Mercurie Anselmetti Favero
"You look sharp, kid."
"Thanks." Mercurie rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the mirror. He barely recognizes himself. The prep team had pulled out all the stops—his suit a deep maroon, ruffled and ornate, like something from a Victorian drama. It's hard to connect the dots between energy—the supposed theme—and this. His stylist called it 'romantic,' playing into his growing popularity in the Capitol. He thinks of Finnick Odair and all the attention that had swarmed around him. The thought makes his stomach twist, though he can't quite pin down why.
Isaac stands beside him, looking surprisingly put together for someone who hasn't slept in two days. He rests a hand on Mercurie's shoulders. "You'll be fine. Don't let nerves get to you."
Mercurie shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not nervous."
Isaac lets out a dry laugh. "Kid, I've been through this more times than I can count. You all say that." He gestures to a small table near the wall. "Come sit with me for a minute."
They settle in, Isaac folding his legs under the table, while Mercurie stretches his out to the side, the stiffness in his shoulders not quite loosening.
Isaac studies him for a moment, the silence hanging heavy. "Something's bothering you. You need to talk about it before you go into the arena. If your head's not clear, you'll lose it—both ways."
Mercurie sighs, his finger tracing idle patterns along the glass. Tiny flecks of gold shimmer between the layers, and he circles them absently.
"Before we left District 5, I had this fight with my father. He's always been... selfish. Dismissive. And when we said goodbye, he made it all about him. I'd been holding it in for so long, and I just—lost it. Said things I never thought I'd say. Now, I'm regretting it. That's probably the last time I'll ever see him, and that's how we left it. It's eating me alive."
Isaac is quiet for a moment, watching the same gold flecks. Eventually, he starts tapping the glass too, like it might help. "I don't know if this'll do you any good, but if you don't make it out... it won't matter, will it?"
Mercurie shakes his head. "No, that doesn't help. I don't want that to be the legacy I leave behind. When my brother has kids, I don't want them hearing stories about their uncle who blew up at their grandfather and never came back."
Isaac raises a brow. "Did he deserve it? The mayor always seemed like a real piece of work."
Mercurie hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. He did."
"Then what's the problem? You're better off for letting it out. Bottling all that up, going into this with that weight on you—it's better you released it. If you don't come back, your brother will set things right. He'll make sure they remember you for who you are, not for one argument."
The thought of his family moving on without him for decades hits hard, but Mercurie pushes it away. He's been doing that since the Reaping, and now isn't the time to let it take over. He can't ruin the makeup his prep team spent hours perfecting.
"There are moments when I still see the man he used to be. Before he became mayor, before everything changed. I just wish he hadn't... turned into this. He was a good person once, but if that was real, he never should've become the asshole he is now."
Isaac doesn't say anything, and Mercurie doesn't expect him to. It's not his job to fix Mercurie's problems. Eight years of mentoring, eight tributes who never came back—how many conversations like this has he had with kids whose minds are elsewhere? They sit in the quiet, the ticking of a clock filling the space between them. Mercurie checks the time at some point—still a couple of hours before he and Lena have to face Caesar Flickerman on that stage.
"I'm going to get something to eat," Mercurie says eventually. He appreciates Isaac sitting with him, but the room feels like it's closing in, every breath heavier than the last. The talk helped a little with the weight of his father, but now the looming interview has taken its place, coiling tight in his chest.
He finds Lena at the table, dressed in a midnight blue gown, her brown hair swept back in a bun that looks almost regal. She's got a plate full of tiny pies, one halfway to her mouth when she catches his eye.
"You look nice," he says.
Her cheeks flush under her makeup. "Thanks. You too, I guess. Not— I didn't mean 'I guess' in a rude way, just that... this is all kind of crazy."
"Agreed."
He grabs a couple of apples, settling across from Lena. As he watches her, a sudden realization hits—he doesn't want her to die. They're not close, barely even friendly, but if she's gone in the arena, and he survives with the Alliance, the emptiness will be unbearable. Loneliness, sharper than any spear.
