efforts were minimal.

So he knows the basics. He's quickly able to separate the heap of supplies into something somewhat organized. Then, he gets to work.

How long passes? He's not sure, caught up in his own mind. It could have been ten minutes or two hours for all Vetiver knew.

However long had passed, one thing was certain; the little boy's gaze always fell on Vet's actions. As he finishes a small shelter fit to withstand wind, he hears the lightest of a clap.

The look on the boy's face is one of excitement. He points to the base, to the knots that hold the material together and keep it so carefully engrained in the dirt. Vetiver isn't sure what it means, not at first.

"The…angle of the tarp," Vetiver's hand follows across his creation. The boy is enthralled with every movement, "it blocks most of the wind. That's how it…stays."

The boy crawls on his knees closer to Vetiver. He sits under the tarp, eyes wide in awe.

Vetiver looks at where the boy came from. He didn't notice at first, but the boy has been busy with a creation of his own. A small, yet compact bed made entirely of straw. It doesn't look to be the most comfortable mattress Vet's ever seen, but the sturdiness of the item impresses him.

The little guy does have some skills, after all.

"I, uh, didn't catch your name," Vetiver says. The boy smiles again, reaching for something in his pockets. Out he pulls a handkerchief. Vet thinks it's a joke until he sees the word sewn in it. The boy points at it, then at himself.

"Chaffinch?" The boy nods excitedly.

(Vetiver can't explain the boy Chaffinch. He's strange, but…endearing simultaneously.)

(Vetiver also can't imagine a world where someone has to kill this boy. He wouldn't be able to if it came down to it.

Would he be able to kill anyone?

When the time comes, he'll find out. And he'll find out fast.)

Reagan la Fey, 17, District 11

Asshole. Stupid. Selfish. Worthless.

Reagan pictures the wretched Isabella Ire's face as she stabs and slices at the mannequin in front of her.

It doesn't change the fact that Isabella's dead, nor the fact that Reagan was reaped. It doesn't change the fact that she might die and Sally will never forgive her.

But it makes her feel just a tad bit better inside.

"Leave some for the rest of us," an unfamiliar voice doesn't give Reagan a reason to turn around, but since she can't quite remember the last time she had a break, she steps away from her masterpiece.

She doesn't recognize the boy with a dumb smirk plastered on his face. A quick glance at his jacket tells her the district as if that gives her any indication of his name. She's unfamiliar with any district but her own, and even her own is a stretch.

"All yours," she says, handing the knife over to him. To her surprise, he doesn't take it.

"Someone must've made you real angry, to take it out on that poor inanimate object," The boy from Eight crosses his arms over his chest as if to make a point.

It's annoying. Why is he still talking to me?

"Yeah, maybe it was someone that asked me a lot of questions," Reagan spits out.

(The boy has done nothing to warrant her attitude yet be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And, also, talking to her. That's pretty annoying.)

The boy finally takes the knife from her and waits as the trainer replaces the destroyed mannequin with a fresh one.

"You know, training with a mannequin isn't the same as a real person," the boy says.

"That's why they have people to train us," Reagan says almost immediately. She doesn't understand how he can find all of this as amusing as he does.

(In another life, she'd be just as amused.)

The boy leans in ever so slightly and says, "Their lives aren't at risk. I'd rather train against someone with something to lose."

Reagan glances around the rest of the room. As long as she's been here, she hasn't spent a single moment paying attention to them or what they're capable of. She hasn't spent any time with her district partner, who historically would be her best chance at an ally.

She's done nothing but seeth at the thought of the Ire's and what they've done to her family and her friends. All of which will remain unpunished.

Unless Reagan returns home.

She doesn't have to like it, but training with him might give her an edge.

(At the least, she can know how he fights in case they come face to face in the arena.)

"Alright." Reagan picks up two sparring blades from the selection and tosses one to the boy.

They stand across from one another.

"I don't know your name," Reagan admits.

And with herself distracted, the boy pushes in for a jab. Reagan just barely dodges the strike, the tip of the training sword just barely missing her shirt.

Jerk. Anger boils up in Reagan again and all she has to do is picture Isabella's face in place of the boys and her fire for the fight is ignited again.

