Day One
Mercurie, District 5 Male
Mercurie stares at the tangled rope in his hand, dumbfounded, as he watches the trainer and the girl from District 8 make the simple knot look effortless. It's frustrating how clumsy he feels by comparison.
"What exactly are you struggling with?" the trainer asks, her tone patient.
Mercurie shrugs, lifting his shoulders to his ears. "I don't know, and that's what's driving me crazy."
"How about we go through it step by step? Maybe I can help you figure it out."
"The smaller line won't do the trick," the girl from District 8—Fenella—remarks from Mercurie's right. "For a double sheet bend, you need to make the loop with the larger rope."
The trainer leans in, eyes narrowing at Mercurie's hands. "You're right, Fenella. Why don't you show him how it's done?"
With another tribute arriving at the station, the trainer shifts focus, leaving Fenella to step closer. She gently takes Mercurie's hands, guiding his fingers through the motions.
"A lot of rope tying back home?" Mercurie asks as she deftly moves his hands.
She shakes her head, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "Just a few tricks I picked up. My job's mostly keeping the machines running."
Mercurie's eyes widen in surprise. "You're a mechanic?"
Fenella glances at him, shaking her head. "Oh, no. Just rethreading and pressing a couple of buttons."
Mercurie's lips press into a thin line. "Sorry."
When the trainer returns, Mercurie and Fenella have worked diligently, and he's finally mastered the double sheet bend.
"Ready to move on to the next one?" Fenella asks.
Mercurie shakes his head, stretching his arms. "I'm going to stretch my legs, but I'll be back."
He glances at Fenella as she resumes her task, her focus dropping back to her piece of rope. She gives a small nod, returning to her work.
District 8's tributes rarely make it far. The arenas don't tend to favor them, their skills mismatched to the harsh terrains. But there's something about Fenella. She seems sharp, the type who might find a hidden spot in a cave or high in a tree, conserving her strength until the final moments.
Mercurie drifts over to a station where a trainer is guiding the gray-eyed pair from District 12 through the basics of knife fighting. The trainer starts Mercurie off with the fundamentals, but he quickly catches on, the movements coming to him naturally.
The tightness in his chest eases as he finds his rhythm, finally discovering something he can show the Gamemakers. The knife feels good in his hand, light but deadly, easy to conceal in a sleeve and quick to draw for defense.
About half an hour later, while he's wiping sweat from his brow with a towel handed to him by an Avox, the boy from District 4 approaches him. "That was some nice knife work."
"Oh! Um, thanks," Mercurie stammers, caught off guard but pleased.
In the distance, thunder rumbles, sharp and sudden. Several tributes, and even a few trainers, startle at the sound. Mercurie feels the twitch in his own muscles and curses himself for it. The boy from District 4 doesn't so much as blink.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Four murmurs, his tone almost conversational, green eyes still fixed on the ceiling as if he can see through to the roiling clouds beyond. "How a storm strips away the facade. What seems calm, even peaceful, can be laid bare, trembling. Hidden paths reveal themselves, but only to those who know where to look."
Mercurie follows Four's gaze to the roof, then back to him, brow furrowed in thought. If he's honest, he's a little lost in the metaphor. "Or for those willing to face it head-on, no matter what comes."
A faint smile plays at the corners of Four's lips. "True enough. But it's more than just surviving. It's about reading the storm, knowing when to seek shelter and when to step into the chaos. That's a rare gift. I've met plenty who claim they can ride out the worst of it, but few truly can. Those who do... well, they tend to end up in interesting places."
Mercurie arches an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Interesting positions? Like what?"
Four meets his gaze, the playful edge in his voice fading into something more serious. "Positions where your skills aren't just tested but refined. But that kind of trust? It's earned—through action."
Mercurie recognizes the offer for what it is. Being scouted by the Inner-Alliance feels like a nod to his potential, though he decides to play it cool. "A demonstration, then? What does that look like?"
A smirk tugs at the corners of Four's lips. "Nothing beyond your grasp. Show us you can do more than just survive—show us you can take control of the storm. Then, maybe we'll be on the same side. Why don't you sit with us at lunch today?"
Mercurie's eyes drift to the gray clock on the wall. Still a couple of hours until Atala, the head trainer, calls for lunch.
"Mind if I think on it?" he asks.
Four shrugs. "Sure, but we don't make offers lightly. Time's ticking."
As Four walks away, Mercurie is left standing there, the low rumble of thunder echoing from above. His gaze lands on Fenella, still at the knot-tying station, shaking her head. The disappointment in her eyes stirs something uncomfortable in him—a need to explain himself, though the set of her lips tells him it wouldn't matter.
Mercurie slips away to a quieter station, where a trainer lets him practice with bandages in peace. But the solitude only deepens the gnawing insecurity Fenella's glance has left behind, pressing down on him like the storm outside.
Mercurie catches himself glancing across the gymnasium, where the boy from 4 is now talking with the gruff girl from District 6 at the obstacle course. He tries to focus on the bandages in his hands, actually following the trainer's instructions for once, but Four's proposition keeps gnawing at him. A spot in the Inner-Alliance—exactly what he'd hoped for. But now that it's within reach, he feels a chill of doubt.
Fenella's brown eyes seem to burn into the back of his head, a stark reminder that District 5 is no better off than District 8 in the grand scheme. Four would likely turn on him in an instant before betraying the tributes from 1 or 2. Yet, when the lunch bell rings, Mercurie finds himself walking toward their boisterous table, his steps betraying the hesitation in his heart.