Isaac follows, taking a seat beside him with a steaming cup of coffee. Out of nowhere, Mercurie's mind drifts to Isaac's old district partner, the one who died in the sixty-ninth games years ago. He can't remember her name. No one remembers the losers. The weight of that truth crashes down on him—he and Lena, too, will be like Isaac's forgotten partner, buried and rotting in the Tribute Graveyard, names fading with time. He suddenly feels the urge to reach across the table, to hold Lena, to stop that future from coming for them.
Folant Fling, District 5's mentor for the past ten years, takes a seat next to Lena. Moments later, Wren Guerro joins them on her other side. The five of them sit together, eating in a silence that feels far too loud. Folant, at least, looks as tense as the others. He's alright for a Capitolite, Mercurie thinks, decent even. The calm here should feel comforting, but all Mercurie can sense is the doom creeping closer. Tomorrow could be the end. He might never see another sunset.
He swallows hard, pushing back the panic. Tonight, he'll make sure to watch the sun go down.
Atticus Rosseau
Naevius handles the area around Atticus' healing leg like he's working with glass, smoothing out the pant leg with an almost comical level of care. Atticus rolls his eyes. It's not like the old man sees anything beyond the leg, hovering over it like it might shatter at any moment.
One hour left until he and Luscious are taken to Caesar Flickerman's stage. District 1 is always expected to start the show flawlessly—beautiful tributes bantering with Caesar, warming up the crowd before the later districts stumble through their interviews.
Atticus and Luscious have swapped palettes from the opening ceremonies—now Atticus is draped in green to match his eyes, while Luscious sparkles in blue, radiant as the sapphires he wore on the chariot. Naevius and Pellinore, Luscious' stylist, are smug about the symmetry. Atticus can't help but think it's a little too simple. Effective, sure, but simple.
They step into the main area of the apartment to show off Naevius' work. The mentors give approving nods, but Atticus feels his stomach twist as their eyes rake over him, as if they're measuring every inch, silently reminding him of his mistake in the private session two days ago.
He catches the subtle glances between them—the way their eyes flicker from his leg to his face, back again, like they're waiting for any sign of weakness. It's infuriating. Even their approval feels calculated, barely acknowledging Naevius' craft, while holding back any hint of real pride. They're not about to let him forget he's on thin ice.
He shifts his weight, feeling the pull on his leg, but forces himself not to grimace. No one mentions the injury—they don't need to. The silence is enough, hanging heavy between him and the mentors. He knows what they're thinking: Atticus Rosseau, the pride of District 1, almost shattered their perfect image with one careless mistake.
Luscious, glowing in her blue gown, gives him a weak smile, but even that feels distant, her mind already on her own performance. He doesn't blame her. She doesn't have anything to prove. But him? He's still carrying his failure like a weight he can't shake.
His fists clench at his sides, jaw tight as he pulls his face into something neutral, something untouchable. He's spent years perfecting this look—strong, unbreakable—but now, with the mentors watching him like he might fall apart at any second, he feels anything but. Tonight is everything. One more mistake and the cracks in his armor will show, obvious to everyone.
And District 1 doesn't forgive cracks.
He barely hears Naevius and Pellinore's instructions as they're led toward the elevator. Luscious walks beside him, her blue dress sweeping the floor, quiet except for the rustle of fabric. Naevius is there too, stiff, offering nothing but a glance. No words of reassurance, no comments on his performance. The message is clear: it's all on him now.
The elevator doors slide open to the chaos of backstage. Capitol workers dart around, setting the stage for the spectacle about to unfold. Luscious is whisked ahead by Pellinore, her dress shimmering under the harsh lights. Atticus follows, pulse pounding in his ears. He tries to call up the confidence he's always relied on, but all he can see is the way the mentors looked at him upstairs—the doubt in their eyes.
Luscious glances at him, her smile faltering just a little. "Hey," she says, her voice too bright. "You'll kill it up there. Like always."
Atticus snorts, reflexive, without humor. "Right. Falling flat on my ass two days ago really locked that in."
She winces but quickly recovers, her eyes flicking nervously toward the stage entrance. "That was nothing. The audience doesn't know, and by the time Caesar's done with you, they'll be eating out of your hand." She flashes a grin, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're still Atticus Rosseau. One little slip-up doesn't change that."