And fight, she does. She repeats the boy's moves that he's unsurprisingly prepared for. He blocks once, twice, and on the third strike, he parries out of the way and brings his sword down to her side.

The dull, fake blade against her ribs still sends a sharp jolt throughout her.

"Ow." She groans to herself, all while scowling at the strange boy who never once drops his smirk.

"Ozzy." the boy says, holding his free hand out.

She doesn't know how he finds humor in every situation.

"Reagan." She humors him with a handshake.

"Again?" Ozzy takes the position to fight again.

She's tempted to decline, but considering she has nowhere else to be, and her first performance was nothing short of disappointing, she agrees.

On and on they fight. Each reaction from Ozzy teaches Reagan something new about her sparring partner. He wins the second fight, but not without a fight. A third round, Ozzy makes a simple error, and Reagan capitalizes on it. Some of the tributes here would take offense to a loss like that, but not this kid. He just gleans that stupid smirk on his face, like he has since the moment he made Reagan aware of his presence.

Reagan la Fey has a lot of anger pent up inside her, and until she learns to let it fuel her instead of burn her, she doesn't stand a chance in these Games.

Klara Esosa, 18, District 2

As the day nears an end, Klara falls to a seat on a nearby bench. They have not slowed down all day, and her arms are feeling the consequences. Her eyes fall on Amatus as he makes his rounds, finding new ways to irritate each member of the Careers. They haven't been a target, luckily, and she's not sure why. He likely knows he'll be able to bother her into the evening. Where everyone else will get their escape, Klara won't.

At least it allows them to focus on what's important: training. They always felt a little behind in the Academy. Despite going since she was a kid, she never took it seriously.

(She never had to. Their whole life was ahead of them before he took it all away from her, from all of them. Sentencing them all to a life of shame, of fear for their own safety.)

Klara needs to return that semblance of safety to her family. That's why they're here, and that's why, despite all of her disadvantages, they were chosen to be here.

The Academy in Two is substantial, but the quality of the weapons will never be as high quality as the one in the Capitol. She's enjoyed learning her way around them, differentiating the unique blades and features and efficient techniques for ending a person's life.

(They avoid looking around at the faces those techniques will inevitably be used on.)

But she doesn't ignore them. They try to get a sense of who will pose a threat when the time comes. The older tributes stand out as obvious threats, but even some of the smaller ones surprise them.

"Some alliances have formed," a familiar voice nearly makes Klara jump. They keep themselves composed as Choux joins her ally on the bench.

"Okay." A quick glance at the room shows that's certainly true. A few pairs have found themselves at the same stations throughout the day. A few others converse more comfortably compared to the awkwardness at the chariot rides.

It's inevitable, alliance forming. What's her point?

"Amatus and the others would overlook it. He's going to go into that bloodbath swinging. You're not like Amatus, are you?" Klara's first reaction is to put as much distance between themselves and Choux as she can.

"Shouldn't you be training?" Klara asks, knowing full well the day is coming to an end. Choux must know it too because she doesn't move to leave. Instead, she leans back against the bench and lets her legs stretch out in front of her.

"I think you're the only one with a coherent thought in this alliance. Maybe I was wrong." Choux's words slice straight through Klara. Words she's spent too much time running away from.

"We thought Phoenix Esosa held himself and his buildings to the highest of standards. We were wrong."

(They refuse to be like Phoenix. They are not their father.)

"What have you noticed, then?" Klara asks.

Out of everyone in the Career pact, Choux is not one she would trust with her life, not even close. Yet if she has information, and she's willing to share…

Who is Klara to refuse?

To her disbelief, Choux does share her knowledge. The girl from Seven talking to the boy from Ten. The pair from Twelve have allied. The girl from Three hasn't left the explosive material once since they arrived.

It's hard to keep it all straight, but now that they know who's hanging around who, it seems a lot of other things start to fall into place.

But it's hard for Klara to focus on that when all they want to understand is the strange girl sitting beside her. Does she want Klara too focused on the others to notice what her true intentions are? Does she trust Klara, and thinks they'll be the two to make it closer to the end?

Whatever her reasons, they need to figure it out before she ends up with a knife in her back.

Davidson Zinaro, 16, District 6

Only an hour remains for the training day, but Davidson doesn't think he can stand another minute. Literally, his legs are giving in as he tries to shoot the bow straight.

