Thank you to maitaitiu, Dante Alighieri1308, booksandcuddles, MoonlightSalsa, Lisan al Gaib, yoyowhitehole, Skeekiest, fiacoe3, Very New To This, Grim Apocrypha, and CrocodileReader431 for the reviews! Love seeing your guys' thoughts and predictions (and also taking some key ideas in because sometimes yall are more creative with this than I am lol).
Originally I'd set the goal for this chapter to be shorter than the last because a chapter that big didn't feel sustainable. Here we are a week later with one that's ever so slightly longer. Whoopsie!
Let's get right into it with Gerald, Ronan, Lethe, Alt, Melora and Vivienne!
Enjoy!
Gerald Oatley Johnson, District 9.
Early day today!
Training was set to begin at 7 A.M, sharp, and Gerald was nothing if not punctual. But that meant moving his whole routine up a bit, to the point where he was sacrificing an hour or so of precious sleep in his soft-as-hell mattress to do so. He'd figured he would have awoken groggy that morning, but the lack of sleep was hardly affecting him. That pre-race sense of nerves was back, as if he was gearing up for an all-out sprint for his life. Because, well, he was! Only that wouldn't actually be for a couple days.
Slow your roll, Gerry. He reminds himself, placing a conscious effort into curbing his own enthusiasm. He had to slow down. Perfection took time, after all, and beyond cursory glances at the others during the parade, he hadn't really gotten to see much from the others. A couple of conversations had sprung up, but the only one that had really stuck was the talk with that poor little boy from Twelve.
There are clothes laid at the foot of his bed. Simple black pants and a black tank-top with a red '9' emblazoned on the back. Someone must have dropped them off while he was sleeping. And clearly, he hadn't noticed, because Gerald had slept like a rock.
Creepy.
Taking the presented clothes, Gerald heads towards the bathroom, eager to clean off and get ready for the day. Man, the showers here were massive. And private. If you wanted a shower back home, you used the community ones. If you wanted privacy, you just took a bath at home. Running water as not a luxury that could be afforded to individual families. Gerald cranks the head to the left, and immediately feels heat beginning to radiate from the water.
As he hops into the shower, Gerald begins to reminisce on the night. It hadn't really been him that had taken up talking with the kid. Melisa had done that - called him over after he'd wandered from away from his partner, aimlessly drifting around the loading bay like the ghost his costume was meant to represent. That hadn't been great. Gerald felt bad for the kid, yeah, but... well, would he be expecting an alliance now? She had to know that a kid that young had never won before, and lugging him around would only hinder them.
Gods, Fiore had rubbed off on him somewhere along the way. That was positively heartless thought.
Even as shame creeps down his body, though, his mind doesn't change. Things would be harder with Fox around - if he stuck around - but Gerald didn't quite have the heart to turn him away. To say it to his and Melisa's faces that it wasn't a good idea.
He was trapped in the middle, unable to lean further either way.
But what else was new? That's where he'd always been. The middle. Average. Unable to do anything distinct.
Gerald turns the water to its absolute hottest and scrubs at his body
Man, why did things have to be so complicated? He'd gotten what he wanted, sure - this would probably be an alliance. But it wasn't how he wanted it. Things never were.
No time for morose thoughts like that, though! Why not look on the bright side? They'd done him up real good last night. Every blemish that had previously been on his face had been almost removed over night thanks to that weird-smelling cream his stylist had smeared all over him. Gerald had never felt so smooth in his life. And his hair! Softer and more voluminous than ever before. He bet he looked a whole lot better than 'average' now. Take that, everyone!
Bursting from the room, Gerald is renewed with energy. Melisa exits her own dwelling about 10 minutes later, at 6:30. Half an hour until they're to leave for training.
A crackling sound, from above. Like an old, ancient machine coming to life.
Gerald jumps, the sound permeating the quiet of the room with no prior warning. Melisa actually yelps, hands flying towards the silverware that laid out on the counter, in search of something to defend. Both of them remain tense for a moment, until a voice sounds from above them. Just like the technology they'd used to instruct the Tributes during the parade.
"Good morning Tributes." A soft voice crackles, static in the background just quiet enough to allow the speaker to be heard. "This is your Head Gamemaker speaking. I've an announcement for you all."
Gerald's lips turn downwards into a deep frown, and to his left he sees Melisa's brow furrowing in resentment.
"So much for a good start to the day." Gerald sighs, and earns a stiff nod of agreement from his partner.
"Whatever this sicko's got to say, it can't be good for us."
"Under my newly established tenure as Head Gamemaker, I put forward a proposal months back for a re-structuring of our public coverage of the Pre-Games period. It was approved. From this very moment on, every move you make - outside of your rooms - is being recorded, as is your every word. Tread carefully! You'll always have a set of eyes on you, now."
The crackling dies down, the voice fading away with an abrupt and quite frankly slightly off-putting end to the message.
"Creepy." Melisa comments off-handedly - and yeah, it was. But it was also exhilarating. Now everyone could know the real Gerald. Behind closed doors. There were more chances to prove himself. More chances to distinguish himself from the rest. To be noticed.
"Hella creepy." Gerald agrees, because it still was mildly unsettling to know that even right now there were probably people tuned in to see what they were talking about. "But hey - we can probably make the most of it. Watch this."
Gerald reaches for a roll of paper towels, tearing one of them off and crumpling it into a ball.
"Can you hold the trash open?"
"Sure...?" Melisa questions, obviously confused but willing to go along with it for the moment.
"Perfect. Just give me a moment to measure, aaaand.."
Gerald clasps the crumpled paper towel in one hand, raising his arm and then flicking his wrist forwards, releasing the ball towards the bin. It spins lazily through the air, falling much slower than Gerald had expected. It lightly taps against the lid of the bin that Melisa is holding up and falls into the trash. Gerald raises a finger to his lip, and then blows it out like he'd blow out a candle back home.
"That should run us a cool million right there." Gerald jokes, and earns a smile from his partner. "Now let's get going! Don't think we'll be anyone's favorites if we show up late."
Gerald moves briskly towards the door, now conscious to the fact that there are eyes everywhere in the building, save for his own bedroom. It's a strange feeling - knowing you're being watched.
There's an itch in his back, though. A tickle in his spine. The feeling of being watched - but not by an audience at home.
By something much closer.
Ronan Truntley, District 7.
"Can you believe this?" Acacia groans, holding the door open for her partner as the much taller Ronan trudges in behind her. "Watched at every second. Like we're animals or something."