Aaranay, District 9 Male
The Career pack is loud and annoying. Aaranay keeps his head down, trying to tune out their chatter, but the group's too large, too obnoxious—especially the pair from District 1. He tries to remember their names. The girl's is something like Lush or Lucy, but it slips from him. They've pulled two more into their ranks: the boys from 5 and 7. Aaranay clocked them right away as dangerous when he watched the Reapings from other districts.
He stares down at his plate, willing lunch to end so he can slip back into the quiet, avoiding everyone. Or, more precisely, avoiding one person.
"How's the sandwich, Aaranay?"
Milljana munches quietly across from him, and despite how much she grates on his nerves, Aaranay can't bring himself to snap.
"It's fine," he mutters, pushing his food around. "I was thinking we split up after lunch. Find allies that make more sense for us. Some of the other girls seem decent."
"But I want to stay with you. We're from the same district."
Barely. Milljana's the middle kid in a family of seven. Her mom's a tailor, her dad works some cushy job at the processing plant. She's never gone hungry. Never been alone. Their lives couldn't be more different. Aaranay doesn't say much else. When the lunch bell rings, he bolts for the obstacle course. No matter how fast or far he moves, though, he can't shake her. She clings to him through every station, like a shadow he's desperate to outrun. By the end of the day, he's hit almost every station, frustration gnawing at him with every step she takes behind him.
At the edible plants station, Milljana chats with the boys from Districts 6 and 10. They've already formed an alliance, and Aaranay silently hopes she'll join them. They're the youngest in the Games—maybe that's a better fit for her. When she tries to engage him, he keeps it vague, brushing her off with excuses about needing to focus on the lessons.
About an hour before the end of training, the boys from Districts 8 and 12 strike up a conversation with him while they learn shelter-building. He listens, nodding occasionally, as they talk about their districts. Quiltan, the boy from 8, shares more than Aaranay expects.
"I've been working long hours in the factory with my sister," Quiltan says, his tone flat but edged with something heavier. "When our dad died, she stepped up so our little brother didn't end up in an orphanage."
Aaranay glances at him. "Tough."
Quiltan nods. "Yeah. He's smart, though—got a future. Probably the only reason I haven't given up yet."
Aaranay raises an eyebrow. "Happens a lot in 8?"
Quiltan laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Big time. Peacekeepers are always pulling bodies from alleys. Sometimes you just... take too much Morphling, and that's it. You find a wall, lean against it, and never get back up."
"12's tough," Randolph says. "But we're lucky, I guess. No one really ends it themselves. Starvation, illness—they take their toll, but we keep going. Not that it matters much. I'm not counting on winning. We've had two victors in three years. Can't imagine the Capitol wants another kid from 12 pulled out of the arena."
"Is Peeta Mellark nice?" Quiltan asks.
Randolph nods. "Yeah, real nice. Haymitch isn't drinking as much now, but he and Katniss? They're hard to read. Never thought I'd get along better with a Merchant kid than someone from the Seam."
Aaranay doesn't fully follow Randolph's talk of divisions, but he gets the general idea. District 9 has its own version of that—a quiet rift between Reapers and factory workers.
"What about you, 9? Free bread with every meal or what?"
Aaranay scoffs. "Not even close. We don't touch the harvest past shipping it out. Gets hot, sure, but the wind's the real nuisance. Sometimes it feels like it's gonna tear the walls down. After a while, you get sick of hearing something you can't even see tearing through the place."
"Any siblings?" Quiltan asks.
"No idea." Aaranay shrugs. "Grew up in an orphanage. I've got this faint memory of my mom, but that's it. Just her and a last name. Nine's huge, full of villages spread all over. I'd be searching forever if I tried."
"You don't want to?" Randolph asks.
"Not really. People have more kids than they can handle, then dump them. Doesn't matter now, anyway."
The boys lapse into a comfortable silence, working on their shelters with focused diligence. Randolph's experience from the mines in District 12 is evident, and his skills could prove useful.
"Hey," Aaranay breaks the quiet, "I'm not proposing a formal alliance or anything, but if things shake out right in the arena and we end up crossing paths, would you be open to teaming up?"
"I'm game," Quiltan responds immediately.
Randolph hesitates for a moment, then meets Aaranay's gaze. "Sounds good. But I'll likely have Robin with me."
Aaranay recalls Robin as Randolph's partner. He scans the room, finding her at the archery station with two other tributes, one from District 6 and the other from 11. He suppresses a chuckle; ever since Everdeen's victory, everyone's been obsessed with archery. In the past, it was mainly the Careers wielding bows, but the girl from District 11 seems to have a natural talent for it. Aaranay makes a mental note to keep an eye on her. If she's with Robin, they could form a formidable anti-Career alliance, reminiscent of those unfortunate kids from the Quarter Quell who were split up and massacred. The boy from District 7 made it to the end, but they were all caught off guard.
He lingers in the shower that night, grateful for the solitude. The day's interactions have drained him, and he's still got a strategy session with Hector after dinner. An hour of pointless chatter about the other tributes, no doubt. Nothing that focuses on what Aaranay can bring to the table. No, that'll come later, right before the private sessions with the Gamemakers.
Quiltan and Randolph drift in and out of his mind, and the longer he dwells on it, the more he wishes they weren't here. They seem decent enough.
Day Two
Atticus, District 1 Male
"Watching them doesn't do anything," Atticus mutters, voice low but sharp as he glances at Sirena.
They're stationed at the spears, and she's quiet, eyes locked on the girls from Districts 6 and 10, watching them fumble over setting a broken limb. The air feels tight around her, like something waiting to snap.
"I'm not intimidating them," she says, not breaking her stare. Her tone is light, almost dismissive. "There's such a thing as observing and strategizing. They refused our alliance for a reason. They think they can handle the arena without us. That makes them dangerous."
