"This is absurd!"

A female trainer named U.S. Virgin Islands launches a throwing knife at a tree trunk from ten feet away; the tip of the blade gets lodged in the bark. She lets out a huff as she prepares another throwing knife in her hand. However, another trainer—her superior—named American Samoa grabs her arm, holding her back.

"Relax your shoulders," he advises.

She pulls her arm away and grumbles, "How are you so calm?"

He chuckles, "It's not so bad."

"48 tributes!" She waves the knife around wildly. "How are we supposed to train 48 tributes for the Games that'll start in less than a week?!" She throws the knife at her target, hitting the mark perfectly.

He chuckles again. "Again, it's not so bad. Tributes are usually given two days and a portion of the third day to train before their private session with the Gamemakers. Due to a large number of tributes, however, the Gamemakers favor giving another full day of training to the tributes instead of rushing things. Quite generous of them to do."

"Yeah, right," she scoffs. "If you haven't noticed, the Games still take place in five days. The fourth day is dedicated entirely to private sessions while the fifth day is dedicated entirely to interviews. Meaning, the tributes will have less time to physically and mentally prepare themselves for the Games once they're done with interviews."

"Even so, three full days of training is better than two-and-a-half."

"Like that makes a difference!" She smashes her fist on the table of knives, gritting her teeth.

The smile on his face disappears as his eyes become filled with concern. "This is your first year as a trainer, yeah?" His change in tone surprises her.

Realizing her emotions have gotten the better of her, she grows quiet with guilt. "Yeah... I didn't know tributes are usually given two-and-a-half days of training before their big day. Having taken part in the illegal training of Careers in District 4, I didn't grasp how lucky I was to be given so much time to prepare until after I accepted an offer to take part in preparations for the 50th Hunger Games." She takes up a knife in her hand and scowls. "You don't have to remind me. It's forbidden to get attached to the tributes, I know. But still... Everyone deserves a good chance at survival—even though it's impossible for all of them to survive..."

American Samoa lays his large hands on her wrists, gently nudging her to put the knife down on the table. "You know, I've seen more than 47 tributes die over the years while serving as their trainer. It doesn't matter how much time they're given to train and master their survival skills. It's about their capacity to learn and adapt, to use their inherited strengths, and to take advantage of opportunities. The best we can do is teach them the ropes and help them realize a strategy that'll best work for them. We're not at fault for those who fail and die."

"We're not at fault..." she mumbles. "Why even train them?"

He smiles pitifully. "I know it's hard to believe, but the few days of training do make a difference. They really do."

☆☆☆☆☆

The first day of training begins four hours after sunrise. Until then, morning routines are underway. Breakfast is served by Avoxes. Mentors give tributes of their respective district advice. Eventually, the tributes take their first trip down the high-tech elevator to the underground gymnasium where they'll train for the next few days before the Games. The schedule sounds simple enough to follow. However, not everyone is used to their temporary life in the Capitol just yet.

'This isn't a dream...' Utah stares at the reflection in the bathroom mirror, disgusted to see how dark his eyes have become after a sleepless night. His shoulders tense up from a knock on the door behind him.

"Are you okay in there?"

He glances at the remains of the honey-glazed scones he had for breakfast in the metallic toilet bowl, thinking the opposite of okay. "I... I think I'm okay..." It's not a lie, but his answer isn't truthful either.

Still doubtful, the mentor asks again, "Are you sure?"

"I-I am!" He frantically nods at his reflection as though he's trying to convince himself it's the truth. His disheveled appearance says otherwise.

The mentor sighs behind the door. "Alright. Just to let you know, the other tributes of District 3 have already left for the gym as we speak. Training will start exactly at ten o'clock, so you have about five minutes of personal time to get yourself together before I have to use whatever means to drag you to the gym. Got it?"