"That's all we are, to them." Ronan grunts, mood having shifted from cautious optimism to deep irritation. It was a total invasion of privacy, was it not? To have a camera on you. Eyes on your back, for every moment of your life. Recording your final moments. For many people, their final smiles. Their final words would be captured on camera and shared to the freakish crowds that would eat up every last bit. "Dogs to slaughter for entertainment."
"Dark way to put it." Acacia shivers, and Ronan hesitates to continue. Had he made her uncomfortable? It had been a rather dark sentiment - and the last thing he wanted was to return to that state of mind, where it was him against the world. He he friends. People he could rely on now. Edmund and Mira back home. Acacia right here.
But it was so hard to not feel like the world was closing in on him again. Like it wasn't caging him in and taunting him, just like it had back home. Something was always watching out in the woods. A little mouse in the bush or a wolf stalking its prey - something always had eyes on you. It felt the same here, only now it was worse because there were people behind the eyes. Conscious and scheming and capable of understanding the terror they inflicted.
"Sorry." Ronan stammers. "If that was like, too much, I mean. I'm, uh, passionate."
"Hey, you're right." Acacia shrugs. "Nothin' wrong about what you said in my mind."
Ronan can breathe a little easier as the two approach a tall, muscular woman with dark skin and a platinum-blonde buzzcut. The others seemed to be gathered around her. Many of them were casting glances around the center, trying to decide what stations to hit up first before they were officially let go. Ronan frowned as he noticed the Careers already looking towards the open sparring stations. Of course that would be their first impulse.
That would make this woman the Head Instructor, then.
"Tributes!" She speaks in a voice that echoes off the walls, commanding and powerful and without mercy. "It's 7 o'clock, so we'll now begin the first day of training. You start when I dismiss you. Lunch is at 12. You get an hour reprieve to eat. The Head Gamemaker has another special announcement for you at lunch time, as well. After that's over, you'll be back in here until 4 P.M. sharp, after which this area will become off-limits until tomorrow. Remember, you are being recorded. This is a good time to sell yourselves as potential Victors and an extra opportunity to win over audience members to your cause. Do your best. Dismissed!"
And that was that. As expected, the group of six trained, imposing Career tributes spare nobody else a glance, already chatting amongst themselves as they head off to the weapon's station. Not much else to be expected - but the fact that there were people who trained, volunteered to take part in this was entirely sickening to him. Something clearly wasn't right in their heads.
"Man, that's the worst about being the last to arrive." Acacia clicks her tongue. "No time to see what they've got. Wanna look with me, or did you have plans?"
"Nothin' set in stone." Ronan responds, and the two head off to see what the Training Center has to offer.
Most of it isn't anything out of the ordinary. A ropes station - he'd make sure to visit that one later and brush up on his knots. Never know when a good snare-trap could come in handy. Maybe weapons once the Careers had all gotten bored. It had been a little while since he'd handled an axe for anything aside from chopping wood, but if he wanted to avoid a grisly death it was probably best to get used to swinging one again.
There's a swimming pool off to the left - would that mean an area with water? Or was it just general policy to have one? Ronan wished he knew. He'd probably have to visit that, too, later. And edible plants, of course. Knowing what you could and couldn't eat had helped him a lot back home in the woods, staying out for nights and surviving off of edible nuts and barks and water-holding roots. Poisons would be helpful, too, if he was going to commit to his strategy of laying traps. Obstacle course for agility...
Ah, there was so much to do! Ronan feels his brain nearly ready to short circuit as he tries to figure out how he's going to cram that much learning into just two days. There were just so many stations that would help. He was still missing crafting, camouflage, and-
Person Identification Station?
"Acacia." Ronan points in the direction he'd been looking. Right next to the camouflage, appearing rather hastily set up compared to the others, was the station in question, manned by only one thin, weedy looking runt of a man. He stood smaller than even Acacia did and his thin skin appeared almost translucent, icy blue veins visible through the impossibly pale skin.
An unnaturally wide smile stretches across the man's face as he spots the two approaching, the movement of his jaw causing one of his eyes to raise up just ever so slightly higher than the other. Oversized glasses sat tilted upon a crooked nose. Ronan was quickly re-thinking his decision to approach the station, but curiosity carried him onwards.
"Did they hand-pick the creepiest looking guy off the streets to run this thing?" Acacia whispers to Ronan as they approach. They're too close now for him to get a response in, but he probably would have told her yes, that was exactly what they'd done. The guy looked like a poorly drawn caricature of a person - all of his features just weren't right. It unsettled Ronan to his core.
"Ah, my first visitors!" The man's voice is like the hiss of a snake - airy and intimidating in a venomous way. "Head Gamemaker Gavia has taken the liberty of... adding to our repertoire this year a skill he deems vital. Congratulations. You're the first to realize just how important this is!"
Ronan finds himself at a loss for words - because really, what is there to say? That was a whole lot of information that was making not a lot of sense. It seems Acacia had no words for this, either, because she simply glances up towards Ronan, her eyes doing the talking for her.
'Do we go in?'
Ronan wants to say no but, yet again, there's this deep curiosity he can't shake. And what's more than that, a deep, unsettling feeling in his chest, because there was something on the tip of his tongue that he just couldn't place. Old forest legends. Tales whispered between the trees of the woods that had been passed down for generations among those who lived the closest to true wilderness.
The station is situated within a small den in the corner of the training center, the inner portion every bit as dilapidated as the outside.
"It's a simple game. I show you three pictures. Two of them are regular. One of them is not. Figure out which You have ten second per round, three rounds total!" The man chirps with just a bit too much delight, and picks up a remote. In front of the pair, an old projector whirs to life, reflecting the images on the blank wall that the station was built against. "First round!" The man proclaims, and then he clicks the button.
Round 1 is simple. From left to right, the first two are normal. A man with a bright smile and a woman with a pout. Ronan recognizes them as pictures of this year's boy from Nine and the girl from One. The last one is... different. The eyes are too far up on the forehead and the lips are far too low on the face, bearing no resemblance to either of the tributes. It appears as if the image has been stretched, except for the fact that most of the other proportions remain the exact same.
"The right one." Ronan and Acacia speak at the same time, and the instructor(?) nods.
"Good! Good choice, good choice. Excellent choice. Round 2!"
Another series of images flash up on the screen. This time it's harder, but Ronan pegs it as the middle one after a couple seconds of deliberation. It's much subtler this time, but the lips extend just a bit past where they should in the person(?)'s smile, out into the cheek. That's the only thing he can pick out, though, and time is already winding down past 5 seconds when he shouts his answer out.
