Aaranay Varma, District 9 Male
Aaranay imagines that in most years, District 9's tributes would look around in awe at the opulence of the Tribute Train. The deep carpets, the sparkling crystal chandelier, the endless spread of food at their fingertips. All the complete opposite of 9's gray concrete and hazel crops. But Aaranay sees through it all.
As Zephyrus Khan attempts to explain the schedule for the next few days, Aaranay quietly walks away, eventually finding his quarters a couple of carriages over. Zephyrus asks where he's going, but Aaranay ignores him, locks the sliding door, and hunkers down for the night. Zephyrus quickly knocks, urging him to come out and strategize with the mentors, but Aaranay has no interest in talking to them. Let them focus on Milljana, who'll need all the help she can get. District 9 hasn't had a victor since the forty-sixth Hunger Games. That scrawny thirteen-year-old isn't going to break the thirty-one-year losing streak. Aaranay lays face down on the bed. None of the kids at the orphanage came to see him off, but House Mother did. She apologized, as if words could change his fate. He's not sure why she bothered. Nothing she could say or do would save him from this.
Around 4, Thelma Cotton tries to coax him out of the room. She's 9's only living female victor. Their other one killed herself years ago. Thelma found her in her tub, arms slit up to the elbows. Thelma seems nicer than the men, but Aaranay doesn't soften for the old woman. If he backs down now, none of them will take him seriously. Eventually, Thelma Cotton stops knocking, and Aaranay is free to enjoy the silence. He pulls himself off the blanket, sits cross-legged, and stares at the wilderness rushing by as he tries to figure out his plan from here.
There's a television in the room. If he knew how to work it, he could see some of the other tributes, but House Mother never let anyone touch the remote. He thinks back to the Hunger Games he's been alive for, trying to figure out why District 9 hasn't had a victor in thirty-one years. Nothing comes to mind. District 9's had a lot of kids who've made a good go of it. They did what they could. What right decisions are there to even make in the Hunger Games? Not a lot. Don't light a fire. Don't eat the other tributes. Don't start running until the gong. It's not about what those who died did wrong, but what those who survived did right, Aaranay realizes. If he wants any chance of figuring out how to survive, he'll need to watch old tapes. But to do that, he has to make the humiliating walk into the main cart, where Milljana is probably being comforted by the adults. That's not happening.
Aaranay stares at the remote on the bedside table for a few minutes before deciding to try all the buttons until one works. Eventually, he manages to hit the right one. Satisfied, he doesn't bother changing the channel. A sappy romance musical about a lawyer and a street sweeper fills the screen. He stares at it until his vision blurs. As night falls, fear clouds his mind. Darkness has always invited his darker thoughts. Imminent death is rushing toward him faster than the train. His eyes flicker to the window. It's almost too dark to see, but he makes out trees whipping past, blurred by the train's speed. His stomach grumbles, and he regrets ignoring all the niceties displayed around the train. He glimpsed them on shelves and tables as he fled to his room. Just as he thinks about how no one's come back to harass him, the door slides open, and Hector Norton looms in the doorway.
"Dining cart. Now."
"Why?"
"Because I'm assuming you want to live. You're going to have to work with us to achieve that."
"People have made it far without a mentor before."
"Not for a long time, boy."
Aaranay's will to argue crumbles when the scent of food wafts in from the carriage. It caresses his nose, beckoning him to come and devour every morsel he can hold.
"I'll be at the table for twenty minutes," Hector says, crossing his arms. "What you do now determines how much effort we pour into you."
Aaranay feels a pang of unease at how easily Hector Norton managed to unlock his door. Sliding off the bed, he follows the man into the carriage. Hector lets Aaranay sit at the table and eat before starting the grilling. The table is overflowing with plates of food Aaranay can't even name. After devouring the rich, hearty meal, Aaranay leans back, feeling nauseous. He's never had anything more extravagant than a piece of hard candy; grains and chewy meat are standard meals back at the orphanage.
Aaranay jolts as thoughts of the kids back home flood his mind. Zuhra is probably crying into her pillow. How could he have let thoughts of his only family slip away so easily? His heart burns guiltily in his chest.
"Remembered something?" Hector asks.