Atticus exhales sharply, not bothering to hide the disinterest that slips into his voice. "Whatever, man."
He grips the spear, muscles tensing as he launches it across the floor. It slices through the air with a sharp whistle before landing dead center on the target. Atticus grins, smug, like he's already claimed a victory. Jogging over to retrieve it, he wipes the sweat from his brow, glancing back at Sirena. She hasn't budged.
Her arms are still crossed, eyes locked on the other tributes, tension rippling through her frame. Atticus rolls his eyes.
"Waste as much time as you want being weird," Atticus mutters, voice low and edged. "It'll make it easier for me to stick you in the arena."
That does it. Her head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing with the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Calmly, almost lazily, she grabs her spear. One breath—then she hurls it. It cuts through the air, arcing perfectly, and strikes dead center on the target, nearly touching where Atticus' spear had hit earlier.
"You're trying to shit talk a Four about spear throwing?" Her voice is smooth, the challenge unmistakable.
Atticus raises his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Well, look at that! She has talents."
Sirena steps past him without a glance, her expression cool, but the way she jams the spear back into the rack betrays a flash of irritation. "Piss off."
Atticus watches her retreat, shoulders squared, the set of her posture stiff. His eyes drift back to the target where their spears sit lodged side by side, metal gleaming beneath the lights.
She could be provoked, that much was clear now. He'd need to watch her later, when things got real. But for now, he lets the smirk curl on his lips, savoring the moment. Riling her up felt like striking a match—dangerous, unpredictable, and just tempting enough to keep going. His gaze sweeps the training hall, landing on his next targets: Harry and Mercurie at the tomahawk station, axes in hand.
A slow smirk curves his lips. Sirena's nerves were one thing, but those two? They were in a different league—the outliers, struggling to hold their place in the alliance. He slows his pace, taking his time as he crosses the room, watching them with the same scrutiny Sirena had for the girls from Districts 6 and 10.
By the time he reaches them, Harry's laughing at something Mercurie said, both more at ease than they should be. As usual, Harry's throws are precise, axes slicing through the air cleanly, while Mercurie's attempts are… less impressive. Almost embarrassing.
Atticus claps a hand on each of their shoulders, harder than necessary, enough to throw them off balance. "How're you boys doing?"
Harry's the first to react, his body jerking slightly at the weight of Atticus' hand. The grin on his face falters, but it doesn't vanish completely. He's still holding onto that easy-going front, though the tension in his jaw gives him away. Mercurie, on the other hand, barely acknowledges the interruption, just a slight eye roll that speaks volumes—his irritation thinly veiled.
They'd been standing close at the tomahawk station, shoulder to shoulder as Harry gave Mercurie quiet pointers. How to adjust his stance, the right angle to throw from, subtle movements to shift his weight. Surprisingly, Mercurie had listened, which wasn't something he did often—especially not for anyone from the Career pack. But Harry was different. Outliers recognized their own. It didn't need to be said, but the understanding hung between them like a thread pulled tighter with each passing day.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people holding weapons," Mercurie mutters, his voice low and sharp, his grip tightening around the axe. Harry catches the shift in his hands, a flicker of tension curling through his fingers, and without a word, he steps just a little closer. He doesn't need to ask to know Mercurie's pissed—he can feel it in the air between them.
Atticus, either oblivious or just not caring, lifts his hands in mock surrender, his grin stretching wider. "Someone's touchy today. Nervous about tomorrow? Worried we'll kick you out of the pack if you tank your score?"
Harry glances at Mercurie, his lips twitching in a silent message: don't let him get to you. Mercurie's knuckles go white around the axe, but he stays quiet. He thinks Atticus doesn't notice, but Harry does. He sees the way Mercurie grips the handle too tightly, how his jaw clenches whenever the Careers are near, like he's waiting for the inevitable—the dismissal, the betrayal that always comes for outliers like them.
Atticus, grinning like a victor already, takes the silence as submission. He leans back, comfortable in his own vision of the future. To him, Harry and Mercurie are nothing more than fodder—bodies to absorb the blows, meat shields for the final fight. What he doesn't care to see, is how much Harry and Mercurie have already begun leaning on each other in ways he'll never understand.
Harry gives Mercurie a nudge, the smallest tap of his elbow. It's subtle, but Mercurie shifts, tension loosening just enough. Their own way of speaking without words. They've learned how to survive at the edge of the pack, close enough to be useful, never close enough to trust. It's survival, but there's something else in it—something like quiet understanding.
"Don't worry, boys," Atticus says, stepping back, his grin sharp as ever. "I'm sure you'll be useful for something."
Netta, District 3 Female
The training center buzzes with the clang of weapons and murmured conversations. Netta stands near the edge, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room, though they keep finding their way back to the knife-throwing station. The girl from District 7—small, even for fourteen—has her dark hair tied in a neat braid that swings with each precise movement. She works quietly, no flair, no need for attention. Every throw is deliberate, methodical. Her knives almost always hit near the center. Another blade sinks just below the bullseye, her wrist snapping like she's been doing this forever.
Netta frowns. She didn't think alliances were her thing. Too complicated. Too dangerous. But something about Oakley is different. While the others flaunt their skills, hoping to catch the eye of the Gamemakers or their competition, Oakley has kept her head down, focus sharp, unwavering. Netta's gaze lingers, watching the way Oakley movs, every throw precise, controlled. There's something familiar in the girl's quiet intensity—the same determination that had kept Netta afloat in school back home, where strength didn't matter nearly as much as cleverness.
For someone who's barely spoken all week, Oakley has a way of saying plenty without words.
Netta approaches the station slowly, cautious. Oakley's posture stiffens, but her rhythm never breaks. Another knife leaves her hand, sinking into the target with a sharp, solid thud.