"Middle!" He states, and is rewarded with a nod. "Perfect - oh, but your partner's missed the deadline. She's out. Please step out of the station."
"What? Why?" Acacia questions, but is promptly ignored by the man, who appears to be raring to go for round three.
"I'll be out in a sec, 'kay? Don't worry about it." Ronan attempts to smooth things over. It half works. Acacia still appears miffed, but she's fine with waiting if it was only one more round. It wouldn't be too much of a time-waster.
"Here we are. Final round! You're an observant guy, you know? Round 2 is designed to be the stopper for you guys. You've got an eye for the uncanny."
"Uncanny is right."
"It is!" The man proclaims with glee. "Tell me, boy - have you heard of the Uncanny Valley theory?"
"Uhhhh... no? What the hell does that mean?" Ronan squints. He had no patience for his time being wasted, especially when they were on such a razor-thin schedule. Even a minute spent talking to the old coot about his valleys or whatever could mean less time spent doing something actually important.
"Hm. I'll fill you in after this one. Get ready."
The man's voice has lowered by almost an octave, a much more foreboding tone now present compared to the jovial, almost celebratory words he'd spouted earlier.
Three faces appear on the screen, and...
None of them?
They all looked the same. Three men. All blonde with the same hairstyle, but minor with differences in the face. They could have been triplets. But all of them were distinctly people. Their faces were flawed, but not overly so. But it had to be one of them, right..?
Unless... it was a trick question.
"Three seconds." The instructor states, and Ronan blurts out his best answer.
"None of them. They're all people, right?"
The lips of the man curl into a deep frown - one that stretches almost down to his chin.
"Wrong. But let me explain the theory first. Attributes of humanity often bring comfort - but there is a space, a valley, where human attributes on things that are not people bring revulsion. I assume you felt some of that looking at our first two rounds?"
"Yeah. They were creepy." Ronan states plainly.
"Correct. They were. The theory is quite simple. It states that this fear response was generated because there is reason to fear something that looks like one of us, but isn't."
Ronan feels an involuntary shudder go down his spine. The gears in his brain were turning, and the hairs all along his body were beginning to raise. He really, really didn't like the direction this conversation was heading in - because every just 'off' feature on the instructor's face now seemed like a massive error. The slightly lopsided eyes now appeared more pronounced, on two completely different levels. The too-wide smile was now an impossibly yawning maw, open wide with twisted and crooked teeth. Paper-white skin now stretched impossibly thin, webbing in between that hands in ways that humans simply did not have. Was it a trick of the dimming lights?
"The answer to round three?" The man steps closer and suddenly he seems taller than he had when Ronan had entered. Had he been stooped over? He could have sworn he'd been diminutive, smaller than Acacia - but now that he was closer it looked like he'd straightened out. What was wrong with him? This was just a guy, right? But with every step closer it felt like his world was tunneling into one point. The room. The body. The face.
What had those damned stories been about?
"None of them were human."
Ronan needs to leave.
He rushes from the room, blowing past a bored-looking Acacia who's eyes quickly widen in shock.
Ronan doesn't stop to listen to her protests until he's entirely on the other side of the Training Center.
Lethe Maiorianus, District 2.
Lethe is the first to notice the boy from Seven's mad dash across the auditorium.
But she isn't the first to react.
The instructor she's sparring with is quicker to turn his head - to lose focus of the fight right in front of him. It's only for a second. His eyes flicker off to the right, his head following with. But it's enough to close to gap. To slip in past the reach of that pesky sword he'd brandished at her and press the cold tip of her dagger to his heart, stopping before the dull point can cause any real harm.
It brings the ghost of a smile to her face to see his head whip back around to find Lethe many feet closer than she'd been prior. She'd spent her entire life waiting for opportunity to present itself to her. Holding out until her golden opening shone through. That tactic had applied itself particularly well to combat, as well, she'd found. Tire your opponent out. Make them exert themselves for every blow, and then strike when their fatigue presents an opening. Her daggers worked perfectly for this style of battle. Quick, clean, and concealable - if she managed to close to distance, you were already as good as dead.
"Ah, fuck." The instructor swears, dropping his sword and raising his hands above his head. "Damned outer-district rabble. Wonder what's got him so spooked?"
Lethe lowers her dagger as the instructor cracks a joke. She could tell from the way he fought that he'd been trained in Two. Probably a Peacekeeper graduate who'd just missed out on the Games, and now spent his time preparing those who would go on to live his dream. His pattern dance had been the same drilled into all of the students who specialized in the sword.
It was clear he was expecting a laugh out of her - some form of camaraderie - but he appears perplexed when all he's met with is a cool stare and the smallest of shrugs.
"Lethe! Nice one." Another voice calls from the sideline, and Avalon greets her with a glowing smile. How could she appear so friendly towards the others? Lethe had been trying to do them all a favor, by keeping quiet - keep anyone from getting too attached to her. She'd fallen easily into her role as second fiddle, after all. She'd been playing it her whole life. When Youssef began to take over, she'd fallen in line simply out of habit.
But, with a partner like Avalon's, Lethe figured that the One girl might want all of the friends she could get. There was no telling what he would do yet. He seemed set on the Careers, sure, but obviously he'd still have to prove himself.
"Fancy a round?" The girl from One propositions. Lethe's lack of reaction doesn't seem to deter her. "Figure if we're live on television right now, then this is the most interesting thing going on. Can't imagine anyone would switch channels from two beauties clashing blades to, like, the textile station or something."
Personality wise, Lethe sees a lot of Theodora in the girl from One. They looked pretty similar, too, and yet her heart remains still. The confidence, the amicability - it all seemed greatly manufactured. Taught and practiced instead of radiant and genuine. It wasn't the same sort of kindness at all.
But, she could certainly see the logic in a bit of practice. Money was good. Ratings were good. It kept you in the Gamemaker's good graces, and there was no better place to be once you stepped foot in the arena.
"Let's do it." Lethe agrees, nodding politely and stepping back and beginning a pace towards the other side of the sparring arena. Her daggers hang loose in her grip. When she makes it to her end and turns around, Avalon is testing a mace in her hand, oohing and ahhing at the craftsmanship.
"Oh, whoever made this knows their shit. Perfectly balanced. Hope they're watching!" Avalon looks up, somewhere, and throws a wink. Lethe follows her gaze and a few moments later meets eyes? Lenses? With a camera. Huh. She'd missed that one.