"I understand..." He slowly turns on the water faucet to wash his mouth again. But try as he may, he can't seem to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

~

"Come on. Come on. Come on. Hurry up and open," Arizona—a female tribute from District 5 who thinks pressing the button constantly will make the elevator arrive sooner— taps her foot impatiently against the granite tile, on the verge of tearing the metal doors open despite a lack of strength to do so.

She claims it's not her fault.

"Of course, it's not my fault!" She pouts. "I may have told Louise to give me five more minutes to snooze, but that doesn't mean I want to be left behind! Because of her, I'm running late for training."

Ding!

Her face brightens at the elevator doors sliding open. Without assuming other tributes in the elevator, she scurries to get inside, knocking into an older boy who falls to the floor by surprise.

"Oh, shit!" she exclaims. "Sorry, dude. I didn't see you there." While offering her hand, she catches the number on his training uniform. "You're from District 10?"

The doors of the elevator close before going down the floors of the Training Center.

"Um, sí (yes)..." He awkwardly takes her hand to get up from the floor. "Hola (Hello), I'm New Mexico."

"I'm Arizona," she introduces herself with a smile. "So, is it true you'll give everyone free steak if you or any of the District 10 tributes win? That's cool."

"Um, yeah..." Truthfully, he only went along with what Texas said last night to attract sponsors. It's probably not possible for the population of Panem to be gifted a year-supply of steak. Seeing Arizona's excitement, however, he decides not to sour her positive view of him.

Their conversation is cut short when the elevator stops on the third floor. A blond boy steps inside the elevator, purposely diverting his pensive eyes to avoid the looks of the other tributes. Recognizing the melancholic aura surrounding the infamous Third Boy, New Mexico respectfully leaves him alone. Arizona does the opposite.

"Just you?"

"Y-Yeah..."

The doors of the elevator close before going down.

"You're the Third Boy, right? You're the one responsible for District 3 getting punished? So, you— Ow!" She glares at New Mexico for nudging her in the ribs.

"Don't be rude," he hisses close to her ear.

"Really?" She blinks her eyes, appearing clueless in the head. "Was I rude?" She looks back at Utah avoiding her clueless gaze.

"I-I just want to be left alone..."

"Come on, dude." She wraps her arm around his shoulders, making him squeak. "I'm sorry if I was being rude. I swear I'm not a bully or a meanie."

"Arizona. I think you're making him more uncomfortable," New Mexico mumbles, watching Utah's face become pale from fright.

'I don't want to die...' he whimpers.

The elevator dings to signal it has stopped on the second floor. A tall male tribute enters the elevator, bringing inside a funky aroma. Utah covers his nose and mouth, horrified the smell will make him hurl and embarrass him until the sweet release of death. New Mexico is slightly bothered but keeps his thoughts to himself. Arizona, once again, can't contain her thoughts to herself.

"Yooo! Is that pot I smell? Can I have some?"

Though it sounds ridiculous to ask, surprisingly, the tribute from District 2 has a sense of humor. He chuckles at the question, "Sure. I don't have some on me at the moment, but I can get you some later."

"Awesome! The name's Arizona by the way." She nudges the other tributes to greet the humongous newcomer.

"I'm New Mexico."

"Utah..."

"The name's Colorado. A pleasure meeting everyone." He gives everyone a smile and a handshake. Upon facing Utah, however, he frowns. "Why the long face?"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, dude." Arizona finally notices the shadows underneath his eyes. "Did you not get enough sleep?"

"Yeah..."

"Don't worry, dude." Colorado pats him on the back. "You'll soon get used to this place."

"Easy for you to say..."

"Hey. We're here" New Mexico points to the sign above the elevator, indicating their arrival at the gymnasium.

~

Only 44 out of the 48 tributes have shown up at the underground gymnasium so far. Yet, none of them can train until ten o'clock which pisses off the Handsome Devil of District 1.

Bored out of his mind, New Jersey is forced to follow what he thinks is a pointless rule. The trainers tell him he can't train early for it'll be unfair to the other tributes. Of course, being a Career, he thinks it's horseshit. After all, there's no such thing as fairness in the Hunger Games. What matters the most are opportunities. And right now, the opportunity to get stronger is being wasted on lesser tributes who'll never be better than him.