"No, just thought I was gonna throw up."
"Hm. What's your angle, kid? Hiding in your room, ignoring our attempts to help you? Milljana was worried, you know. She wanted to know if you were alright."
"Seems like a sweet kid."
"She is. I'd rather be spending my time on her, but Thelma got that privilege."
Aaranay rolls his eyes. "Why are you here, then? Leave me to figure this out on my own, and you'll be right as rain. I wouldn't want you wasting your time."
He tries to push back his chair and stalk off, but Hector's iron grip locks around his wrist.
"Sit down," Hector snarls. "Now. Milljana would only be a waste of my time because she's already resigned to death."
Aaranay glares at him. "The fuck do you know about me?"
"Nothing. What does it look like I'm trying to do? I can't help you if I know next to nothing about you. Except for the fact that you're a little thief. Yeah, I didn't forget about that."
"Fine," Aaranay says, yanking his hand from Hector's grip. "Tell me how I'm going to win the Hunger Games."
"First we're getting rid of that fucking attitude."
Sirena Salacia, District 4 Female
"Keep an eye out for the outliers." Cerulea Larson says. "There's always a few who stand out."
Sirena readies her notepad and pen—courtesy of the escort, Longinus Creed—and carefully watches the Reapings broadcast from around the country. For most of the program, it's the same story: terrified, malnourished children called forward to the stage. Past District 4, it's more often than not. But every so often, a competitor stands on the stage with a hard look in their eyes, or shoulders tensed, displaying their muscles.
3's pair staunch the crowd, eyes gleaming with sharp wit. Clips of past games flash through Sirena's head; scrawny District 3 tributes wreaking havoc on their opponents with sadistic intelligence and traps. District 5's male tribute and District 6's female tribute are attractive and well-fed. Harry Emmett from District 7 makes a comment to their escort and flexes his muscles. Aaranay Varma, District 9's boy, mirrors the same intensity of the Threes in his eyes. As the recap concludes and the commentators dissect the new crop of tributes, Sirena glances through her notes and marks names with ticks. "The boy from 7 looks promising," she mutters. "He seems like the type to join the Inner Alliance for protection."
On the other side of the couch, Kegan raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"
"The Sevens aren't like the Nines or Elevens. They've got no pride about joining us. The Capitol loves the underdogs."
"I know that. But what makes him specifically so willing?"
"He's probably just a brute lumberjack. Our offer will have him jumping for joy."
"Someone's quick to judge," Cerulea chimes in sternly. "He could surprise you. Don't be so quick to forget Johanna Mason."
Sirena opens her mouth to defend herself, but the words catch in her throat as the smell of dinner teases her tastebuds. Avoxes have slipped platters of food onto the large table beside a wide window. Sirena and Kegan follow the victors to the table. There are five present: Cerulea, Brielle, Odetta, Douglas, and Finnick. Mags and Gonzalo are too old to mentor anymore, so they watch over Annie while everyone else is in the Capitol. Rivie Averill (fifth games) and Montauk Cleary (thirty-ninth games) are dead. Ten victors in seventy-six years. Sirena recalls the list of winners from the other districts. While District 4 doesn't have as many victors as Districts 1 or 2, they're leagues above places like 6 or 8, which only have a mere two. Despite the train's size, the carriage feels crowded with everyone packed around the table. Sirena forces herself to stay rather than retreat to her quarters. Today's been long, and right now it seems like it'll never end, but these next few days are detrimental to her survival.
The food at least gives Sirena a reason to stick with the entourage—chunks of duck smothered in rich sauce, fizzy orange lemonade, and a creamy chocolate cake. There's plenty of fish too, but Sirena tries to avoid it. She's grown up eating the stuff, and if she's going to die, she wants to go out with a more experienced palate. She stays quiet while the mentors drill them on the plans for the upcoming week. Most of it involves acquainting the other trainees from 1 and 2, and watching the other tributes for any potential Johanna Masons.
"The boy from District 5 might take our offer," Sirena says to the table. "He's good-looking, athletic, and well-fed. He might be smart enough to ally with us."
Kegan nods. "I wouldn't mind him. The Fives are wildcards, and he looks tough."