Rest. The word has played on repeat in his brain for the last few hours, and every time he's ignored it.

Not anymore.

He finds an empty bench away from most of the action, conveniently enough near his district partner. He's found himself sharing a few stations with her, but not enough to say he really knows her.

(He enjoys her company, at least. She's very intelligent for her age. Davidson thinks she would have made actual strides in the district, had she not been reaped.

Funny, how a lot of things would have changed if a specific someone hadn't been reaped.)

As much as he tries, he can't escape his sister. Harleigh is beside him as he trains. She's in flashes of his memory, real memories from the past, and fictitious memories from last year's training. He wonders if she wore the same basic training outfit as he's wearing now.

He knows the words she'd use to describe it, if so.

After another successful attempt at plant matching, Exa notices Davidson sitting on the bench and moves to join him.

"Would you consider your first day of training a success?" she asks, kicking her feet up in the air and staring at her shoes.

Davidson shrugs, "I don't know what a failed day of training looks like."

"I do," she says with a smirk. "You didn't fall on your face, or utterly embarrass yourself. I'd say it was a success."

Davidson is taken off guard by her bluntness. He hasn't met someone as blunt as her since…

"You didn't look silly in front of the new teacher," Harleigh gently nudges him with her hip as they walk back to their house.

"I didn't?" Davidson asks, gleaming. The start of the school year is always scary for him. He just wants the teachers to like him.

He also wants them to like Harleigh. She makes it a little harder, of course.

"Nope. I'd say it was a success, little bro." The compliment makes Davidson gleam so much he doesn't even acknowledge the fact he's never been anyone's little brother.

They're twins. Twins should be equal.

They're anything but.

Sometimes, Davidson is able to accept it, like today of all days. No one can make him smile, laugh, or feel better about himself than she can.

Unfortunately, she has the opposite effect on just about everyone else.

"Well…thank you," Davidson says, desperate to escape the minefield that is his own mind.

"The, ah, trainer at the plant station said you looked familiar. I think…he trained your sister." A single mention of her triggers an explosion in his brain.

They know who I am and I don't know what she said when she was here and what if they have a vendetta against me how am I going to do this?

"He seemed excited," Exa's voice is soft and does wonders to give Davidson something else to focus on. She leans in closer, "I think he enjoyed training her."

"Really?" Harleigh Zinaro was many things, but a pleasant trainee was likely not one of them.

"Yeah. You still have some time, if you want to talk to him."

I don't know if I do.

Maybe knowing the truth will be better.

Maybe it won't be.

With a few more minutes and a few more words of encouragement from Exa, Davidson finds himself over at the plant station.

I won't engage, Davidson tells himself. If he wants to talk about her-

"Zinaro, right?"

That lasted.

"Uh…yeah. That's me."

"Yeah. I was sorry to hear your name called. I'm sure you're pissed," he says a little apprehensively. Davidson doesn't quite know how to respond.

"Exa said…you might've trained my sister last year?" As the question settles, Davidson sees the apprehension drop from the trainer's face. An unusual reaction when Harleigh is usually brought up.

A positive reaction is what Davidson needs right now, however. He has too much of his own negative thoughts to sort out as it is.

"Harleigh, yes. She was a really clever one. Smarter than almost everyone else that year. She spent a lot of time over here." The trainer gestures to the survival-focused section of the warehouse.

"She was clever," Davidson mumbles to himself. When he had no one, he had her. When he needed someone to keep him grounded, he had her.

She wasn't perfect. No one is, but there would never be anyone like her again.

"She talked about you a lot. She wanted nothing but to see you again," the trainer's words drift off as if to not upset the boy in front of him.

If he could see her one more time, he would. If he could have a single moment of solidarity with her, he'd take it.

He can almost hear her now.

"You'll see me again one day, brother. Don't make that day any sooner than it should be."

Owain Fairburn, 18, District 7

Owain pokes the rice with his fork as Astel and Darrah converse around him. He hears the words but doesn't listen further than that. No, Owain's focusing on something else entirely.

Himself.

His first day of training was anything but spectacular. A mediocre performance at most of the weapon stations. Decent enough in cardio, endurance, and agility on the obstacle course. He steered away from axes, medicine, and first aid techniques.