He groans, "We're wasting so much time on the weak and unprepared. I should be lifting weights by now instead of standing around holding my dick." He looks down at Maryland—a fellow tribute from District 1—who's sitting on the floor, writing in a journal with a black crayon as anything sharper than that is considered illegal to bring into the gym. "How are you not bored?"

Her eyes planted on the journal, she shrugs. "You may think this is a waste of time, but only because you don't know how to use it properly to your advantage."

"Oh?" He tries to catch a glimpse of the page she has written.

But once again, she flips to a blank page. "Make your own observations."

He sighs, "Come on, Mary. We're from the same district. It makes sense we help each other out."

She gives him a distrustful scowl. "You're lucky the trainers permit crayons. Otherwise, I would've written 'traitor' on your forehead with a giant Sharpie."

He smirks. "Better than dicks."

She closes her journal and promptly stands up. "I watched videos of the Games from previous years and learned something valuable."

"And?"

"Tributes from the same district will either become great allies or great enemies. But ultimately, they'll become great enemies because there can only be one winner." She watches four tributes come out of the elevator before looking back at him. "We may be from the same district. You're still my enemy, no matter the circumstances."

"... Same."

~

At exactly ten o'clock, the head trainer and overseer of the facility introduces himself to the tributes as American Samoa. Tall, muscular, and covered in black tattoos, he's quite intimidating to look at. He can probably pick anyone up and break their spine in half like a twig. Though built like a grizzly bear, he seems to have the heart of a teddy bear. He can somehow crack a lighthearted joke with an easygoing smile despite the circumstances for why everyone is here. He's not dumb to notice the gloomy faces on some of the tributes' faces. Thus, he gets straight to the point after his warmhearted introduction.

"I'm not gonna sugarcoat what's going to happen in about a week. Only one person is going to survive and win the Games. That means 47 out of the 48 tributes in this gym will die in the arena from various causes. Sure, the odds of victory are slim at the moment. However, this is where the trainers and I are here to help increase those odds. Our job is to get everyone into shape and teach everyone the essentials of survival. If you wish to increase those odds, I recommend you pay attention and take our advice seriously. Otherwise, you're on your own. Now, any questions before we begin?"

He looks around the circle of tributes, waiting for anyone to ask a question before starting the routine exercises. His eyes stop on a short boy with the number four on his training uniform stepping forward from the circle. He can easily sense the vileness in his body language before hearing him shout, "This whole thing is fucking pointless!"

"What's your name, little boy?"  American Samoa asks.

The short boy glares at him. "The name's Rhode Island."

"Rhode Island, I won't tolerate your behavior. But since this is your first day here, I'll only give you a warning."

"A warning for telling the truth?" he scoffs. "If you're going to teach us about survival, how about you teach us how to escape the damn arena?"

He scowls. "The only way to escape the arena is to win the Games by being the only tribute alive."

'Suicide is also another way,' Maryland thinks grimly to herself.

"Fuck off! All this training you're providing isn't for our survival! It's for the entertainment of the dumbasses of the fucking Capitol!"

"That's your opinion."

He grits his teeth. "Damn you! I refuse to take part in this!"

"If that's you want, you can go back to your apartment. But be warned, you're not allowed to leave the Training Center. You'll still have a private session with the Gamemakers. You'll still have an interview before the Games. And you'll still have to enter the arena like the other tributes. There are no exemptions."

"That's—"

"That's your fate," he interrupts in a grim tone. "That's the fate of every tribute here. If you or other tributes don't want to train, that's fine by me. But for the tributes who wish to live, I won't waste more of their valuable time continuing this argument."

"I'm not—"

"Rhody." Virginia's calm yet stern voice influences him to shut his mouth. "If you want to continue arguing with the trainer, do so at a different time. Otherwise, please keep in mind some tributes don't want to wait any longer." She looks up at New Jersey who seems to nod in approval of what she said.