"Yeah, well, just watch him during training before you toss him a line," Brielle Esparza interjects.
As dinner wraps up and the Avoxes clear the plates, Sirena and Kegan are led into separate carriages for private strategy discussions. Sirena understands the necessity, but it creates a barrier in her mind between her and her district partner—one that wasn't there before. The five victors split up. Cerulea and Douglas Lane guide Sirena through a door on one side of the carriage while Brielle and Odetta Machado lead Kegan through the other. Sirena's carriage is a bar cart, with sleek silver shelves lining the walls, displaying colorful crystal bottles of alcohol. Finnick Odair follows neither group and retreats to his bedroom. While Cerulea fixes herself a drink, Sirena sits awkwardly across from Douglas at a table, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the older victor joins them, and the planning sputters into motion.
"What's your plan to win?"
"Follow the tried and true," Sirena says. "Team up with the Ones and Twos, hunt everyone else down, then turn on each other for Final Combat."
Cerulea raises an eyebrow. "'It's the same every year', but the Inner Alliance has lost every year since the seventy-third."
Douglas Lane, winner of the fifty-ninth games, nods in agreement with Sirena. "We've got good chances this year. The Capitol will be itching for someone from the alliance; they don't like it when the same people win every year. The Gamemakers like to influence the games to keep them interesting."
Sirena frowns. "Don't we win almost every year? The alliance, I mean."
"It's different for us. We represent what the Capitol audience wants to see, courageous, beautiful warriors, not malnourished, crying teenagers. Everdeen, Coumbassa, and Mellark are a rare sight in a sea of whimpering children."
"From first glance, you come off as experienced," Cerulea says. "Weathered, but in a good sense. I'm thinking quiet and analytical, like that girl from 5 in the seventy-fourth. I reckon the audience is itching for someone they can share a knowing smile with."
"That'll save me from having to act like an idiot on Caesar's show," Sirena replies.
"Agreed. How the audience perceives you is important, but survival should always be your main focus. The Ones have mastered balancing both; watch them during training. You might pick up some of their tricks."
Sirena nods wearily, and Cerulea decides she's done enough for the day. She pats Sirena's hair. "Get to bed as soon as possible. You won't be getting much sleep in the arena, and tomorrow's the opening ceremonies. You've got a tiring week ahead of you."
"But how do I play up my angle during the parade?" Sirena asks.
"Tomorrow. We'll discuss it during prep," Cerulea replies.
"I'd rather know now so I can start playing the angle."
"No," Douglas says, shaking his head. "Bed and rest. Trust me, you'll be thankful for it."
Mercurie Anselmetti-Favero, District 5 Male
As the train hurtles through the tunnel beneath the mountains to the east of the Capitol, Mercurie bites the inside of his cheek. It's an old trick he learned to keep the tears at bay, back when his father first seized power. Those were the days when the stress began to twist his father into the tyrant he is now—one moment yelling at his sons over nothing, the next pretending everything was perfectly fine.
Lena sits next to Mercurie at the dining table, eyes fixed on her hands. She hasn't said much to anyone, especially not to him. Porter, her mentor, managed to get through to her a little, offering her a couple of glasses of lemonade last night. His district partner's dark hair has fallen over one side of her face, shielding her features from Mercurie's view. She's hard to read. He tried to comfort her when they first boarded the train, but she wasn't having it. Unfortunately, he doubts any kind of bond will form between them in the coming week. Outside the train, darkness presses in on all sides—just rock and the weight of the mountains towering over the Capitol. It feels suffocating, being buried beneath so much earth. Inside, the cabin is softly lit, a stark contrast. Porter paces back and forth along the wide window that takes up most of the left wall, seemingly unbothered by any of the same claustrophobia that's creeping into Mercurie's chest.
"Excited to see the city?" Isaac asks, his gaze steady on Mercurie. He shrugs in response, avoiding the concern he sees in Isaac's dark eyes.
Isaac isn't much older than him, having won the sixty-ninth Games at fifteen. Now at twenty-three, he still carries the weight of it. The way he looks at Mercurie makes him squirm.
"I guess," Mercurie mutters. "My brother said he bets it looks better in real life than on TV."