"The craftsmanship is quality." Lethe weighs the daggers in her hands, agreeing with her opponent. Even in Two, she hadn't had access to anything this nice. They felt just right in her hands. Extensions of the body.
The sparring instructor from before is back, stepping into the center of the arena.
"Fair fight - avoid the head if possible. You know the rules. Injuring another Tribute before the Games will result in severe punishment. Are we clear?"
"Crystal." Avalon brandishes her mace.
"We are." Lethe nods, and the instructor returns in.
"Right. Then... BEGIN!"
He leaps back, and the two girls rush forwards. This was no normal battle. Perhaps in another Games, they would have tested one another out. Closed in slowly and methodically - but Avalon had made a point. People were watching. Putting on a show here meant... it meant so much. It meant money. Support. She could gain... fans. People would see this and cheer for her, only her - call for her to come home above all the others.
Lethe's pace quickens, unburdened by her light weaponry. She fakes her body upwards, acting as if she was going to jump. Avalon raises her mace but does not fall to the bait, allowing her to maneuver the weapon's shaft into the path of the strike that comes next, the blade curving low.
She was good, to have seen through that body fake.
Just keep up the pressure. The mace was a shorter weapon, meaning Lethe could get in closer - and it was heavier, making it harder to move when the opponent was pressed right up on you. But it was deadlier in return. One stray hit could be all it takes to shatter a limb, and one more would put an end to your life. She just had to keep moving.
Her twin daggers sing in arcs of flashing steel, each hit only barely able to be dodged or fended off by Avalon.
Until the girl from One decides to take the offensive.
Lethe rushes in yet again, aiming for another feint, when Avalon pivots, turning to the side and throwing out a kick to Lethe's chest that she didn't have time to fully dodge. It clips her, dull pain blossoming in her ribs as she spins out of control, her forward momentum only partially stopped, the rest of it sending her spinning to the side. It's her turn to defend now as Avalon comes roaring down with her mace, and it's all Lethe can do to form her daggers into an 'x' pattern, catching the spiked mace above her own head before it can gather its crushing momentum.
"I want your help." Avalon suddenly speaks, and while Lethe's focus remains on the fight - she wouldn't repeat the mistake of her instructor - her interest is piqued.
"Pardon?" She manages to grunt out, her arms slowly being forced in as Avalon begins to pull ahead in their contest of strength.
Lethe turns to the side, allowing the mace now to fall through her guard and harmlessly to the floor as her body twists out of the way. She swings the dagger in her right in a horizontal arc, only to have Avalon duck under the swing and thrust forwards with the mace.
Lethe manages the block yet again, but this time she can only bring one of her weapons forward in time. The impact is hindered - but not stopped. The blow leaves Lethe gasping for air as she staggers back, winded but nowhere near finished. She was keeping the distance as best she could. Smart.
Avalon rushes forwards, aiming for what would be a kill-shot in the real fight, mace drawn back above her head and ready to slam down. Lethe spins to the side, using Avalon's own momentum against her. The One girl's weapon slams to the ground and, in this time, Lethe reverses her grip on one of her daggers, slamming the hilt into the shoulder of her opponent. She doesn't cry out, though, only grimacing before she speaks again while the two are in close proximity.
"Hyperion." She grits out. "Something's fishy. I want you to help me figure out what."
Lethe is utterly perplexed.
"He's your partner." She points out, and Avalon scoffs.
"He was Reaped." She corrects, tearing her mace from the ground and beginning her assault again. "And there's something off about him. I can't bring myself to trust him - and I'm an excellent judge of character. Help me scope him out a bit." She implores Lethe as she continues her attack, the pattern now almost designed to give her some breathing room to speak.
She considers her options as she dodges and parries Avalon's blows. This was... division. Clearly. But she was right. Hyperion had been reaped, and the worry in her voice seemed real enough - the realest emotion she'd shown so far. And... she was asking her. Specifically. As in, only Lethe.
She was needed. Noticed.
And that was enough.
"I'll do it. Allow me to help."
"Perfect. You seem like an observant girl. We'll make a good team! Which makes me sorry for this."
Avalon suddenly switches up the flow of the fight, feinting a blow of the hefty mace with surprising grace. Her hands slide up the metal shaft as she drives the ball of the mace forward, aiming directly for the chest. It was the moment Lethe had been waiting for.
The moment her opponent thought she'd had her.
Lethe's right arm flies forward, dagger extended.
"STOP!"
The instructor yells, and both combatants halt immediately. The iron head of the mace is mere inches away from her chest.
But her daggers rests equally as close to Avalon's throat.
Alt Kingston, District 3.
Decision had never been easy for Alt.
He'd always been the kind of guy to pick one thing, set his heart to it, and stick with it until the end. But now... there were so many options. Not only that, but all of them were important. He'd been the last to leave the little huddle in the center, awe-struck by the sheer size of the gymnasium and the rows of stations and courses and people around, each of them looking to teach him something he'd need in the coming week.
So many choices to make and only two days time. What was a man to do?
Well, Anti had told him one thing - fight. And to fight, you needed a weapon, right? Maybe that would be a safe first bet.
Except... the Careers were over there, camped out at the sparring arena. Melee was off the table, then, because all that would get him would be a couple new bruises and embarrassment, live on television. What a cruel policy that was. Of course, it only meant increased opportunity for those who were trained for it. The six who had prepared for the Games since their youth were laughing, joking, bantering, performing for the cameras as if it was second nature.
But what good would it do for guys like him? Alt wasn't a flashy person. He was distinctly, remarkably average in every way. Nobody would want to watch him, and nobody would want to spend money on him when they saw that he could barely lift a sword without unbalancing himself and falling over.
What else was there to do, though? Right now, he was alone. Entirely. Vivienne hadn't spared him a glance when they'd come down to the training center - and he hadn't really met any of the others yet, too busy wallowing in his own grief to make introductions. Why should he, though, really? Most of these guys had something that stood out about them. They were strong in their own ways. Composed.
Too good for him.
That bitter jealousy rises like bile in his throat again, and it's this biting irritation that drives him onwards.
So maybe melee weapons were off the table - but maybe he could pick up a bow, or something? That might be better for him, anyways. He wouldn't have to get too close to anybody to defend himself. So what if he's never fired one before - much less drawn the string back. All you had to do was point and pull, right?
...
Alt quickly discovers that this is not the case.
"Would you like to try a lighter draw this time?" A woman with long, dark hair prompts, a tinge of annoyance to her voice. Alt couldn't quite blame her for it. He'd insisted that the 'regular' bow would have been fine. Draw weight? Didn't matter - just pull and shoot.