American Samoa also gives her a nod of approval. "Well-spoken. With that said, let's not waste any more time and begin training immediately."

~

After completing routine exercises, the tributes are introduced to the lunchroom located adjacent to the gymnasium. Amazingly, there's plenty of room in the cafeteria for twice the usual number of tributes not to feel crowded. More amazing is how bright and cleanly the place looked, at least for tributes coming from the poorer districts. Burning coal or wood for light is unnecessary. The place relies on electricity and lots of fluorescent bulbs. Even the tables are noteworthy. There are lots of them, all of which are bigger than the area of most rooms in District 12. Their design is basic, but the material used to make them is ten times more durable than wooden furniture suffering from mold and rot. It's new and strange. Probably the most eye-opening discovery is the food.

"What is that? It looks and smells good." West Virginia stands agape with a metal tray in hand, marveling at a golden greasy pie topped with thinly sliced red meat.

"Can you stop staring at the pepperoni pizza? You're holding up the line," New York complains grumpily.

At another line, Pennsylvania is arguing with the lunch lady to let her grab more than one bag of potato chips. "But there are so many flavors. I want to try them all."

"It's not healthy to eat more than one bag."

"I'll be dead in a week. If you have any sympathy, let me have this luxury at least."

"No."

New Mexico watches Oklahoma of District 9 devour a pulled pork sandwich—impressed and disgusted by the way he's consuming it—before looking back at the other tables in the cafeteria, wondering where he should sit.

"Nice! You got the chicken enchiladas, too!"

He looks over his shoulder and recognizes the brash redhead from District 5. "Oh, Arizona. Nice to see you again."

"Wanna sit with me?" she casually suggests, catching him off guard. 

"¿Qué (What)?"

"You know. Share a table and eat together. Or, do you plan to eat with people from your district?"

"Um..." He looks back at the lunch lines and sees Texas arguing with the lunch lady, demanding to know why she can't order a ribeye steak for lunch. "I guess we can share a table."

"Great! I have a table in mind."

At a particular table in the cafeteria, Utah sits by himself. In front of him are a cheeseburger, a handful of fries, a cup of cherries, a carton of apple juice, and a tiny bowl of green Jell-O on a metal tray; everything looks standard. Yet, he has so far eaten two cherries and a spoonful of Jell-O. He knows he needs to eat. He hasn't eaten a proper meal since two days ago. But the food in front of him doesn't stir his appetite in the slightest. It's frustrating. He can't force himself to take another bite. Otherwise, he's afraid to repeat the results of his morning breakfast. "Ah!" He grows startled by a pair of hands slamming down a tray of enchiladas across from him. He recognizes the girl from District 5 as well as the boy from District 10 taking the seat next to her. He groans internally, 'What do they want now?'

"Hey, dude!" Arizona smiles. "If you're not hungry, can I have your cheeseburger?"

He doesn't answer, continuing to look at her strangely.

"... I'll take that as a yes— Ow! What the hell?" She glares at New Mexico for smacking her hand.

"He needs to eat, too." He turns to Utah. "You don't look so good. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like shit."

"Arizona..." New Mexico hisses.

"He looks like a zombie with those shadows under his eyes." She takes a bite out of her enchiladas, proceeding to talk while chewing, "Listen, Mr. Mormon. We're only here for a few days before we're flung into the killing fields. It's fucking crazy, but we can't do anything about it. Best to enjoy the privileges of living in the Capitol as a celebrity than mope and starve yourself to death."

He winces. "How are you so nonchalant about this? Aren't you scared of dying in front of millions of people, many of whom are excited to watch you die?"

"Not really," says Colorado, sitting himself down next to Utah. "Honestly, if you're so afraid of dying, you should be more concerned with yourself than the people who'll be watching the Games. In your current condition, you'll end up achieving what you fear most."

"That's true..." He reluctantly agrees with him, unable to counter an excuse for his terrible condition.