"You're good," Netta remarks, leaning against the rack of knives, casual.
Oakley doesn't glance her way, just turns the next blade in her fingers. "I know."
The bluntness tugs at the corner of Netta's mouth. No posturing, no empty talk—just truth. Oakley was already sizing her up too, the same way she'd done with the others, trying to decide if Netta was worth the trouble.
"Quick study, or you've been doing this a while?" Netta asks, keeping her tone light.
Oakley's eyes flicks over, cautious but not cold. She hesitates, picking her words with care. "Everyone thinks I'm too young for this, like I don't stand a chance."
Netta smirks, giving a slight shrug. "They don't have a clue. You've got skill."
Oakley pauses at that, her guard lowering just enough to reveal a flicker of something softer. Netta recognizes it—the look of someone too used to being underestimated. And in this place, that could be lethal.
"I know what they think." Oakley's voice is low, almost an afterthought as she picks up another knife. Her grip shifts slightly, her shoulders easing back into their rhythm. The flicker of trust between them, faint but unmistakable.
They work side by side in the silence, the kind that doesn't need filling. Netta mirrors Oakley's movements, the steady rhythm of throw, retrieve, throw again. Each blade finds its mark with the same practiced precision.
"Speed's one thing," Oakley says after a few minutes, eyes still locked on the target. She releases another knife, the blade sinking deep into the wood. "But it's the timing that matters. You hit where they least expect it. In the woods, it's not just about accuracy—it's about making it quick. Clean. No sound, no trace."
Netta's brow lifts. "You hunt?"
Oakley's lips twitch, almost a smile. "In Seven, if you can't take down something quietly, you don't eat."
There's a quiet pride in Oakley's words, not meant to impress but simply stating the truth. Netta can appreciate that. The girl had been surviving long before the Reaping pulled her into this.
"Not bad," Netta remarks, throwing her next knife with a bit more force, the blade sinking deep into the target. "You've got good instincts."
Oakley nods. "When they're watching, don't aim for the obvious," She repeats. " Go where no one's looking."
The moment stretches—then a shadow cuts across their focus. Netta glances up to see the boy from District 1 sauntering over, his smug grin already in place. He'd been circling them for a while now, watching with that too-confident air.
"Look at this," he sneers, green eyes sweeping over Oakley with barely veiled contempt. "District 7's letting kids in now? What's the point of even trying when you're that small? I remember when your district posed a threat."
Netta feels Oakley stiffen beside her, fingers brushing a knife on the rack. The girl can handle herself, but Netta knows the weight behind the boy's words—this isn't just a taunt for Oakley.
Netta steps forward, cutting off his line of sight, her gaze locking onto his. "You that desperate for attention? I've watched you annoy your allies all day."
The boy falters, thrown by her sudden move. His smirk flickers, but his bravado hasn't faded just yet. "What's it to you?"
Netta doesn't blink, her voice cutting low. "You wanna find out?"
The pause that follows is thick, the boy shifting on his feet. After a beat, he mutters something under his breath and stalks off.
Netta exhales, turning back to Oakley. "Next time," she says, her tone light despite the edge still lingering in the air, "we go for the throat."
Oakley's lips twitch, the spark in her eyes flaring back to life. "Deal."
"If you meant what you said earlier," Oakley's voice is quiet, but steady, "about sticking together... I'm in. I'm not much for alliances, but... better to have someone watching your back, right?"
Netta's smile is small, but real. "Smarter to have someone who can hit from afar, too."
Oakley gives a slight nod, her eyes locking with Netta's.
Without another word, they let their knives fly, blades slicing through the air in perfect sync. Both hit near the center. They're in this together now.
Aaranay, District 9 Male
Quiltan and Randolph haven't said a word to Aaranay today. Didn't even glance his way at lunch. Milljana's settled in with the other younger kids, their alliance seemingly solid. Aaranay keeps his head down, identifying poisonous bugs while trying to ignore the growing weight of isolation. The reality is hitting him hard now—few tributes make it through the Games alone. The only one he can remember is Clementine Coumbassa from the Quarter Quell. But he's not Clementine. She was tough, rumored to have done time for rioting during the Seventy-Fourth Games. The Capitol's worked hard to bury that, but the whispers linger.
Hector told Aaranay to give it his all, and he has. But most of the tributes have already formed alliances or are determined to face the arena solo. His conversation with Zinnia, the eighteen-year-old from District 6, this morning didn't yield much. She wasn't exactly chatty, but it was clear her mentor had pushed her to seek out allies. She didn't reveal much, but Aaranay pieced together what he could from the few scraps she let slip.
She's probably from a rough part of District 6—tough, resourceful, with the kind of grit that comes from scraping by. The way she talked about her work, all technical and intricate, she's likely apprenticing as a mechanic. She seemed decent enough, but neither of them was keen on forming an alliance.
Hector's voice nags at Aaranay, urging him to connect with the other tributes. He sighs, scanning the gymnasium until he spots the boy from District 3 crafting a fish hook. Someone he hasn't really considered yet. He makes his way over. The boy doesn't glance up when Aaranay approaches, but the irritation etched on his face as he fumbles with the fish hooks offers a small opening.
"Having trouble?"
A brief, scowling look is his only response. Aaranay expects to be ignored, but after a tense moment, the boy's scowl softens. "We don't fish in District 3."
"Not many lakes in District 9 either. The ones with fish are off-limits."
The boy sighs, tucking some dark hair behind his ear. "You must be desperate to strike up a conversation with me."