Light suddenly floods the cabin, and Mercurie's on his feet before he even realizes it, moving toward the window like a kid drawn to a candy store. The track curves out of the mountain, revealing the city in all its gaudy splendor. His green eyes widen, taking in the rainbow-colored buildings that seem to glow from within. His brother was right—cameras could never capture this. Mercurie clenches his jaw, thoughts of his family crashing in. Have his parents already turned their backs on Russ? Last night's dinner must've been unbearable. The realization hits him—tonight, they'll all be watching, his whole district will. Last year's tributes were paraded around in garish solar panel costumes, and the idea of being forced into something equally ridiculous makes his stomach tighten. As the train slows into the station, a sea of vibrant Capitolites comes into view, pressing against the glass. They look like the exact type to make him wear that damned solar panel piece. Mercurie instinctively steps back, feeling Porter's hand settle on his shoulder.
"It's okay," she says, her voice calm. "Go ahead, wave. They're here for you."
"Sponsors?" he asks, unsure.
"Exactly. They might seem strange, but playing along won't hurt your chances in the long run."
Mercurie forces a wave, watching as the Capitolites' faces brighten in response. "Is it always this crowded?"
"Not usually. This is different."
He doesn't have time to dwell on Porter's words. Peacekeepers quickly usher Mercurie and Lena off the train, guiding them through the shouting crowd. Faces blur around them, greedy eyes devouring the sight of the newest tributes. Mercurie steals a glance at Lena; her tanned face is contorted in disgust. The Peacekeepers in their stark white uniforms have to shove away grasping hands more than once. After a brisk five-minute walk, they arrive at a massive gray stone building that Porter calls "Remake." As they approach, Mercurie catches sight of another pair of tributes—Luscious and Atticus from District 1, if their blond hair is anything to go by. The sterile atmosphere and the presence of the District 1 tributes make Mercurie's palms sweat, and he hastily wipes his hands on his pants. The sound of a tub being filled mingles with the distant, cheerful laughter. The Peacekeepers halt at a junction where two halls branch off in opposite directions. Mercurie is separated from Lena and guided down the right hall. His room is just a short distance away, and he's shoved through the door before it slams shut behind him.
"There's our handsome tribute!"
Three middle-aged women descend on him, circling like flies in the summer heat. As they flit around, scrutinizing him from every angle, he fights the urge to retreat into himself. They're vibrant and overly styled, but compared to most Capitolites, they're almost restrained—no wild modifications, just intense fashion choices.
"Clothes off!" squeaks one of the women, her face crisscrossed with purple line tattoos. "I'm Eunomia, and it's a pleasure to meet you. I'll be handling that stunning mane of yours. Laurentia will take care of your nails, and Afrodite's here to ensure your skin stays as flawless as ever."
Mercurie frowns. "Wait—clothes off?"
Eunomia nods enthusiastically. "How else are we going to remake you, silly?"
Mercurie hesitates before slowly shedding his clothes. Removing his undergarments feels nearly impossible, but as the women circle him again, his self-consciousness begins to fade. Nothing about them feels predatory, they're too giddy and spritely. They guide him into a huge porcelain tub, lavishing his body and hair with pungent, scented oils.
"You're lucky District 5 is so well-off and clean," Afrodite remarks with a grin. "Aside from a bit of desert sand, you kids are in pretty good shape! For tributes from beyond District 6, we practically have to sand them down like wood! The boy from your district last year was a tad dirtier than usual, but nothing we couldn't handle."
"It doesn't hurt that you're so gorgeous," Laurentia chimes in from somewhere to his left. "Your mentor probably had sponsors lined up the moment your name was called."
Mercurie's cheeks ache from resisting the urge to smile. Amid all this chaos, at least he's got a shot. The Capitolites are already ready to back him. If he can just get in with the Inner Alliance, play his cards right, hang back while they wear themselves out…
It's probably bad luck to get ahead of himself like this, but Mercurie can't help it. "I'm really that popular?"
"Oh, honey," Afrodite coos. "You're right up there with the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 as a frontrunner."
As Eunomia works another round of shampoo into his hair, Mercurie closes his eyes and lets himself relax for the first time since yesterday afternoon.
Atticus Rosseau, District 1 Male
"What an outfit. Fit for a king, if I do say so."