But he hears the doubt in her voice, same as his. She's trying, but they both know better. The distance between him and everyone else has been growing since the training gym. The mentors aren't the only ones who look at him differently—Luscious, for all her playing nice, isn't really on his side anymore. Not like before. They're all just waiting for him to mess up again. One more slip, and it's over.
"Thanks," he mutters, though it feels hollow. He's not sure she believes it. He doesn't, either.
Before he can dwell on it, the audience roars, the hum of excitement swelling. Luscious moves ahead, already slipping into the Capitol's expectations—charming, poised, untouchable. The program hasn't even begun.
Atticus follows, each step heavier than the last as the noise crescendos. Whatever they think of him back in the apartment doesn't matter. Here, under Caesar's practiced smile and the blinding lights, he has to become something else. Invincible.
And he has no choice but to fake it.
As he steps into the corner, the weight of his failure begins to shift, morphing into something sharper. A nine. The Gamemakers had spared him. Out of pity or calculation, he doesn't care. He's still standing, with a score high enough to quiet the whispers, at least for now. He knows he's lucky—another tribute would've been gutted for a mistake like his, buried with a score that sealed their fate. But not him. District 1 still has a shot, and it's because the Gamemakers gave him one.
Now, he owes them. The pressure hums under his skin, more intense than ever. They expect something from him—something spectacular, something bloody. They handed him this lifeline, and he knows what that means. He has to deliver in the arena. No room for another misstep, no forgiveness left.
Atticus swallows, steeling himself. He'll give them what they want. He has to.
Netta Maekawa
District 3 sits wedged between all the Loyalists, a tough spot to stand out in. Unless Netta pulls off something spectacular, like Peeta Mellark did for 12 last year, she'll fade into the background. Her training score of seven is solid, but nothing that'll leave a lasting mark on the Capitol's glittering crowd. They'll forget her as soon as she steps off the stage.
She and Telemi linger awkwardly near the edge, watching the square fill up with vibrant Capitolites. Their outfits match—sort of. He's in a sleek tux, she in a black gown that sweeps the floor, both outfits catching the light from tiny gems scattered like stars across the fabric. The stylists had them done up like circuit boards, ignoring Netta's repeated protests that her family runs a grocery. Telemi doesn't seem to mind, though—he was in IT classes back home, so the theme feels right for him.
A woman with an earpiece and clipboard flits between tributes, scribbling notes with a bright blue pen. Netta glances at the stage, eyes trailing down the line of mostly empty seats where everyone will eventually gather. She and Telemi are early, too early. The blond pair from District 1 are already seated, along with a couple from District 11, and the tributes from District 7.
With a glance at the stage crew, Netta slips down to the middle of the row, casually standing next to Oakley in the spot reserved for District 6's male tribute.
"Doing okay?" she asks, keeping her voice low.
Oakley startles, her hazel eyes—brightened by the intricate makeup dusted across her cheeks—widening. "Are you supposed to be here?"
Netta gives a half-shrug, gesturing around. "No one's kicked me out yet. I'll move before District 6 shows up."
Oakley looks her over, eyebrows knitting together in mild confusion.
"Circuit board," Netta explains, a little embarrassed. "Not as easy to pull off as roses."
Oakley's dressed to mimic a crimson flower, her gown elegant and bold, while Netta... Netta looks like a walking piece of tech, wires and buttons sewn into her fabric. She can't help the flicker of envy. A flower-themed gown—now that's something she'd wear in a heartbeat.
Her attention drifts as the District 5 tributes arrive. Oakley follows her gaze. The boy, Mercurie, stands out—one of the better-looking tributes this year, with sharp green eyes that seem to scan every room he enters, always calculating. His brown hair's slicked back, fanning out slightly at his neck. The set of his jaw, the way his frown deepens—he's in a mood, clearly.
Not your typical District 5 tribute, Netta thinks. Usually, they stick with the tech-savvy crowd from District 3, forming easy alliances based on shared skills. She supposes she and him have that in common.
"He seems intense," Oakley murmurs. "He's with the Careers."
Netta snorts. "They'll spear him before the first week's out."
Oakley shoots her a sideways glance. "He got an eight for a reason, Netta. They're not letting him go that easy."