Aaranay's brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I saw you with Quiltan and Randolph yesterday. They've been with Lena from District 5 today, and here you are, alone. I'm probably the last loner standing, and I'm guessing your mentor told you to make friends. Mine did too. My district partner forgot about our agreement to stick together the moment we stepped into this gymnasium."
"So, what? You're not interested in allies?"
The boy from 3 shakes his head. "When did I say that? That's a whole new sentence. I'm open to allies. I just need to know what you bring to the table if, hypothetically, we end up in the arena together."
"Well," Aaranay starts, "I'm fast. Stealthy. Used to steal back in 9. I can go hungry for a while, and I'm resourceful." He pauses. "What about you? This works both ways, you know."
"Fair enough. I'm smart, can set a mean trap, run fast, and if the conditions are right, I could pull off a Beetee."
"Is he your mentor?"
"Yeah."
"What's a 'Beetee'? I recognize the name, but…"
"He won the Thirty-Fifth," Telemi explains. "District 3's second victor. He electrocuted a whole group of tributes, the last ones besides him. Led them into a trap and fried the lot."
Aaranay leans back. "That's… intense."
Telemi shrugs. "He did what he had to. I'd do the same if it came to that. Name's Telemi."
He offers his hand. Aaranay hesitates, eyes lingering on his unfinished fish hook. Telemi strikes him as the type who might stab an ally in the back the first chance he gets. And what if he's bluffing? There's no way to verify anything right now. Aaranay studies the boy's ashen face, trying to read between the lines.
"I'm up for it if you are," Aaranay says. "Name's Aaranay."
Telemi nods, considering. "Loose alliance then? We split if we hit the top eight."
"Deal."
For the rest of the day, Aaranay sticks close to his new ally, weaving through the gymnasium stations together. Hector will be pleased he's done as told. Telemi shares tips while they work on traps, the kind that can drop a tribute into a pit or leave them dangling by the foot. Aaranay chimes in during shelter-building. All that time spent fixing things around the orphanage for House Mother, plus a few tricks he picked up from local Peacekeepers, finally comes in handy.
It's awkward, but survival has a way of bridging the gap. With alliances forming left and right, neither Aaranay nor Telemi can afford to be alone in an arena teeming with tight-knit groups.
By four in the afternoon, Atala gathers the tributes in the center of the room, just like she did on the first morning. Back then, it was just the six Careers standing together, but now she's surrounded by clusters of kids, scattered like shrubs across the floor.
"Today was your final full day of training," Atala tells them, her voice steady. "Tomorrow, you'll have half a day at the stations. After lunch, you'll be called in for private sessions with the Gamemakers. Use your remaining time wisely. Focus on the skills you want to showcase. You'll be called in district order, males before females. Good luck."
As the tributes start to file out, Aaranay watches her pull Milljana and her allies aside near the door. He fights the urge to eavesdrop—she's probably just offering them some extra reassurance. When he reaches the elevator, he walks Telemi to the third floor, says goodbye, and then waits for Milljana to catch up. "What'd Atala want?"
Milljana gives him a sharp look, uncomfortable but, to his surprise, not dismissive. She's been pissed at him since last night when she caught on to him avoiding her during training. Now, she confirms it.
"She was telling us what to watch for in the arena."
"Like what?"
Her eyes narrow. "You don't need the advantage, Aaranay. You're old enough to figure it out."
She slams the apartment door behind her, the edge brushing his face as it closes.
Day Three
Sirena, District 4 Female
The air in the training center hums with a tension that sticks to the skin. One of the trainers pulled the Inner-Alliance over for a 'challenge', right before the private sessions with the Gamemakers. The task is deceptively simple—retrieve a flag from the heart of an obstacle course. But it isn't about the flag. It's about the power that comes with it. It's a test of dominance, a chance to decide who stands at the head of the Career Pack. And Sirena and Atticus, both stubborn and hungry for the lead, have been circling one another since the opening ceremonies through the city.
The horn blares. Tributes scatter. Atticus lunges forward, all force and fury, like a bull breaking loose. He doesn't need precision. He never has. Raw power, unrelenting and direct, has always worked for him. He tears through the course, shoving others aside, eyes locked on his prize.
Sirena moves like a current, swift and sure, while Atticus tears through the maze like a beast with no thought but brute force. She keeps her distance, studying the others as they scatter in the chaos left in his wake. Atticus might be stronger, but strength sin't everything. Sirena knows how to bide her time, waiting for the right moment, slipping through unnoticed while the others are caught up in the storm.
When she sees her chance, she darts forward, swift and silent. Atticus is too busy shouldering his way past the others to see her reach the center. Her fingers closed around the flag just as he's still muscling his way through, and she barges past him with a heavy shoulder.
"Oops."
The roar from Kegan and the Twos barely registers. What matters is the flag in her hand—the proof she outplayed him. She glances up, catching Atticus's eyes just as he stops, the disbelief on his face sharp, turning into something darker. He stalks toward her, his expression hardening with each step.
"What the fuck is your problem, Sirena," he growls, voice low and simmering with anger. "Think your fancy footwork will save you in the arena?"
She meets his glare with cool indifference, fingers tightening around the flag. Let him seethe. She doesn't need to fight him here. Not yet.
Sirena's smile barely shifts as she lowers the flag, her eyes locked on his. "It's not about saving myself, Atticus. It's about winning. And I just did."
The world shrinks, the murmur of the other tributes disappearing into nothing.
Atticus' fists clench. "You didn't win. You hid behind tricks, let me do all the work, then swooped in like a coward," he snaps, his voice sharp, anger dripping from each word.
Her smile holds, but the glint in her eyes sharpens, a challenge sparking beneath her calm. "You're so fixated on brute strength, you've forgotten how to think. While you were too busy beating your chest, I was winning the game. But then again, I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Say that again," he growls, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her. The space between them crackles with tension, like a match struck, waiting to ignite.