Atticus turns slowly in front of the full-length mirror. The furred coat brushes against his calves, and the sapphires on his neckline catch the low light, mirroring the ones threaded through his belt. Even here, away from the bright Capitol lights, they sparkle. He knows he'll shine when he faces the roaring crowds.
His stylist, Naevius, an older man with teal lips, smooths down stray hairs and tidies loose threads missed by the prep team. "The crowds will adore you, my boy. It's been too long since a boy worthy of the crown came from your district. Not since Augustus won the sixty-seventh. I've had to deal with fools these past few years."
"Your work is impeccable, Naevius. I have no doubt the crowds will be drawn to me. It's about time the Capitol has someone look this good and parade through their streets."
As Naevius leads him through the polished maze of the halls, Atticus catches his reflection in every surface—marble floors, chrome fixtures, the gleaming glass of Capitol advertisements. The way his furred coat drapes and sways with each step, the sapphires at his neck and waist catching the light like distant stars—it's all deliberate. A vision designed to command. The idea of parading through the streets, the crowd's eyes fixed on him, sends a quiet thrill through his veins. He can already hear the roar, see the flash of cameras, feel the weight of envious stares from the other tributes. By the time they reach the stables, Atticus is already mapping out the aftermath—the flood of sponsor offers, the strategic alliances, the inevitable rise to power. In this moment, he feels untouchable, every inch the victor the Capitol has been waiting for.
Just as Atticus reaches the stables, Luscious appears, her tall frame already commanding attention. Her heels are shorter than most Capitol fashion dictates, but even so, she stands nearly at his height. In the chariot, she'll be just a breath below him—a small detail, but one that can't be helped. Still, District 1 will make an imposing pair, two straight-backed, proud competitors ready to claim the spotlight. Luscious mirrors Atticus in her attire, draped in similar furs, but her jewels differ—emeralds adorn her throat, a striking contrast to his sapphires. He notices how their jewelry is chosen to complement each other's eyes, her emeralds reflecting his green, while his sapphires draw out the blue in her gaze. As he traces a finger along the sapphires at his neck, he meets her eyes, their colors intertwining like a silent agreement.
"We look incredible," Atticus says, eyes gleaming.
Luscious grins, a spark of confidence in her gaze. "You think this feels like a winning year?"
Atticus glances around at the other tributes—scrawny, unimpressive kids from farming districts and factories. The District 8 tributes look particularly ridiculous in their patchwork jester outfits, and he nearly laughs at how absurd they seem.
"Absolutely a winning year," he replies. "Let's go meet the Twos."
They head toward the chariot where the District 2 tributes are chatting and petting their horses. It takes him a moment to recall their names, but as he approaches, Atticus confidently calls out to them.
"Paula. Albinus." Atticus calls, voice crisp.
They turn, Paula acknowledging him with a brief nod. Their skin and outfits are painted gray, cracks etched into the surface—statues, again. Atticus hides his frustration. It's the same tired look, as if their stylists have run out of fresh ideas. How many more times will the Twos be dressed up like stone?
"Atticus, right?" Albinus's tone is casual, but his eyes appraise Atticus with a cool detachment. He's taller, and the difference nags at Atticus, a reminder of an imbalance he'd rather not have.
"Pleasure," Atticus says, extending his hand. Albinus's grip is firm, a silent challenge. Atticus releases him and turns to Paula, lightly clasping her fingers. His gaze drifts around the chamber, searching.
"Seen the Fours?" Albinus asks, his words laced with a quiet superiority. "They seem alright this year."
Atticus smirks, his tone edged with disdain. "If by 'alright' you mean they'll be corpses before we've even warmed up."
Luscious exhales sharply beside him, but the Twos don't react, their expressions unchanged.
"Neither of your tributes in the Quarter Quell even made it to the top ten," Paula says, her tone dripping with arrogance. "Amaryllis Beaumont got taken down by some District 7 nobody. So why the smug act? District 1 hasn't exactly shined lately."
Atticus scoffs, eyes narrowing. "Please. District 2 hasn't seen a victor since the seventy-third."