New Mexico nods in agreement. "I'm sorry if they sound harsh, but there's no sugarcoating what'll happen to us in a few days. Dying young isn't at all happy and fun, especially for a cause that seems beyond our understanding. It's terrible. It's hard to believe, I know. But on behalf of myself and possibly many others in this cafeteria, we'll do whatever it'll take to survive." He scratches his cheeks and blushes. "In short, if you don't want to die, please eat for starters."

Colorado chuckles, "Come on, dude. The cheeseburgers here are pretty tasty. Eat up."

"Yeah. Don't let a cheeseburger go to waste." Arizona pouts.

Baffled by their positive support, Utah can't help feeling skeptical. "Why do you guys care so much for my well-being? You're not even from my district."

"Aren't y'all allies?" Kentucky interjects from an adjacent table.

"Allies?"

"How long have you been listening to our conversation?" Arizona questions him.

"For a while," he admits. "Y'all seem close, so I figure y'all are in an alliance. It makes sense if y'all want to better your chances of survival, especially with a Career to help y'all out."

"A Career?" Arizona cocks her head. "What's that? A doctor? A firefighter? Do I have to get a job?"

"Actually, that's me!" Colorado raises his hand and smiles proudly.

"You don't look or act like a Career," Utah mumbles.

"Yeah. I get that a lot," he chuckles. "If I wasn't introduced to the Devil's lettuce, I would've been considered one of the most talented tributes in the Games. Even then, I'm still talented."

"The weed isn't the only reason you're so calm during these circumstances. You've trained for the Games since childhood," New Mexico points out.

"Isn't that forbidden? Training before the Games, I mean?" Arizona asks.

"Yeah," Colorado admits, somewhat embarrassed, "but the Capitol doesn't want to piss off the district that trains its peacekeepers. Nor do they want to piss off the industries that give them their jewelry and lobsters." The mention of lobsters makes Maine sneeze at her table.

"So, our chances of survival increase if we befriend Careers, right?"

"Yeah, if that's possible," says Kentucky. "Most Careers are stuck-up asses who won't hesitate to kill us for the fun of it. But with Colorado there, I won't be surprised if the Careers this year are much easier to befriend."

"Is that so..?" New Mexico looks around and notices Rhode Island sitting by himself.

"I think he's an exception," Arizona mutters, taking a sip of her lemonade.

"Um..." Utah awkwardly grabs their attention. "No offense, but I don't think I can be useful as an ally."

"No shit." Her comment stabs Utah the wrong way.

"You don't have to be that blunt..."

"Sorry, but it's true. If you want to be useful, you need to get stronger." She pushes his tray closer to him. "Eat. If you don't, I'll kill you."

"What?" Colorado, New Mexico, and even Kentucky give her weird looks.

"Y-You're kidding, right?"

"You're going to starve to death anyway." She smiles cruelly.

He gulps. "Please say sike."

Instead, she says while pointing an unused plastic knife at his neck, "Stab!"

"Eep!" He grabs the cheeseburger and starts scarfing it down like a champ in an eating competition.

Colorado laughs, "Man, you dudes are wild! I made the right choice hanging with you guys."

"I can't believe I'm befriending a group of tributes stranger than the ones from my district," New Mexico moans.

"What an unusual alliance..." Kentucky mumbles while munching on his pulled pork sandwich. 'I guess I gotta watch out for them, huh?'

~

Training in the gymnasium resumes after the end of lunchtime.

A short female trainer introduces herself as U.S. Virgin Islands to the tributes before leading the roundabout tour of the training stations. "There are a total of twenty stations in this gym. Everyone may visit them freely after performing routine exercises. Of course, there isn't a lot of time to master every station. Therefore, I recommend every individual visit stations that best suit their needs and talents."

Maryland raises her hand. "About the stations, is that all of them?"

"Yes. Is something wrong?"

"From what I've observed in previous years, the Games provide more weapons than what we're training to use such as maces, sickles, and explosives. It would be beneficial for us to learn how to use them, yes?"