"Yes." The boy from Three sighs, hanging his head and holding out the aluminum bow in his hands. The trainer removes it from his grasp, placing a much smaller weapon in his hands.
"Try that one. Should be able to get it a bit further back."
Alt gives a solemn nod and heads towards the appropriate arrows - also smaller than he would have liked - and attempts to knock one.
He draws the string back, finding that he can get it a solid 3/4 of the way back this time before he loses control of the arrow. Grimacing, Alt attempts to fire the weapon before the arrow can fall completely from its balanced position. All this gets him is a 'thwack' from the bowstring to his finger and a shot that falls 2 meters short of the closest target.
It takes all he has to fight back a sob. Maybe the survival stations would give him better luck. Learning to hide and praying for safety might be more useful than attempting to get a handle on a weapon in this short of a timeframe. He makes to hand the weapon back to the instructor, glum and defeated, but is cut off by a strong, almost intrigued voice.
"Throwing in the towel already?"
Alt looks to his left, where the voice had emanated from - and then looks up. His eyes are as wide as dinner plates, already pale skin turning a shade of ghostly white as he locks eyes with the boy from Two. How long had he been there?
"You need a pointer or two? I'm no expert, but.." The Career shrugs. "They drill us on everything back home, so I've fired a few hundred shots in my lifetime."
"N-No, no, no, I'm fine, I was just leaving, I promise, I didn't mean-"
He had to get out of here, now. Two had noticed him, of all the people who might have seen him - why? Why a Career? Why the scariest of the fucking pack?
Alt can't even muster up the usual bitter anger that comes with being looked down upon. What would he do with it? Mouth off to the deadliest person he'd ever met? Pick a fight? Fat chance.
"If you want. But the offer's genuine. Here." The male from Two picks up a bow of his own - much heavier and complex than the one Alt had been working with - and nocks an arrow. With a practiced ease, the string is drawn further back than Alt knew they could go and after another second the arrow flies from the string, striking two rings outside of a bullseye.
"Ah, lousy shot." Youssef sighs. "But it would have hit an animal. Or a person."
"Why?" Is all Alt can choke out, earning a perplexed look from the Career.
"Why what?"
"Why aren't you running me off? Bringing your Pack over?"
Threatening to kill me where I stand?
Alt swears he sees the Career smile - a sight that sends shivers down his spine. It would have appeared almost thoughtful under any other circumstances. But what was there to think about? Maybe he was imagining shooting Alt with that bow. Placing a target right between his eyes and firing and watching as the-
"Why should I?" Youssef finally responds, snatching up the smaller bow Alt had been using prior. "It's no crime to practice. You know you're the only one who's been brave enough to try a weapon so far? I respect it, actually." As he talks, Youssef snatches up another small arrow, presenting both bow and projectile to Alt. "Plus. You didn't really ask to be here. Consider it an act born of my own beliefs."
Alt takes a half-step forward, still hesitant. He was being punked, surely. It was the cameras, right? He was playing the nice-guy angle for the audience. Or worse, Alt would step forward to accept his offer and be tricked. Punched, choked, grappled - made a joke out of.
"Not convinced? I'll leave you be, if you want. Like I said - I don't work with the bow, so I won't bother you if you really don't want any help."
"What do you use?" Alt blurts out, desperate to gain anything he can.
"Trade secret." Youssef smirks, placing both bow and arrow on the floor. "Offer stands - but not for long. It's take it or leave it."
Fight, Alt Kingston.
"...Take. Take. I'll take it. ...Please?"
"Nice. Pick up the bow. I'm not going easy on you, kiddo."
"...Right." Alt swallows hard, snatching up his weapon and turning stiffly towards the firing range.
"Show me a draw - don't use the arrow for now. Just draw as far back as you can."
Alt obliges - it makes it about 3/4 of the way back, same as last time.
"Impressive, for your very first time." Youssef speaks. Alt feels like he's lying, but has neither the desire nor the time to challenge it. "Right handed?" He questions.
Alt nods.
"Good. You'll want to pull and fire with the dominant hand. Move your left a bit further up - just below the center of the bow. It'll help with the snap-back of the string."
Alt obliges. Would it really help? His hand felt closer, now, if anything - but at this point he'd already committed. It wouldn't hurt to try, right?
"Keep your back straight and your legs planted firm. Any wavering in your stance and your shot will follow suit. Nock the arrow."
Slowing releasing the tension in the bowstring, Alt turns to grab the arrow.
"Balance it delicately. Archery isn't something to rush. The best shots will be ones you take the time to line up. Place the end of the arrow on the center of the string and draw."
Alt repeats the motion that he'd attempted to do at first, and the tip of the arrow begins to list downward the further back he goes.
"Slower." Youssef commands, and Alt flinches, his heart rate picking up instantly. But slower he goes. With more patience he finds that the arrow stays in place, and he's able to hold the draw. His back is screaming by this point, the ache of drawing so much tension with muscles he hadn't even known existed beginning to take a hasty toll on the boy from Three.
"Aim and fire."
Alt can see the target - 5 meters in front of him. He takes his time to steady his aim, making minute corrections. Straighten the back. Plant the legs. Hold your aim true.
The soreness is beginning to climb into his shoulders now, and slowly creeping up through the arms. He wouldn't be able to hold for much longer, but something inside of him is telling him to do it anyways. To hold on just a bit longer. To fight for her just a bit longer. To learn. To survive.
Every ounce of emotion is poured into the final few moments of Alt's shot. His arm draws further back, just a bit, but enough to add a bit more power to the shot. His brow is beginning to sweat, mop of curly hair sticking to his forehead as he squints his eyes and grits his teeth with the effort.
And then it all disappears in one fluid motion as he settles on his target, decides this is the best he's going to get it, and lets it fly. The arrow soars through the air, flying fast and true until it strikes the orange - one ring off from the bullseye. Better than Youssef's shot, if he ignored the small fact that Youssef's target was thrice the distance from his own.
"I did it." Alt speaks to himself, briefly forgetting that there was another Tribute around. Youssef didn't matter right now. He'd hit the target! Fired a shot and actually succeeded! Sure, just one real shot had caused the muscles in his back to burn with an intense pain. Even now he could feel the throbbing aches of sore muscle. He doubted he'd be able to fire consecutively. But... he'd hit the shot. You wouldn't need to fire two or three arrows if you brought your target down with one. The steel tip had embedded itself deeply in the thick synthetic material. Hitting an attacker in the right spot would deter them.