(Is that all he'll have left going into this fight? The knowledge to stitch somebody up after it's all over?)

No. Today was just a fluke. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

"Owain?" Darrah's voice brings him back to reality. His reality.

(He's here, fighting for his life, instead of at home, saving people from their own fights.)

"Hm? Sorry, sorry." He hopes his sincerity comes across to Darrah. Based on the concern on her face, he thinks it does.

(She's looking out for him. She wants him to come home.)

(Him, or Astel, he assumes.)

Astel. He doesn't know what to make of his district partner. She's not shy, and she clearly has a taste for playing the game.

Owain thinks about her offer. Is she somebody he wants by his side, or is that going to end with a knife in his back while he sleeps?

"I was just asking how training was today," Darrah asks

Training. Right. "It was fine, I guess. I've…avoided drawing negative attention towards myself."

"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Astel asks. She finishes her plate, while Owain has barely started.

"I hadn't…thought about it," Owain answers honestly. There are too many choices and conflicting options for him to focus on one.

"Well, I don't know if you've seen the boy from Ten. He's impressive. He's in," she says, her eyes glaring into his.

The boy from Ten? Owain racks his mind for reference of the boy. One doesn't appear immediately. When it does, Owain remembers he has more questions than answers.

"He…he spoke to me today. I think that was him," Owain says. Somehow, that's the thing that makes Astel's face drop. It's subtle, but Owain notices.

"What did he say?" she asks.

Owain's working on purifying water, his second attempt for the day. His first attempt was praised by the station trainer, but it wasn't perfect.

Owain simply can't be anything but perfect.

The boy's voice snaps him out of his concentration. He thinks it was with a simple "hi".

As Owain's head whipped around to face the newcomer, he's met with an immediate change in demeanor. Where a smile once was is quickly replaced by an awkward release of air and a hand behind his neck.

"Hi," Owain says. He didn't intend to glare at the boy if that's what intimidated him. He was just so focused on perfecting this craft…

"Uhh…I just wanted…I guess I just wanted to introduce myself…" He gives his name. Vetiver Brune. The jacket tells Owain his district.

"Owain." He moves over ever so slightly for the boy to take a seat, but he doesn't.

"I talked to your district partner earlier…" Vetiver's voice cracks. Owain doesn't blame him, Astel can be intimidating.

It takes Owain a second to understand what that means.

An alliance.

Part of him is impressed. Not only has she secured herself an ally, she's chosen a threatening one. Well, at least in appearance. The way his voice shakes, the way he anxiously grips his hands, Owain can gauge how Vetiver might really feel about being here.

Not an unusual feeling, he's sure.

Why is he telling him this? Is this something else Astel put him up to?

Owain can't tell.

But if things are moving without him…

He can't be left behind.

"That's great." With no indication the boy intends to sit, Owain takes up the entirety of the station again. Vetiver must take that as a cue to leave.

"He told me about your alliance," Owain responds to Astel. The tenseness in her face drops as if it was never there to begin with.

"Good. And?"

"And what?"

"Do you know me better now?" The question makes Owain scoff.

She doesn't give up.

At least they have that in common.

"No, Astel, I can't say that I do." He doesn't mean to get snippy, but it's been a stressful week for the boy, and all these extra pressures placed on top of him aren't helping. "But…I can't deny he was a good choice for us." Owain's words linger in the air, and the smile that befalls Astel tells him she understands.

"Wonderful." She pushes her chair back, effectively dismissing herself from the conversation.

Not without a last word, of course.

"Three is enough. Just so we're on the same page."

The same page? Owain doesn't think he's heard a bigger lie in his entire life.

Ronan Nieimi, 18, District 4

Ronan used a lot of energy during training. While a few others tried their hand at some basic survival shit, he hardly left the weapons. He got his hands on all different types of weapons, too. Many he's proficient in, many he's never seen before in his life, but he put the effort into them all the same. When the head trainer announced the day had concluded, his arms were just starting to shake and the muscles in his legs were struggling to keep him upright.

So he doesn't understand why he can't stop pacing in his bedroom.

Amatus. Dahlia. Eleanora. Choux. Rohan. Their mother. Too many conflicting forces in his mind, threatening to tear it apart from the inside out.