Sirena doesn't flinch, meeting his gaze with a cold defiance. "You're a fool if you think muscles alone are going to win this. And you're an even bigger fool if you think I'm scared of you."
Atticus snaps.
He lunges, fist swinging wide. Sirena ducks, her body reacting on instinct, but he's quicker than she expected. Another swing, and she's forced to sidestep, barely slipping past the strike. Their movements blur—her agility against his brute strength. Atticus presses forward, relentless, his aim clear. He wants her pinned, to crush her under his weight. Sirena's hands move on instinct, catching his wrist, spinning to throw him off-balance, but his strength holds. He twists free, driving her back with sheer force. She stumbles, and before she can recover, his weight slams her to the ground, one hand clamping around her throat.
For a heartbeat, everything stills. Her breath comes shallow, her pulse quickening, but her eyes stay sharp, locked on his. "What's your plan, Atticus?" she says, voice tight but unwavering. "Kill me here? In front of everyone? Get rid of me before the games because you're not confident you'll beat me in the arena?"
Her words slice through his rage, a momentary hesitation flickering in his eyes. It's enough. She drives her knee into his ribs, hard and fast, forcing a grunt from him as he loosens his grip. In a fluid motion, Sirena twists out from beneath him, springing to her feet as Atticus staggers back, clutching his side, gasping for air.
Before either can make another move, Kegan and Luscious rush in, pulling them apart as Peacekeepers flood the space, barking commands. But the damage is already done.
Atala storms over, her voice sharp and cutting. "Enough!" Her gaze snaps between them. "Separate stations. Now."
Sirena shrugs off the hands holding her back, chest rising and falling as she forces herself to turn away, her back rigid with the fury still simmering beneath the surface. Atticus remains rooted in place, his broad shoulders heaving, eyes locked on Sirena with a silent, dark promise.
The room, once bound by shared ambition, now feels split down the middle. Luscious, Paula, and the two outliers, drawn to strength and dominance, drift toward Atticus, their loyalty clear in the silence. Albinus and Kegan, those who value precision and strategy, find themselves inching closer to Sirena. The Inner-Alliance, once a united force, is beginning to fracture.
Sirena meets Atticus' gaze one last time before walking away. They both know this isn't over. Not even close.
Atticus, District 1 Male
"Let it go, Atticus. You need to keep the alliance intact. Otherwise, you know how it ends—another outlier sneaks in and grabs the win." Albinus leans back, arms crossed, watching him closely.
Atticus grits his teeth, shaking his head. "She's impossible. Always playing the righteous act, like she's too good to follow the plan. If she wants to be the star of her own show, fine. Let her go it alone—I'm not carrying dead weight."
"You realize," Albinus says, voice low, "if you don't fix this soon, it'll be the first time since the sixty-eighth we go into the arena divided."
Atticus scoffs, rolling his eyes. "We're not those fools. Why are you worried? District 2 won that year."
Before Albinus can respond, the door swings open. A Gamemaker, draped in purple, sweeps into the room, her robe swirling with every step. "Atticus Rosseau, District 1. We'll see you now."
Atticus glances at Albinus, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Why don't you go have another chat with her? Maybe you can talk her down from that pedestal she's on. She might actually listen to you."
Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides after the Gamemaker, leaving Albinus behind. The conversation had told him everything he needed to know: they needed him. He had them exactly where he wanted them—wrapped around his finger, whether they knew it or not.
The gymnasium is eerily quiet when he steps inside, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days. The trainers stand at their stations, waiting, watching. Atticus doesn't hesitate. He walks straight to the rack, his fingers grazing over the polished blades until he finds the one he wants. A sleek, silver sword.
As he grips the hilt, the weight of the weapon grounds him. His pulse steadies, each beat a reminder of the expectation that comes with being from District 1. They're supposed to be the best. To outshine the rest. And Atticus isn't about to fall short. Not now. Not ever.
The clink of steel echoes through the training center as Atticus steps into place, each movement deliberate, every gesture honed. His muscles move with fluid precision, the arc of his sword cutting cleanly through the air, measured to catch the eye. Somewhere above, the Gamemakers sit, their expressions masked, but he knows they're watching. Always watching.
He thrusts forward, and for a heartbeat, everything fades—the hum of the air conditioning, the rise and fall of his breath. All that remains is the weight of the sword in his hand, the trainer before him, and the heavy mantle of expectation pressing down on his shoulders.
His blade locks with the trainer's, their gazes meeting for a split second. The trainer's disinterested expression grates against him, and Atticus pushes harder, leaning into the clash. The trainer's brow tightens, just barely, but it's enough. Atticus doubles down, his strikes growing sharper, faster, turning the fight into a dance of precision and power. This is what District 1 is known for—grace and strength. He won't fall short of it. He'll surpass it.
His sword arcs through the air, limbs twisting in sync, crossing and spinning in perfect rhythm. He lets the pattern consume him, dodging the trainer's blows, waiting for the slightest opening before striking with purpose. For a moment, he isn't just a tribute—he's an artist, a brush sweeping across a canvas, leaving behind a trail of carefully crafted violence. The world around him disappears, and in the blur of movement, he finds clarity.
The trainer switches tactics, bringing his sword up in a sharp, unexpected arc. Atticus moves to counter, shifting his weight, but his footwork falters. His left leg bears too much, and he slips. For a moment, it feels like the world slows—then he hits the ground hard. A searing pain shoots up his leg, sharp enough to take his breath away.
He looks down, eyes wide with disbelief, at the metal blade lodged in his flesh.