Or kill them.
A new shiver hits Alt - the realization that he's now equipped to kill. His blood runs cold all over again.
The ringing of a bell snaps him from his haze.
"Lunch break begins now. I repeat, Tributes, cease training and make your way to the cafeteria. Happy Hunger Games."
He goes to look for Youssef, to say something - anything, really, but it appears the Career wasn't looking to stick around for his thanks. Alt spots him, tall and well built, already back with his Pack, waving something away and laughing at a wisecrack from the Four girl as they walked together towards the dining hall.
That didn't matter, either. They weren't allies. Weren't friends. He'd known that from the beginning. But he'd been given a chance. Something that nobody but Alt Kingston possessed.
Confidence renewed, Alt sets away from the weapons station. Not to flee, but to recover. To learn something else while he rested his muscles. He'd return soon enough. Maybe he'd even go find an ally or two to make his way through the arena with - someone who wanted him instead of the other way around.
Melora Rafferty, District 11.
Melora still couldn't quite figure the boy from Five out.
But he'd been doing his damnedest to figure her out.
Ever since she'd agreed to hang out during the lunch period - just to see what his whole deal was - he'd been peppering her with questions. Some were utter nonsense. Favorite fruit. What season was the best for growing plums. What she did on her days off. And then others would hit too close to home. What was 'home' to her? How far would she go to protect 'home?'
Why did the surname 'Rafferty' sound familiar?
This wasn't someone who inspired as much confidence as Raiden had. He had none of the draw that her partner did. He didn't appear strong, off the bat, and he'd admitted himself to having a rap sheet back home. What exactly that consisted of, he'd been vague on. She wasn't the only one dodging questions - and Melora was keenly aware of that.
But, still - Raiden wouldn't see her right now. As much as she wished her candidate could have come from home, there was no time to waste. She'd trusted him a bit too easily. Made the mistake of committing to him without knowing just how stuck-up and stubborn he could be, and it had come to bite her. But it was recoverable. The machine had halted, stopped and caught with an error - but it would resume one way or another.
So, Kairos and his scheming might be her next best bet. He seemed willing to talk, at least. A step up from her partner. Even if his questions grew to be grating.
"You think you could spot me at the weight lifting station later?" Kairos begins with another of his inane questions. "Think if I got as strong as you we'd have no issue taking over the Bloodbath."
"Enough of the questions." Melora speaks, stern and stoic. "We're here to talk, no? To scout and plan. And I have some things to ask you, too."
"Shoot for it." Kairos shrugs. "But if I didn't answer before, I won't now!"
"Not those. I want to know what exactly your 'plan' is. Not just the idea. A plan. Concrete and solid."
"Oh! I don't have one."
"You what?" Melora's eyes narrow. That's it. She was having her time wasted by people who couldn't comprehend just how important alliances were. "That's it. We're finished."
"Let me finish, hey, hey!" Kairos pleads, and Melora gives him one final chance to prove he's not entirely insane.
"I don't have one because we aren't a solid group yet. I've got plenty of things planned out - but the specifics depend on who we have to work with. That's why I want you. Because I fully, truly believe you can help me - us - keep the Careers from victory this year. Please. Put your faith in me."
Her faith. Where had faith ever gotten her?
"I need more than faith, Five. I've seen a lot of good kids with 'faith' die in that arena. Kids I knew."
"Me too." Kairos sighs, and for a split second he looks so much different to her. Not upbeat, not lively and jovial - tired. As if he's been on the run with no place to rest for all of his life. "So I'll give you more, because that's how valuable you are to the plan. We're scouting right now. The soft 'limit' for alliances is 6 of us - but I'm thinking there are more people we can get in on this. Frame it all as coincidence."
"The cameras-" Melora begins, but she's cut off.
"-are focused on more interesting Districts than Five and Eleven." Kairos finishes the sentence himself, voice earnest and full of emotion.
"Sit back down and I'll tell you who. Deal..?" He propositions hesitantly, and Melora takes a moment to think.
Whatever this operation was, it was clearly large in the scale of the boy's mind. But... it aligned with her own mission. Her own goals and his coincided - at least for a bit. The rational part of her mind tells her that he might be full of it - but it also tells her that she might never have an opportunity like this again.
And, at the end of the day, the most important thing was ensuring her success.
Melora sits back down at the table, folding her arms across the top and leaning in.
"Names. Who are you scouting? If you haven't figured that much out by now, then I'm out."
"Right, right." Kairos muses, eyes darting around the room. "I want Blitz - my partner. She's off somewhere sitting alone right now, but I'm working on wearing her down. Real upset about bein' here - and more than just in a sad kind of way. I read it as her having something to direct her emotion at. Or someone. Either way - she's good."
"I'll judge her myself when I see her."
"Correct!" Kairos nods, eager to continue on. "I'd have liked your partner, too, for what it's worth - but he seems set on being difficult."
"You're telling me." Melora deadpans, scoffing. "But if he's that set on being alone, I'm not going to throw everything away and go down with him."
"Everything, huh? Can I ask what this everything might-"
"You cannot."
"Noted! Next potential ally, then. The boy from Six. Seems like he's worth his salt in a fight, which we'll need. Don't get away with just scars on the arms otherwise."
"You're right on that, at least." The boy from Six had caught her eye, too, but she hadn't had the time to get any thorough information on him.
"I've got one more - but I wanna ask. Is there anyone you've got an eye on, Melora?"
Melora takes the time to consider. There were a couple she'd looked at.
"The pair from Seven seem strong and not entirely helpless. Nine's girl, maybe, but I haven't seen her without her partner yet. I don't want him." Melora lists a few of the names in her head. "Eight is an absolute no. I want nothing to do with the girl and her delusion, and the boy can barely hold himself together."
"Considered Ten at all?"
"Not really." Melora's brutally honest answer startles a chuckle out of Kairos. "Boy's unremarkable, and the girl's hanging around with the priss from Eight."
She takes care to avoid District 12. Bringing up young Fox St. Aubin would pose a dilemma. Taking this high-ground, this stance against an unfair and unjust society would mean that, logically, they should do their best to protect the most helpless of the bunch. But with limited slots for a real alliance, there was no room for dead weight. No room for weakness. Melora knew that, and she was pretty sure Kairos had figured it out, too, because he wasn't bringing them up either. As for his partner..? Well, ignorance was one thing, but to be purposefully cold and even downright mean to the kid was more than enough to show that Esther Morrow would not be a solid fit, either.