"You make a valid point. However, it won't be wise on our ends to let an inexperienced tribute get a hold of, say, an explosive in an underground facility."

"Touché." She writes something down in her notebook.

"With that said, I want everyone to know something important." She looks at every pair of eyes surrounding her. "Everyone assumes their opponents are other tributes. But they forget the arena is just as deadly if not more dangerous. The stations with the swords and knives may look appealing, but they mean nothing if you can't get one in the arena. Don't ignore the survival skills. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife. Remember that."

"Well said," American Samoa applauds. "If I were like the rest of you, I wouldn't take her words for granted. A skill as simple as starting a fire can make a difference in survival."

~

"Hurk!" Delaware makes another attempt to lift a 50 lb. barbell off the ground. He struggles to lift it above his head. He's almost there. But he can't hold it up any longer than five seconds. He drops the barbell onto the mats and falls to his knees, feeling completely wiped.

"Is that it?" New Jersey snickers, further mocking him by picking up the 50 lb. barbell with ease.

"I'm obviously not as powerful as you," he pants. "Still, it doesn't hurt to get stronger."

"I agree. However, I doubt you'll be able to lift more than the amount you weigh within three days. If I were you, I stop wasting time lifting weights and go elsewhere."

"Like where?"

"Who knows?" He shrugs. "You're not athletically gifted. You may be smart for all I know. Then again, why are you even here asking me?"

He sighs, "Forget I asked."

"Did I offend you?" He smirks. "Hear me out for a minute. See that tall girl over there?" He points to Pennsylvania at the wrestling station, watching her perform a takedown against a trainer.

"Attagirl!" American Samoa applauds. "Where you learn to do a duckunder? It seems like you already mastered it."

She smiles. "Back at home, I watched miners wrestle in the dirt during lunch breaks. The winners would show and explain to me how they were able to win. But to be honest, this is the first time I ever wrestled with someone."

He laughs, "Then, you're quite a prodigy."

"Thank you, sir," Pennsylvania chuckles with blushed cheeks, getting back to practice shortly afterward.

"Man, who knew there were talented tributes from District 12?" New Jersey shakes his head at the impressive sight. "You see that, Delaware. That's what I call a threat. You're the complete opposite of that."

He frowns. "Other than diminishing my confidence, what point are you trying to make offending me?"

"I'm not trying to offend you," he corrects him. "I'm only giving you my impressions of the tributes I've observed so far. Besides, there's nothing wrong with not being a threat. It just means there's nothing for me to fear. Consider yourself fortunate." He leans close to his ear and whispers darkly, "I won't have to go after you." He pats him on the shoulder and casually walks off with a smile, leaving Delaware in a cold sweat.

~

At the hammock-making station, Montana and West Virginia are learning how to make hammocks (obviously). Although, West Virginia insists he's 'testing' the hammock Montana made rather than working on his own. She doesn't try to wake him though.

'Making allies... But with who?' Montana recalls a conversation she had with Wyoming during lunch. Despite being childhood friends, she's well aware of his solitary mindset. It's unlikely he'll want to pair up with her. With that in mind, there are not many people she wants to team up with. 'West Virginia is out of the question. And I still don't know what Pennsylvania plans to do when we set foot in the arena.' She sighs to herself. 'I guess I'll have to ask tributes from the other districts if they can consider having me as an ally. But how do I go about doing that?'

"STAY BACK!"

A panicking shout interrupts the activities of the tributes, including West Virginia who wakes from his nap to question the ruckus. "What's going on? Who's screaming like a coyote?"

Meanwhile, at the knife station, Utah is confronted by New York, tightly grasping a knife to separate himself from the irate Yankee. "P-Please. I don't want to fight."

"You should've thought of that before taking my knife!" he barked.

"What?"

"My knife! You stole it!"

"W-What are you talking about?"