Netta shrugs again, nonchalant. "Doesn't matter. I'm not planning on crossing paths with him in the arena. We'll be up in a tree, remember?"
The silence between them grows comfortable, the kind that doesn't need filling. Tributes continue to cross to the stage in pairs. Netta notices the duo from District 10—close, though they hadn't seemed to interact much during training. The boy's with the younger kids, and Earlene's allied with Zinnia from District 6. Netta's eyes trace the wiry muscle on Earlene's bare arms, visible thanks to the sleeveless dress. She pictures those hands snapping chicken necks back home, the tension in her arms as she twists. A wave of nausea rises, but she forces it down.
"I'm nervous," Netta admits, her voice quieter than usual. "We're about to be on national television."
Oakley nods. "It's strange, right? Everything looks so much smaller on a screen."
Netta fights the urge to draw her knees up, to curl into herself. Any other year, she'd be home with her parents, half-watching, pretending not to care. They only watched because they had to. She longs for that living room, the worn rug beneath her feet, the leather couch. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but this stage, standing in front of thousands, with less than a day before—possible death, she reminds herself. Possible.
"What did Johanna tell you to talk about?" Netta asks, forcing herself back to the moment.
"Home," Oakley replies. "I'm smaller than most, so I guess the more childlike I seem, the more sympathy I'll get."
"It's kind of like her strategy," Netta muses. "Except you're not hiding that you're deadly. You're just letting them blame themselves for underestimating you."
Oakley raises her eyebrows. "Huh. I didn't think of it that way. What did your mentor suggest?"
"Everyday older sister." Netta smiles faintly. "I'm starting to think our mentors have been talking."
District 6's tributes are making their way over. Netta pats Oakley's arm. "See you tomorrow?"
Oakley offers a weak smile. "See you then. Remember the plan."
Netta nods and slips back into her spot between Albinus Tivoli from District 2 and Telemi. The plan she and Oakley made is simple enough: escape the Bloodbath, find each other, grab whatever they can, and vanish into the arena. They'll figure out the rest once they know the terrain.
The hum of thousands of Capitolites fills the air, a low rumble of impatience. Caesar Flickerman's out now, warming up the crowd, his voice booming. Netta's stomach churns. The interviews will start any minute now.
Over the next few minutes, the last of the tributes fall into line. The woman with the clipboard moves through the group, double-checking names and positions. She finishes with Amir Tremble from District 13, disappears behind the curtain for a moment, then returns with a new pen.
Then, it's time. They head for the stage.
Sirena Salacia
The interviews. Sirena's dreaded them all week—sitting across from that manic Capitol man, talking about the life she's leaving behind once she's in that glass tube tomorrow. Her family loves Caesar's show, sees him as some harmless little creature, like a pet. But Sirena sees the sharpness in his eyes, the way he bends stories to fit whatever narrative the Gamemakers want. She doesn't trust him. It's not just because she finds him painfully unfunny. He'll probably bring up Thames. Finnick warned her—the Capitol's already dug up their old friendship. They eat that kind of thing up.
Caesar prances across the stage, welcoming the nation to the Hunger Games. Technically, these are the sixty-eighth interviews, but he still calls them "the seventy-seventh." The crowd laps up every word, screaming, cheering, shouting tributes' names at random. Sirena catches hers a few times. She can't decide whether to smirk or vomit on her heels.
The glow from the stage lights bleeds into the wings, casting a soft orange hue over the shadowy space where Atticus and Sirena stand, just out of sight. Caesar's voice drifts through, the Capitol crowd laughing on cue. A few more minutes until they're on. The silence between them is heavy, thick with the weight of everything they haven't said.
Sirena's arms are crossed, her face set like stone, eyes fixed ahead. Atticus leans against the wall, stealing glances at her when he thinks she won't notice. He hates how childish it feels, how stupid their fight seems now that they're about to face the Capitol. If they don't fix this, the alliance will stay broken—and worse, the Capitol might catch on.
"Look," Sirena starts, her voice low, barely cutting through the noise. "We can't keep doing this."
Atticus shifts but doesn't look at her. "Doing what?"