"Alright. That's two slots left to fill for the 'official' group. Ready to here my idea?"
"I don't get why you're building it up." Melora shrugs. "Say the name and we'll judge from there."
"It's just a hunch, first and foremost - but my hunches have been known to be good! Ready?"
"The name, Five."
"...Hyperion."
The silence surrounding the pair is deafening. Melora can hear the blood rushing to her brain. The outrage, the apprehension to what Kairos had just suggested. An anti-career alliance... with a Career? Was he stupid? Was this another of his stupid little jokes in an attempt to 'lighten the mood?' The mood didn't need lightening - they needed to take this shit seriously, because they were going to die just like Eamon if they didn't.
Gods, Eamon. He'd been KILLED by a One. And now what? Was she expected to team up with one?
"He was Reaped, so I think if there's a way to pull him over we can seriously weaken-"
"I don't want to hear it from you." Melora's voice is ice-cold, her tone snippy. "You've some nerve, bringing me here to talk 'strategy' and then pulling this on me. Are you insane? Stupid? What the hell is your problem, Five?"
"Please! Please." Kairos resorts to begging again. "If anything I've said has made a lick of sense, please just give it some time. I'm smart enough to know if he won't budge. It's my risk to take. I won't tell him who's apart of anything, swear. If I do, you can just take my head off at bloodbath and be done with me. We need to take chances if we want to really shake things up."
The look in Melora's eyes could melt right through steel. The acid in her stare, the pure vitreol - it was the most she'd felt in a while. The most she'd thought about anything other than her mission. Because, logically - it was worth investigating. Hyperion was an anomaly. Entirely out of the norm, and there had to be some sort of reasoning behind that. But the idea of working with someone who was around - probably even training - during the Games where Eamon had been killed? It sickened her to her stomach.
But, as it always did, logic trumped emotion. She forced the disgust down, bottling it up with the rest of her love and her hatred and her sorrows and her joys.
"Give it a shot. If I find out you're playing doubles, stepping one goddamn foot out of line... I won't hesitate to take that offer."
Kairos breathes a sigh of relief at these words - not the reaction that had been expected.
"Deal. Deal, all the way. I'll handle things with him. Think you can try to pull Six over our way in the meantime?" Kairos extends a hand.
Melora sighs, wondering just what she might be getting herself into. She extends her own, shaking the hand of the relieved boy from Five.
"Deal."
Vivienne Cross, District 3.
Vivienne was quickly beginning to wonder if she'd made the right choice.
They had all been fine, at first. Had a little something in common that made the whole 'we're going to end up killing each other' gap a bit easier to bridge. But the longer she sat with Ariadne from Eight and Rhea from Ten, the more she believed that they might just not be entirely compatible. Ariadne - now that she'd spent for time around the textile girl - was entirely delusional. She believed herself to be of Capitol birth and flounced about entirely unworried about the impending trials before her. It would all sort itself out, she'd said - she'd have an audience with the Gamemakers running the show and tell them it was all a big mistake! Oh, but she'd sponsor Viv and Rhea since 'girls of high class' are rare among the Districts.
Vivienne could almost hear the audience members laughing at her from their couches, their apartments in the Capitol that the pretentious girl from Eight would never get to own.
And Rhea had yet to show anything beyond an icy, reserved exterior - not someone Vivienne would want to trust when it came to life or death. She recognized the look in the Ten girl's eye. The mild amusement as she watched Ariadne freak out over another mundane regularity. The certainty with which she conducted herself and the finality in each and every one of her words.
She'd seen it in many a man back home - the ones who thought they ran the show. Who looked upon their workers as nothing but property and looked at their colleagues as nothing more than stepping stools to the top.
The look of an opportunist. The look of a predator.
Vivienne didn't like it one bit - but anything was better than going solo. Besides, nothing said she had to play completely straight, either. No matter how many platitudes she put forward or how many gestures of grace she showed, the fact remained that only one person in this room would be left alive when everything was said and done. She wouldn't be remembered for being loyal and dead. The only thing that mattered was coming out on the other side. Alive.
"So, are you guys gonna invite anyone else when I'm gone?" Ariadne prompts suddenly, plopping an absolutely loaded tray of food onto the table. Exotic meats that even Vivienne had only been able to taste a couple of times back home were piled high. Lobster and fish from Four. Tender lamb from Ten. Off to the side was a veritable rainbow of fruit. Red apples, oranges, yellow bananas, blueberries and grapes.
"I mean, goinf in whiffh only two people ischn't gonna be good." Ariadne speaks again, the leg of some sort of bird partially blocking her words. It wouldn't stop her from running her mouth, though. Nothing would.
It does make Vivienne think, though - it would be three, of course, because there was no chance in hell that Ariadne would worm her way out of this - but expanding things could be a good idea. A bigger group meant a bigger chance of individual survival. And a smaller chance to be left alone with Rhea, which was always going to be a plus.
"Nobody who jumps out immediately, honestly." Vivienne sighs. And she had been looking - but very few people were alone by now. Bringing two or even three people into the fold who were committed to their own, smaller group simply wouldn't go well. Cliques created division, and division would get people killed. "I considered my partner until he opened his mouth, but it went downhill from there. He wouldn't make a good ally."
"Ohhh my god, same!" Ariadne exclaims, quickly swallowing her food and dabbing at her mouth with a fancy embroidered napkin. "Mocaccino's just like, a total sad-sack. No future, no drive, no passion. I'd be insulted if you let him replace me."
Rhea, sat to Ariadne's left, raises an eyebrow, the same mildly amused glint in her eye. "Wasn't his name Merlino?"
"I'unno." Ariadne shrugs, tearing off another massive piece of meat from the drumstick on her plate. "Don't really care. I don't remember things that aren't important."
"Really?" Rhea prompts, eyes darting back and forth between Ariadne and Vivienne. "You might want to tell him that, then." A Cheshire grin begins to spread across Rhea's face. "I think he's about to sit down over there at the other end of our table."
"What?" Any ounce of joy that was present in Ariadne before immediately melts from the face. Her voice was flat and laced with disdain. It was acidic - sharp enough to melt right through stone.
Sure enough, Vivienne turns her head and sees a boy with a patchy beard and sad, soulful eyes settling himself down - alone - at the far, far end of the table. His head is down and he's doing his best not to meet anyone's gaze. Vivienne felt a bit bad for him, sure, but Ariadne was right. He'd already lost hope. She wouldn't really want to partner with him, either.