"Don't act dumb! There were three people at the knife station: you, me, and Rhode Island. Rhode Island fucked off five minutes ago while I was using my knife to train, so it couldn't be him. Therefore, it leaves you as the culprit." He pointed a finger at him. "When I came back to my table after talking to the trainers, my knife was gone. Nobody was around. Nobody except you. That knife you're holding is mine which means you're the asshole thief!"

"N-No way!" Utah looks at the knife in his trembling hands. "I swear. I never went anywhere near your station."

"Why's my knife in your hands then?"

"I-I don't know! It was at my table, and I didn't think it belonged to anyone." He grimaces. "I swear to God. I don't know why your knife was at my station, but I'm not a thief. I'll give your knife back. Just leave me be." He places the knife on the ground and slides it across the floor, back to the owner.

New York picks up the knife, maintaining his leer on Utah. "Tell me the truth. Admit you stole my knife."

He shakes his head. "I can't lie. I have no reason to steal your knife. You gotta believe me."

He grits his teeth. "Lucky for you, I can't kill you now." He points the knife at him. "But when the Games begin, you'll be the first to go. I'll make you pay for making me look like an idiot." He lowers the knife and stomps back to his table.

Utah breathes a sigh of relief, yet his fears remain, making him weak in the knees. 'I need to be more careful. If this took place in the arena, I would've been dead...'

Nearby, at the fire-starting station, New Jersey has himself a chuckle at what just happened. 'I can't believe he didn't attack him,' he muses. 'With a temper like that, I assumed he would've killed a tribute and got himself punished, increasing my odds of winning. Too bad that didn't happen.'

"Hey, Jersey." Kentucky approaches him. "Did the plan work?"

He shakes his head. "No worries. New York didn't notice you take his knife and place it at Utah's table when they're not looking."

"Good. I hate to be on the receiving end of his fury." He scratches the back of his head. "So, you're still keeping your promise?"

"Of course," he simpers. "No reason to part with an extremely helpful ally. We'll surely make a great team."

~

Virginia makes her way to the elevator, intending to head back to her district apartment for dinner and rest. She's about to press the button when she hears someone shout, "Wait!"

She turns around and sees it's the little redhead from District 9. "Kansas, right?"

She nods, catching her breath inside the elevator. "Thank you for holding the elevator."

"No problem." She presses a button, watching the doors of the elevator close before taking them back up to the apartments. While waiting, she notices the bandage across Kansas's nose. "Are you okay?"

"U-Um, yeah..." She blushes. "I was doing the gauntlets when I fell face-first onto the ground. It was pretty embarrassing..."

"And the bruises?" She eyes the dark smudges along her arms.

"They were from hand-to-hand combat. U.S Virgin Islands didn't go easy on me, and I nearly cried after she pinned my arm too far across my back," she chuckles, trying to laugh it off. She wishes her training uniform had long sleeves, so she could hide the ugly spots. It's already bad enough getting laughed at for being a weakling. To recognize how right they are to say such awful things, the pain becomes more than physical. Her eyes turn to tears, unable to contain her emotions. "I'm sorry." She wipes her eyes.

Virginia cocks her head. "What for?"

"I'm not supposed to cry," she sniffles.

"Who told you that?"

"No one..." She takes a deep breath to calm herself down. "I'm not sure if you can relate since you're a Career, so..."

"You can tell me. I'm still a tribute like you, so we're in the same boat despite being from different districts."

"Sure, but I'm not like you. I'm a little farm girl. I only knew how to farm wheat and bake bread. I wasn't trained to fight or go through obstacle courses without tripping onto my face. It's tough." She rubs the bruises on her arm. "All this pain I'm feeling, it's supposed to make me strong. But honestly, I don't feel strong at all. Really, I'm pretty weak..."

The elevator dings, stopping at the second level of the apartments.

Virginia steps out of the elevator, glancing at Kansas behind her. "Do you intend to train tomorrow?"

"Um, yeah..." she mumbles. 'It's not like I have much of a choice. I don't want to die...'

"When you train tomorrow, I advise you to visit the stations that require minimal physical activity."