"Fuck!" The word tears from his throat as he curls inward, instinctively clutching at the wound. Blood pours out, staining the marble floor, thick and dark. His hands press against the gash, but even the slightest touch sends waves of pain rippling through him, forcing him to jerk back. He catches a glimpse of the trainer's face, pale and sickly, before everything around him turns into a blur of shocked gasps and murmurs from above. The Gamemakers. Of course, they're watching. Always watching. He can feel their eyes on him, feel the weight of their judgment.
A medic is called. Hands reach for him, and suddenly he's lifted onto a stretcher, carried out of the gymnasium like some broken thing. He barely registers the blood dripping down his leg, the throbbing pain that follows each heartbeat. All he can think about is the humiliation, how badly he's ruined everything. A District 1 tribute—downed in front of the Gamemakers, a spectacle of failure. It's the kind of thing expected from the weaker districts, but not from him. Never from him.
He can't stop the tears any more than he could stop the blood. They slip from his eyes, unchecked, as the medics work around him. They murmur reassurances, mistaking the tears for pain. Atticus doesn't correct them. How could he explain that the pain gnawing at him isn't from the wound?
A few minutes later, Augustus walks in, settling beside him as they stitch the gash in his leg.
"Capitol medicine's quick," Augustus says, his voice steady, meant to soothe. "You'll be fine for the arena."
Atticus keeps his eyes on the ceiling, rigid and silent, the humiliation hanging over him like a thick cloud. Augustus talks on, trying to comfort him, but none of it sticks. His mind is trapped, playing the moment on a loop—his foot slipping, the blade piercing through flesh, the blood, the stunned gasps of the Gamemakers. He's supposed to be their star, their perfect tribute. How could he play the part now, after this?
A woman enters, probably one of the medics, though he hadn't noticed her before. "Your leg should be healed enough to walk on by tomorrow," she says calmly. "Just take it easy until then. It'll be fine."
Her words barely register. Atticus can only think about what they won't say—the embarrassment. The weakness. The failure.
"Alright, let's head back," Augustus says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Atticus limps through the hallways, each step a pulse of pain that digs deeper into his pride. The bandage around his leg is too tight, squeezing like it's the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. Augustus moves ahead, his gait smooth and easy, a sharp contrast to Atticus' slow drag, the limp that makes every step heavier. With each stride, the shame rolls over him again, the image of his fall looping endlessly in his head. He's supposed to be District 1's best—flawless, unbreakable.
In the elevator, the soft hum fills the silence. Atticus stares at his reflection in the metal doors, pale and drawn, looking more like a ghost than a victor-in-training. They'll be waiting for him upstairs—his mentors, their eyes sharp and dissecting, the ones who placed their faith in him, who expected nothing but dominance. Now, after this, he'll have to face them.
The doors slide open, and the low murmur of voices hits his ears. Augustus steps out first, nodding to the room, casual and composed. Atticus hesitates, his breath catching, the weight of their judgment already heavy before he even crosses the threshold. He forces himself to straighten, as much as his leg will allow, and steps forward.
The moment Atticus steps inside, the room falls into a heavy silence. District 1's mentors, arranged in a tight semicircle, all look up at once. Venus, sharp-eyed and fierce, leans back in her chair with arms crossed, the tension in her posture unmistakable. Normally, she's composed, but something personal has her on edge, and today it shows. Gloss tilts his head slightly, his gaze calm, calculating, as he gives Atticus a once-over. Even Cashmere, who's always quick with encouragement, stays silent, her eyes shadowed with disappointment.
Each step forward feels like dragging a weight behind him. The quiet stretches thin, pressing in on all sides, but Atticus can't bring himself to break it. His throat tightens, words sticking there like stones. Augustus shifts beside him, offering a muted reassurance. "He'll be fine by morning."
No one acknowledges it. The air crackles with the tension, until Venus speaks, her voice a sharp edge. "Fine doesn't cut it, Augustus."
Atticus swallows, the dryness in his mouth making it hard to respond. He knows what's coming.
"You slipped," Venus' gaze pierces through him, unrelenting. "District 1 tributes don't slip. We don't show weakness. We set the standard."
Cashmere's voice cuts in next, softer but no less damning. "You've got one chance, Atticus. The Gamemakers are watching your every move. You need to prove you belong under that spotlight, that you're not just another face in the lineup."
"I know," he finally croaks, his voice raw. "I won't mess up again."
Gloss leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady, voice low. "This isn't just about you, Atticus. You're carrying every tribute who came before. District 1 doesn't accept failure. You fall, you come back stronger. Show them why they should be afraid."
His leg pulses, the pain pushing at the edges of his focus, but he keeps his face unreadable. He won't let them see anything else slip. He's meant to be invincible, a future victor, someone who stands shoulder to shoulder with the legends seated around him.
Venus moves, crossing the space toward him, her steps sharp. She's smaller than him, but her presence makes the air feel heavier. Her eyes lock onto his, cold, searching, and for a second, her lips curl—not a smile, but something close. "Good," she says, her voice like ice. "Because if you don't, someone else will make sure you don't reach the Cornucopia."
He doesn't blink. He nods, steady, meeting her eyes. "I won't let District 1 down again."
The mentors disperse without another word, leaving him standing alone, Augustus watching from the corner, silent. The sting of humiliation is still there, gnawing at him, but underneath, something else has begun to spark. He's fallen, but he'll rise again—stronger, sharper, ruthless.
The Capitol wants a show. He'll give them something they'll never forget.
Mercurie, District 5 Male
The smell of roasted vegetables fills the air, mingling with the richer, heavier scent of simmering meat. But Mercurie barely registers it. He's seated at the far end of the sleek table, pushing food around his plate without really looking at it. The Capitol's meals are too much for him—overwhelming, indulgent—but it isn't the food that's sitting like a stone in his gut.