"This." She motions between them. "Acting like this. It's making us look like amateurs. We're better than... whatever this is."
Finally, she turns to face him, her eyes cold and cutting. "It's not my fault you're acting like you've already won. You want to call the shots, fine. But don't drag the rest of us down when it blows up in your face."
Atticus's face shows the sharp sting of her words but, he swallows the retort. "I'm not trying to take over. But you're right, we need to be on the same page. If we go out there divided, they'll rip us apart. Not in the way we want, either."
Sirena exhales, her arms falling to her sides as some of the tension eased. "You think I don't know that?"
A brief silence follows, broken only by the crowd's roar as Caesar cracks another joke Sirena barely registers.
"Fine," he says eventually, his voice losing its earlier bite. "We'll work together. For the alliance. But don't expect me to stand there and prop up your Capitol performance. I'm not playing second fiddle to your ego."
Sirena nods, a mix of relief and frustration simmering beneath her skin. "Fair enough. But tonight, let's give them what they want. Show them we're a team."
He holds her gaze for a moment longer, before offering a reluctant nod. "Alright. Let's get this over with."
The sharpness in his voice isn't gone, but it's enough. The alliance is still intact, even if only by a thread. They'd step onto that stage and give the Capitol what it demanded—unity, strength, the illusion of an unbreakable bond. Whatever else was between them would have to wait until tomorrow.
When Sirena and Atticus join the others, the weak cheers that greet them feel almost like a sigh of relief. Albinus grins, clapping Atticus on the back, while Kegan gives Sirena a quiet thumbs up.
"The gang's back together!" Albinus beams, his voice loud enough to fill the space.
A Capitol attendant waves them forward, gesturing for the tributes to line up. Sirena inhales sharply, feeling the weight of the cameras, the invisible pull to perform. She throws one last glance at Kegan.
"Let's do this," she mutters.
Thames has been quiet, tucked away in the back of her mind, but as Sirena steps onto the stage alongside twenty-five others, he emerges again. His face lingers, a shadow of the battles she'll face tomorrow. Tonight is all glitz, all Capitol glamour, but by this time tomorrow, some of these kids will be bleeding out. Two years ago, Thames stood where Kegan stands now. One of those kids with no idea he wouldn't be leaving the arena.
The Capitol crowd, a sea of color and noise, erupts as Sirena and the other tributes take their seats. The anthem screeches from speakers around the stage, shrill and relentless. The young boy from District 6 claps his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Sirena feels the prick of sympathy but forces it down.
Luscious is first in line, and when Sirena glances over, she's calm, poised, the pressure rolling off her like nothing. She tosses her hair back, smiling into the cameras as if she's done it a thousand times. Two tributes over, Paula radiates confidence—shoulders squared, head held high, her grin sharp and eager. Sirena's never quite understood where Four fits into the Career pack, and tonight, that question looms larger.
Resting her hands in her lap, Sirena gazes out at the crowd, an unexpected thought taking root. She doesn't want to be remembered for brute strength, even with that ten she earned in training. No, she wants them to see her mind. Galene said the crowd was curious, and Sirena knows it's true. There's a small, private satisfaction in keeping them guessing.
Galene coached her to show pride, confidence—but Paula seems to have that act covered. Sirena recalls the girl from District 5 a few years back, how she handled her interview with sharp intelligence, turning herself into a puzzle no one could solve. She made it to top three, her every move an enigma. Sirena imagines her own face on those screens, commentators picking apart her decisions, scrambling to get inside her head.
She smirks, just barely. Let them try. Making Caesar Flickerman's job difficult? That's something she's looking forward to.
Aaranay Varma
Milljana clings to Aaranay's arm, her sudden disdain from the past few days vanishing as they navigate through the tribute center. Their escort, Zephyrus Khan, moves too fast, and instead of slowing, he keeps stopping, waiting for them with barely concealed impatience.
Aaranay feels self-conscious for the first time since the reaping. Not even during the parade, when he was dressed like a rice field, did he feel like this. Now, in expensive clothes, he feels like a fraud. He pictures the kids at the orphanage, piled around the old TV, watching because they have to. What do they think of him? Hector told him to act focused, strong-willed—whatever that's supposed to mean. He thinks he pulled it off. He hopes the kids back home see through the angle, that they're not laughing at him now.