"Why?"

"Because you're weak."

"O-Oh..."

"That's what you think of yourself, yes?"

"Uh..." Too embarrassed to vocally agree, she stays quiet; her silence proves Virginia correct.

"If so, don't force yourself to be strong. This isn't about strength." She watches the elevator shut its doors, watching it move to the upper floors. "It's about survival."

~

Unable to get a wink of sleep, Delaware decides to leave his apartment to get some fresh air. He takes the elevator to the roof where there's a garden and an excellent view of the Capitol. The lights of the city nearly blind him as he walks close to the railing, getting a better look at the world around him.

"There's a forcefield there," a voice startles the peace.

"A forcefield?" Delaware turns around and sees it's Montana—a tribute from District 12.

"To prevent suicide before the Games," she explains, joining him by the railing. "No one volunteered to take your place?" The question takes Delaware by surprise, having never expected the topic to be brought up by a non-Career.

He solemnly shakes his head. "You would think someone who trained all their lives to be stronger and better than their peers would want to hear their name be called or volunteer for the glory of it. Well, that wasn't the case for me. When my name was called, no one said anything."

"How come?"

He shrugs. "There are two possibilities I can think of. The most likely reason is because of the large number of tributes participating in the Games. The odds of victory are minimal, so many may not be so willing to participate. As for the other reason," he pauses, "I figure they want to see me die out there."

Her eyes grow wide, unsure if she heard him right. "What makes you think they want you dead? District 1 has always prided itself making victors out of its tributes."

"True, but look at me. I'm not like other Careers. I'm not athletic. My intelligence is about average. My personality isn't at all charming to attract attention. Rather, my presence only attracts ire, making me a target of bullies." He lets out a tired breath. "I'm a failure of a Career, they say. I'm better off dead than alive, they say. That way, they say, I won't have to pass my inferior genes to the next generation."

'Sheesh...' She doesn't say a word, listening to him continue to degrade himself.

"They always joke about ways I'll die if I was ever reaped for the Hunger Games. Getting sliced in half by a sword, getting my head smashed by a mace, suicide... I heard them whispering about money as I was heading up to the stage. They were betting money on how I was going to die in the arena."

"... You shouldn't let them get to you," Montana tells him.

"But they're right." He looks directly into her eyes. "Don't get me wrong. I hate for them to be right. But like I said earlier, the chances of survival are slim. Knowing my capabilities, I must face reality. I'm going to die in that arena."

"I... I don't know what to say."

"It's alright. I prefer bitter honesty than a sugar-coated lie." He looks back at the city. "You're pretty strong, both physically and mentally. I'm sure you have a better chance of surviving the Games than me."

She grimaces. "To be honest, I thought people from District 1 were a bunch of pampered asses."

"Pretty spot-on." His snarky comment brings a small pitiful smile to her face.

"Do you need any help with training tomorrow?"

He raises a brow at her offer. "I don't think any amount of training can help me win the Games. Besides, only one of us can win. It'll be an advantage not to train me."

"It'll also be an advantage to have an ally."

"I'm a liability."

"You are without training. I can help you with archery. It's not physically demanding, and you won't have to be too close to a target."

He scowls. "You're putting a lot of trust in me. It may bite you in the butt."

"Do you ever intend to kill me?"

He gives the question some serious thought. "... No. Even if we're the only tributes alive, I don't stand a chance against you."

"Which is why I'm making you a potential ally." She pats him on the shoulder. "Get some rest. I expect to see you at the archery station tomorrow." She leaves the roof, letting him contemplate what he has gotten into.

'How is she so confident when the odds don't seem to be in her favor?' He shakes his head in disbelief, gripping the railing tightly. 'If only... If only...'

☆☆☆☆☆

• To anyone wondering, tributes in The Hunger Games are typically given three days to train although the third day is dedicated to private sessions with the Gamemakers. For narrative purposes, I've decided to make the third day another typical training day. Hopefully, everyone doesn't mind me making this minor change.

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