"That's just four years ago, one less than your last win. And we took second place in the seventy-fourth. This decade, District 1's only made it to the finale twice. Sophistication Wagner couldn't even handle District 12 last year in the final fight…"
"What makes you—"
Luscious cuts between them, her voice firm. "Enough. We've all slipped. The truth is, if we don't pull together, those outliers are going to snatch the win again this year."
Paula looks like she's about to say something, but instead, she just rolls her eyes and lets the argument fizzle out. Atticus forces himself to do the same, turning away just in time to see the District 4 tributes approaching. They're tall, muscular, their physiques exaggerated by the fake seaweed wrapped around them, swelling over their already impressive frames.
"Sorry we're late," Sirena says as they reach District 2's chariot.
Atticus taps her on the shoulder with a mock punch. "Wouldn't expect anything less from a Four!"
Luscious and Albinus laugh, and Kegan from Four chuckles, but Sirena's smile fades, her eyebrow lifting in quiet disapproval.
"Thoughts on the other tributes?" Kegan asks, filling the sudden silence.
"Nothing we can't handle," Albinus answers. "The boy from 5 looks like he might be a challenge. And District 6 has a decent contender in their girl. District 10 too."
"We should test the waters during training," Sirena says, her tone sharp. "5 and 10 might be open to an alliance. 6, I'm not so sure."
A mechanical voice echoes through the stables, instructing the tributes to board their chariots.
"We'll talk after the parade," Atticus says, trying to smooth over the tension. "Best of luck to you all. Try not to embarrass yourselves!"
Sirena gives him a cool nod before turning away, leaving Atticus with a hint of her displeasure lingering in the air.
As Atticus and Luscious step into their chariot, the smooth wood beneath their feet solid, a stark contrast to the electric energy crackling in the air around them. Luscious turns to him, her voice low and serious. "Try not to fight with anyone in training, please. The alliance has to last."
Atticus rolls his eyes as the horses snort impatiently in front of them. "Easier said than done with those two buzzkills. I was just kidding."
Luscious sighs, her green eyes catching the dim light of the stables. "Oh shush, you'll be fine."
He grins, the tension melting away as their chariot lurches forward. The heavy wooden doors of the stable swing open, revealing the blinding lights and roaring crowds of the Capitol. They glide out, the chariot wheels humming over the smooth streets, and the noise hits him like a wave—cheers, screams, the chaotic symphony of adoration. The Capitolites are a riot of color, their extravagant outfits and vibrant hair glowing under the city's artificial lights. They shout their names from balconies, throw confetti from the sidewalks, and reach out as if trying to touch them, to capture just a piece of the glamour that District 1 embodies. Atticus blows kisses, his grin widening with every cheer that rises in response. He pumps his fist, feeling the vibrations of their applause ripple through his chest, his heart soaring with each passing second.
The towering buildings of the Capitol loom over them, their glass facades reflecting the dazzling spectacle below. Atticus can feel the warmth of the lights, the intensity of the gazes fixed on him. This is everything he's dreamed of and more. He's finally here.
Netta Maekawa, District 3 Female
Netta tugs at the wire belt around her waist, then stops, recalling her stylist's sharp words about not fidgeting. She glances to her left, studying Telemi's expression, trying to gauge how open he might be to an alliance—not friendship, but mutual survival. The Capitol crowd is unusually quiet, their mood somber. Seneca Crane, now standing in for Snow on the presidential balcony, drones on with his welcome speech for the tributes. Netta tunes him out, scanning the faces in the crowd. There's barely a dry eye among them.
She wonders if they'll ever elect a new president, the way they're carrying on. Is that even how it works here? Snow held power for so long that it seems like the Capitol might have forgotten that the presidency is technically an elected position. In the districts, things are different. The Capitol selects the mayor from a pool of approved candidates. Mayor Li, for example, used to run the bank in District 3 back during the fifth decade of the games. She's been mayor for twenty years now.
Seneca Crane keeps droning on from the balcony, longer than Snow ever did. He seems to be relishing his moment in the spotlight. He'd better savor it—next year, a new president will be the one to welcome the fresh batch of tributes to their deaths. As the chariots finally start to move and Netta is thrust toward the screaming crowds, she grips the edge tightly.
Almost there, Netta.