On the way to the elevators, he meets the eyes of a few other tributes. Telemi and his pretty district partner—Nessa, or something. Telemi nods at him, tight-lipped. Nessa just frowns. The boy from District 6, Aaron, looks ridiculous—barely thirteen, shaking like a leaf in a sleek tuxedo. Aaranay only remembers his name because it's so close to his own.
By the time they're riding back up to District 9's apartment, Milljana is trembling. She's let go of him, hugging her own elbows now. Aaranay fights the urge to reach out, to tell her it'll be okay. She's a dead girl walking, and he thinks she knows it.
As soon as the apartment doors slide open, Thelma leads her away. Aaranay watches her go. This might be the last time he sees her alive. Zephyrus mutters a hollow goodnight before heading back to the lobby, probably to his own cushy Capitol bed.
Aaranay would give anything to be back in his ragged sleeping bag at the orphanage. Most nights, he'd drift off watching the moon crawl across the sky, lulled by the chorus of snores from the other boys. He misses them. Strangely, he even wishes they were here with him now. An impossible thought, of course.
Hector unbuttons the top of his shirt. "You did alright, boy."
Aaranay tilts his head. "Thanks, man. I think I blacked out when Caesar Flickerman called my name."
Hector chuckles, shaking his head. "Come to the kitchen. Let's chat."
The kitchen's bathed in the soft glow of downlights, reminding Aaranay of sunset over the grain fields. His heart gives a sharp, painful jolt. Heart attack, maybe? Would the Capitol even bother reviving him now? Too late to swap him out.
Hector motions to the dining table, and Aaranay sits, watching as Hector rummages through the cupboards like a scavenger. He pulls out a glass chalice and a bottle of whiskey, joining Aaranay at the table.
Hector downs his first glass in one long breath, then leans back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Aaranay sits awkwardly, watching a bead of sweat trail down the man's brown skin.
"After we have this little chat, I want you in bed," Hector mutters. "You'll be up early tomorrow."
"It's an early morning for you, too."
Hector shrugs. "I've been at this long enough. I'll be up, trust."
Aaranay watches him tip the whiskey back again, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve before pouring another glass.
"So, what's your advice?" Aaranay asks. "What's tomorrow got in store for me?"
Hector's eyes seem far away, and Aaranay can't tell if it's the alcohol or something else. His mentor stares at him for a long, uneasy moment before finally speaking.
"Run," Hector says, voice low. "It's been a long time since we've had a kid like you. Someone who actually stands a chance."
Aaranay frowns. "Kids from Nine make it to the final handful all the time."
"And they're not here because they didn't have what it takes to win." Hector leans forward, eyes sharp now. "But you've got it. I can see it in you."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until Aaranay understands. "You mean… kill someone?"
Hector shrugs, his expression unreadable. "If that's what you call it. I call it surviving. I killed four to get back to a district that looked at me like a murderer. I'm sorry for what I did, but I don't regret it. I think you're like us." His voice softens, and Aaranay notices the mist in his eyes. "It's been so long since someone new moved into the village. Me and the other two… we're getting too old for this. It's been almost thirty years since I won. Watching you kids die year after year—it wears you down. We know you don't trust us, but we try. We really do."
Hector downs another glass but doesn't reach for more. He sets the cup down with a deliberate, final motion, locking eyes with Aaranay. "Tomorrow, when you're lifted into the arena, you run. Don't hang around the edges, don't look for Milljana or Telemi. Just turn and run, no matter what's around the Cornucopia. I don't care if you have to ride a damn dinosaur or swing from a bungee cord—get out. We can get you what you need. Might take a little time, but the longer you stay alive, the more the sponsors will see what you're made of."
Aaranay swallows, his throat dry. "That's a lot of pressure, Hector. What if I fail?"
Hector raises his hands, palms up. "Then you die. Maybe I'll tell the next kid about you."
"What was the boy like last year?"
"Nothing like you. Had too much growing up. Lost his head and sprinted for the Cornucopia."
"I know how he died. I meant, what kind of person was he?"
Hector's gaze hardens. "Nothing like you."