The quiet is broken by the sharp clink of Emrys' knife against his plate.
"Not eating?" Emrys doesn't ask so much as observe, his eyebrow lifting just slightly. He's always watching, always on edge, scanning for weakness. Mercurie knows it. He doesn't bother looking up, just shakes his head.
"Not hungry," he mutters, though he isn't sure if it's true. The heaviness in his chest has nothing to do with the untouched food in front of him and everything to do with the last words his father had thrown at him before he left. That fight keeps looping through his mind, relentless.
Emrys doesn't press, not yet. But the silence thickens, tightening around the room with every bite Emrys takes, the unspoken words hovering between them.
"Lot on your mind," Emrys says, not bothering to make it a question. "Bet it's not just nerves. Something else eating at you?"
Mercurie closes his eyes, tries to shove the memory down, but it surfaces anyway. His father's voice, rough and sharp with disappointment, still rings in his ears. "You're fucking unbelievable," he'd spat at the old man, eyes narrowing into something cold, unreadable.
His father had retorted. "Show us some respect!"
The door had slammed on their way out, the sound still reverberating in his chest. His heart had raced like he'd just fought a battle he wasn't sure he'd won. It's the last time they'll ever speak. Even if he makes it out of the arena alive, he knows he won't speak to his father again.
"Mercurie?" Emrys' voice slices through the fog, grounding him.
He blinks, realizing Emrys has stopped eating, brown eyes fixed on him.
His mentor nods, slow and deliberate. "Lot to deal with—everything's upside down in here." He taps his temple. "But don't let it take you off track. The Games start soon. You can't afford to lose focus now."
Mercurie's jaw tightens. He nods, stiff and reluctant. As much as he hates it, Emrys is right. Focus is all that matters now.
Emrys isn't done. "Speaking of distractions…" His words stumble out, awkward, like he doesn't quite know how to ease into it. "How's the alliance holding up?"
Mercurie's pulse ticks faster at the mention of Sirena and Atticus. The rift between them had cracked the group wide open. Days of tension finally boiled over—both too proud to back down, too stubborn to be wrong.
"They're… not speaking," he says quietly, every word dragged out. "The alliance is fractured. Sirena and Atticus won't let it go." His hand drifts through his hair, fingers knotting in frustration. "It's a mess."
Tanager Lowe raises an eyebrow, watching him carefully. "No way to fix it?"
Lena's eyes flick toward him for the first time, a glint of something amused crossing her face.
Mercurie shakes his head. "They're not acting professional. No matter what anyone says, they're still at each other's throats."
Tanager's eyebrow lifts beside Emrys. "No fixing it?"
Lena's eyes flick toward Mercurie for the first time that evening, a glint of interest, maybe amusement, in her gaze.
"They won't be professional." Mercurie shakes his head. "Doesn't matter what anyone says. They're still at each other's throats."
A faint, humorless smile tugs at Emrys' lips. "That's a problem. Weakens all of you. Makes you vulnerable."
"I know." Mercurie's voice sharpens, frustration simmering beneath the surface. It's not like he hasn't tried. Mediating, keeping the group steady—it hasn't mattered. They're both too locked into their pride.
Emrys leans back, his eyes narrowing, calculating. "Could work in your favor—if you play it right. Don't get tangled in their mess. Keep your head. Watch, but don't let them pull you under."
Mercurie stares at his plate, food untouched, cooling. His father's voice, Emrys' warning, Sirena and Atticus tearing each other apart—it all swirls in his mind, relentless. Yet amid the chaos, something clicks, something sharper. He won't let this break him. Whatever comes next, he'll be ready.
The scent of roasted vegetables still hangs in the air as they move to the main area, the television screen flickering to life. Mercurie stays slouched at the edge of the couch, barely bothering to straighten up. His eyes are fixed on the screen, waiting for the scores, for anything that might pull him from the storm inside his head.
The traditional Inner-Alliance tributes pull a mix of nines and 'll be the highest scores this year—no surprise.
Mercurie's pulse quickens. His name is next. He knows how the session went, knows he pushed himself, showed off the sword skills and athleticism he'd crammed into his body these past few days. But still, a knot tightens in his chest.
Emrys watches the screen, his expression unreadable.
Then it comes: Mercurie. Eight.
The number hangs there, weighted with expectation. His chest tightens, but it's not nerves anymore. It's something sharper. He exhales slowly, just enough to release the tension, but keeps his face neutral. Emrys doesn't say a word, just gives a subtle nod—barely there, but enough.
Lena leans forward as her score flashes: Six. Solid, respectable. She lets out a quiet breath, not surprised, just satisfied. It's enough to keep her in the running, enough to avoid unwanted attention.
She glances at Mercurie, a brief flicker of approval crossing her face. She earned her six, but an eight—that's a step further. She nods at him, a silent acknowledgment, a truce.
"Well," Emrys murmurs, voice low. "That's a start."
Tanager tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Looks like there's some fire in you after all."
Mercurie doesn't respond, just watches the rest of the scores roll by. The alliance is still fractured. Sirena and Atticus are still at war. But with that eight under his name, the Games pressing closer, one thing is certain: he's made his mark.
Other high scores flash occasionally—the girl from District 6, Harry, Earlene Abrahams from 10, both tributes from 11. All with eights, like him. The rest settle for sixes or sevens.
Mercurie meets Emrys' gaze, a silent exchange between them. This year, everyone's here to fight. Mercurie clasps at his shirt buttons, unsure of just how smart it will be if he sticks with Alliance.