The horses pull the chariots for one more lap around the city before they disappear beneath the training center, away from the crowds. Beetee and Wiress are already there, meeting them as they hop down from the chariot.
Telemi looks over at them, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "So, how'd we do?"
Beetee offers a reassuring smile, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "The opening ceremonies aren't where we shine," he says. "Training is where the real fun begins."
Netta's hazel eyes scan the chamber, catching sight of the Inner Alliance as the District 4 tributes join them. All she can think about is how those six manage to ruin training for everyone else. The televised snippets don't show much, but there's enough to see how most kids spend their training days doing their best to steer clear of the tributes from 1, 2, and 4. Right now, outside the arena, they don't intimidate Netta. The Inner Alliance has lost its edge, their arrogance a hollow echo of what it once was. In the arena, things might change, but here, they're just as pretentious and harmless as the Capitolites. She meets the gaze of the boy from District 1—handsome, glaring at the rest of the tributes like he's already won. His lips twitch into a smirk, and he throws her a wink. Netta wrinkles her nose and looks away, unimpressed.
The elevator ride is brief, just three floors. The District 9 tributes and their mentors stand beside them, stiff and silent. Netta offers a small smile to the kids from 9, but they don't smile back. It feels strange, the silence hanging between Beetee, Wiress, and the other mentors. She would've thought they'd at least exchange a few words, but no one says anything, even as they step off the elevator.
The apartments span the whole floor, a lavish use of space that feels typical of the Capitol—excess for the sake of excess. Netta shakes her head at the thought.
"Hit the showers," Beetee instructs. "Wash off the makeup and get into some comfortable pajamas. Tonight at dinner, we'll expand on the strategic planning from yesterday. There isn't much to discuss until you're facing the other tributes in the gym, but even a little preparation can make a difference."
Netta doesn't need to be told twice. In the shower, she finds a special setting just for removing makeup—a detail that feels all too fitting for the Capitol. Mint-green soap sprays from the showerhead, dissolving the glittery mask with ease.
Her face feels renewed as she steps out, and she lingers at the mirror for twenty minutes, experimenting with the lotions and creams. Whatever the prep team did, her skin is softer than it's ever been. A loud knock startles her—Agapios Jasper, District 3's new escort. Reluctantly, she puts down the bottles and heads to dinner. Wiress smiles warmly and gestures to the chair beside her. Netta takes her seat, eyeing the spread before them. The table is laden with twice as much food as the night before, each dish more tempting than the last. Her stomach growls audibly, betraying her hunger, and she offers a sheepish grin.
"I didn't think I had room after yesterday," she admits.
Beetee glances at her over his glasses. "You're from the upper class, aren't you?"
"Mmm, upper-middle," Netta replies. "My mother inherited a grocery store."
"Were you well-fed?" Wiress asks gently.
"Better than most," Netta says, "but we weren't allowed to take from the stock."
"You're in better shape than most tributes we've mentored," Beetee observes. "That'll give you an edge in the first few days."
He turns, as if just remembering his other charge. "And you, Telemi?"
Telemi shrugs. "My parents are Spiders, so we're not poor. It's an important job. But we don't have it as good as Netta."
Netta hesitates, then asks, "Would you want to ally?"
Telemi seems surprised but nods. "I'd like that. We can stick together during training and see if we can find more to join us."
"I want to team up with some of the other girls," Netta says. "The ones from the middle districts. Ten and up are too underfed, but the girls from Six and Eight—they've got that wiry edge."
Telemi nods. "That works for me. I'd like to talk to the District 5 tributes too, see what they know about their industry. Our minds might be on the same wavelength."
"Just remember," Wiress cautions, "too much socializing, and you'll miss out on skills..."
"That could save your life," Beetee finishes.
Netta tilts her head. "What would you suggest?"
"Focus on shelter building," Beetee advises. "The arena's been natural the past three years, but I have a hunch you'll face an urban setup this time. Urban arenas usually lack stable cover. You'll want to be ready for that. Hand-to-hand combat paired with knife skills is also crucial."
"Foraging," Wiress adds quietly. "In an urban arena, you'll need to scavenge for food and water. And if by chance the arena is natural..."
"Foraging will be just as essential," Beetee concludes.