"Hey! HEY!" Ariadne shouts from across the room, turning not just Merlino's head but half of the other Tributes' heads as well. "You can't sit with us! GO! Shoo! Go somewhere else! We don't want you here! Right, girls?"
Vivienne and Rhea share meaningful eye contact. Is she serious right now? None of them would have allied with him, given the choice - Vivienne could read that much from what little she knew of Rhea Clement - but attention like this was possibly the last thing you wanted. But, she also wanted to keep her ally who, at the very least, could provide useful as a shield to give Vivienne a second chance if the group was ever cornered.
"Right." Vivienne agrees, doing her best to echo the vitriol in Ariadne's voice. "We're full."
Rhea shares a thoughtful nod, but says nothing.
"What..?" Merlino's eyebrows furrow, and Vivienne can't help but think that he looks like a puppy who's just been scolded. "But the tables so big, I just-"
"SCRAM!" Ariadne shouts and before anyone can get another word in she's launched the drumstick that she'd formerly been eating right at the head of her District partner. It misses by half a dozen feet, but the message is sent. The poor boy from Eight scrambles out of his seat, turning away and looking elsewhere for a seat at the table.
She watches, tuning out Ariadne's incessant yammering as Merlino wanders around the room like a ghost, slow and aimless and entirely invisible to everyone else.
Until he finds someone who welcomes him.
Alt.
Vivienne's eyes narrow. They weren't particularly dangerous on their own - but that now made a group of two people who would hold grudges against this group of three. She didn't know how Rhea's partner felt about her, but judging by the fact that he wasn't here, it also probably wasn't a very amicable relationship.
"Who's that he's sat with? Looks like another loser." Ariadne makes another offhand comment and Vivienne has to actively remind herself that the girl is entirely delusional to avoid snapping back at her and scolding her for her stupidity. Meat shield. She would make a very, very good one.
"That's my partner." Nobody would be able to tell that Vivienne was working through waves of entirely different emotions right now. Anger, worry, fear, irritation - none are present in the cool tone she speaks with. While her mind spins like a raging whirlpool, her words come out in a focused stream. "Alt Kingston. He's 16. Not much of a threat on his own, but I'm worried about them holding grudges."
"He was at weapons earlier today." Rhea pipes up, and Vivienne's head whips around.
"He was what?"
"Yeah. Saw him shooting with a bow. He wasn't, like, any good, but he was making the effort."
"...Noted."
That complicated things. What were the chances that the boy from the train would grasp the weapon, avoid dying, and then come after her? Very low. But not zero. And in a game with her life at stake, it wasn't something she felt comfortable gambling on.
"You want me to kill him?" Rhea propositions suddenly, and Vivienne works to keep her face free of emotion, regarding Rhea coolly.
"Pardon?"
"For sponsors." The girl from Ten shrugs. "Get some money flowing for the alliance and get a potential problem off our back. Consider it my way of pitching in?"
Vivienne doubted that entirely. Pitching in, huh? When had someone like her ever pitched in? People like that were content to ride on the hard work of others. Steal their secrets, their most treasured truths, and be gone with the wind the next day. But...
24 in, 1 out.
Vivienne has to remind herself - if she was going to live (and oh, did she plan on living), Alt would have to die anyways. If she could keep her hands free of his blood, that would be the best choice. Killing your partner was a good way to lose a few of your die-hard supporters. When said supporters were as scarce as they were for a place like Three, that kind of risk was unavoidable.
"I wouldn't stop you." Is the answer Vivienne decides on. She's about to say more when, once more, the P.A. system affixed to the ceiling crackles to life yet again.
"Greetings, Tributes. I hope you're enjoying our fine dining. Some of you are having yourselves quite the feast, I see." The voice deadpans, and Vivienne can't help to shift her gaze to Ariadne, who seems entirely oblivious to the shade being thrown her way. "This is, once again, your Head Gamemaker speaking to inform you of another little wrinkle I've decided to add to the Games. I'll keep it short and simple for you. After my instatement as Head Gamemaker, I've made a few... additions to the Tribute Tower. New rooms, new facilities - all for you to use while you await the beginning of our Games. You will all be granted free use of these facilities and free roam of the Tribute Tower - though you may only enter another District's living quarters with express permission of at least one member of said District. You'll find these facilities below ground, using the elevators. Curfew will be heavily encouraged, for your sakes, but not enforced. 12 A.M. is the time we'll ask that you be back in your rooms. That will be all. Happy Hunger Games."
The static slowly fades away, and the once quiet room is suddenly abuzz with hushed voices, whispers as various groups around the room attempt to predict what there would be. Was it a trap? Was it genuine? What kind of 'facilities' were in store?
And what was with the whole 'curfew' bit? Heavily encouraged, for their sakes? Not good, whatever it was. Vivienne had already made up her mind. She wouldn't be staying out any later than the suggested midnight. Doing so of her own free will would simply be tempting fate.
The lunch bell rings shortly after, signifying the end of the meal break and a return to the training hall.
"Sweet deal." Ariadne comments as the girls dispose of their plates and their trays, dumping them for some poor Avox to handle. "Free roam, no curfew - this is what life should be like! Finally starting to feel like I'm home."
"Right." Vivienne agrees mindlessly, wondering to herself if Ariadne would even make it to the sounding of the gong still alive and well.
Pre-games 2... done! Training Day1/Part1 is here and (hopefully) good! A lot of set-up this chapter mainly for how I wanted to frame the entire pre-games period, but with luck it will all be able to pay off soon. How about that curfew, huh? Seems like these guys might be in for something at Midnight. Some Terror, maybe. Who knows!
What did you think of the chapter? Of our 6 focuses and the people supporting their POVs this time around? Let me know! And, as always, feel free to drop any predictions you might have about anything and everything!
One of my readers has asked for an alliance tracker with each chapter, and I'm happy to oblige. It's far from complete (just like the alliances) but this is how things currently stand!
Careers: Avalon, Hyperion, Youssef, Lethe, Kiana, Gulf.
Rebels(?): Kairos, Melora
Sevens: Ronan, Acacia
Nines: Melisa, Gerald
Sixes: Sterling, Mira
It Girls: Ariadne, Vivienne, Rhea
Solo/Not seen: Fraser, Esther, Fox, Blitz, Alt, Merlino, Raiden.
That's all! Next time, for all my extra info enjoyers, I'll also make a list #1-24 of how the Capitol views each tribute in terms of likeability, 1 being best 24 being horrible and bad and they want this person dead immediately. No impact on the story or anything it'll just be fun I think.
That's all for now!
Until next time,
Logangster