Not like walking is going to expel them, but he can't help but try.

Is the air thinning out in here? Sweat drips down Ronan's forehead and onto the Capitol carpet that probably costs more than his mother's entire fortune.

His hands shake against the glass of the windows as he desperately tries to fill the room with air. Handprints decorate the glass by the time he fumbles enough to get it open.

It's not enough it's not enough I'm choking- Ronan's hand pulls down on the collar of his training shirt, and when that still doesn't help he pulls the whole thing off and throws it to the corner of the room.

His hands grip his hair, and a ringing enters his ears. He closes his eyes as the world shifts around underneath him.

Am I going to pass out?

The floor starts knocking underneath him and Ronan convinces himself it's the end. Rosalen has found Rohan, she knows Ronan knows and she's determined to keep him quiet even if that means losing on a potential Nieimi heir.

If I die, my little brother will be sent here as early as next year.

More knocking snaps him out of his tangled thoughts. Someone's at the door.

"H-hello?" He hopes the crack in his voice doesn't give away the absolute spiral he descended into.

"Callista wants…to talk to us." Yet Cali's voice grounds him. It always has.

That's what he's been missing. Someone to ground him.

Ronan opens the door and there she is. His best friend.

"Are you okay?" Ronan remembers the state he's in. Sweaty and disheveled with a mind lost elsewhere.

I can't burden her with anything else.

"Y-yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" In another life, this kind of comment would be convincing coming from the Nieimi boy. Hell, anyone else in their alliance might even buy it.

(But Cali sees right through him and most of the time it's a blessing.)

"Okay…put on a shirt then." Cali pulls herself out of the room, a hint of light illuminating the blush on her face.

(Ronan doesn't see it. He's too busy scrambling for a shirt.)

He meets Cali and Callista out in the dining area.

"Sit," Callista asks of him. Victor of the 101st Games, many in Four are disappointed in her lack of commitment to the Games on her return. In fact, she and Nausicaa both have not been the shining stars the Capitol wishes they would be.

"Where is Nausicaa?" Ronan asks as he sits down. In his peripheral, he can see Cali shaking her head.

"I wanted to discuss…both of your strategies in training. I heard something of a recap from another mentor, but I wanted to get your perspectives first." Callista's words are direct. It only makes Ronan's already overactive mind move to hyperdrive.

"We…trained together mostly. Tried to stay out of the drama. Away from Amatus, and the two that are trying to join us." Ronan's eyes fall to Cali, but she's preoccupied with tracing the table design with her finger.

"Elaborate on the drama," Callista requests. Ronan's mouth opens, yet nothing but air comes out.

What happened today? Everything was a blur. Was he really so caught up on himself to worry about everything else around him?

"That's…what I was afraid of." Callista pushes back in her chair.

"Amatus was going around, trying to intimidate all of us. He didn't spend too much time with us, not really. He was prying about our…friendship I guess," Cali softly explains.

Was he? Ronan's mind racks for anything from the eight hours he spent training.

"Friends, what have we got going on over here?" He remembers Amatus asking them that when he approached them in training.

Ronan also remembers switching 'on', becoming the boy everyone around him expected him to be.

Maybe that's why he doesn't remember much else because it wasn't him in training. Not really, at least.

"Whatever friendship you two have, I think it needs to be kept between the three of us, and Nausicaa. I think the rest of the Careers are playing dangerous games, each at the detriment of everyone else. I think knowing anything vulnerable about you will give them too much ammunition. The games are already too fickle of a thing as it is, don't make it harder on yourselves." Ronan takes a minute to process Callista's advice.

Their eyes find each other, and suddenly it's not the Hunger Games or even his family that lingers on his mind. It's her. It's the endless sunsets they spent watching on the roof of the Academy back in Four. It's the painting he spent hours on, just for her. It's the kiss they shared.

There's a lot in Ronan's world that yanks him down. Yet there's only one thing that consistently brings him back up.

And the thought of losing her might just break him apart.

Ever since the day of the reaping, he's neglected that.

How could he be so stupid?

Why is he always so stupid?

yay more training!

yay more upset tributes!

some are happy I guess

idk what I'm saying I'm tired

uhh up next is Exa, Hem, Becca, Ozzy, Cali, and Mori!