Never before in the history of the Hunger Games have there been more than 24 tributes per year until this one. To have 48 tributes participate in the Games comes with its benefits as well as its challenges. Though exciting to see twice the amount of chaos and slaughter, it's difficult to pinpoint favorites among many faces. It shouldn't be an issue. But for the people of the Capitol who love a melodramatic episode to pair well with their cup of blood-red wine, death alone isn't enough of a worthy investment to watch the Games. The continuation of the Hunger Games isn't simply because of its effectiveness as a political statement. Its high-level production is thanks to its success as a popular source of entertainment, allowing the show to keep going as long as people keep getting attached to the characters and the story, even if it kills their hearts to see a favorite character get killed off. Though the story remains the same, the producers of the Games do spend a great amount of effort introducing and developing batches of characters to get people interested in the upcoming season.

As such, let's take a moment to give props to the stylists working hard to craft unique costumes that'll only be worn once, just to make the tributes stand out before they step foot into the arena.

"Oh, boy," Guam sighs. "This California girl is pushing her luck on this dress she requested be tailored to her elite standards."

"At least she has standards," Northern Mariana Islands—their sibling and fellow stylist— grumbles. "The tributes of District 12 have no sense of fashion. 'Plain, modest, loose, denim,' are you kidding me? You guys are celebrities, not dirt cheap miners!"

"Well, their district is centered on coal mining."

"That doesn't excuse their lack of awareness of Capitol tastes!" she huffs, taking a glittery black fabric out of a drawer. "It has been a pain trying to make the laughingstock of Panem look halfway decent."

"Halfway decent like their costumes at the tribute parade?"

"Hey! Miner overalls are better than tree costumes."

"But I worked so hard on those tree costumes..." he whimpers.

She groans, "I hate the fact we have to make so many costumes, all of which are only worn for a day. It feels like a waste of time and work."

"Not really," he mumbles. "The costumes are either sold at auction or put on display at museums dedicated to the Hunger Games."

"Yeah, but I rather see my handiwork continue to be worn by the tributes."

"Me, too," he solemnly agrees. "Too bad only one of the tributes can do that."

"Yeah... That's too bad..."

They continue to work on costumes in silence.

☆☆☆☆☆

For today's lunch, Indiana of District 2 has some fried chicken tenders, a handful of fries, a cup of sweet corn, and a glass of cold water. She has an entire table to herself, and she prefers to keep it that way until she's finished with her meal. But then Illinois of District 5 sets himself down across from her, spoiling her peaceful lunch.

"Yo!" He smiles.

She promptly gets up from her seat.

"Whoa! Hang on! Where are you going?" He grabs her arm, forcing her to sit back down.

"I'm not here to make friends." Her words and intentions are as clear as day.

Yet, Illinois doesn't give up trying to make conversation with her. "You're a Career, right? That means you're strong. I may not be as talented as you, but I do have some tricks up my sleeve. If we team up, I bet we can overcome any obstacle in our way."

She scowls. "I already told you. I'm not interested in making friends."

"Why not? Having an ally will make things easier for us—for you it'll be for your best interests."

"That may be true, however, it's also likely we'll end up killing each other."

"Yeah, that's to be expected. I don't blame you for being distrustful." He looks around the cafeteria, observing the other tributes. "Even so, having an ally at the beginning of the Games can be very useful. Everyone is doing it. Why not you, too? You're a Career, so people are likely to want to join you in an alliance."

She sighs, "It's true I'm a Career who has trained for the Games since taking their first steps. It's expected I work hard to be victorious. Fame, fortune, it's all tempting. But to be honest, it's not what I want."

"Okay... What do you want?"

She looks him in the eyes, telling him, "I want to live an honest life—a life that isn't dictated by this need to kill a person for the glory of it. To win the Hunger Games without killing a person, without having a stain on my conscience, that'll be the honest life I want. That'll be a victory I can live by without regret. Therefore, I cannot befriend you or anyone without calling myself a liar."

"A liar, huh?" He glances away, contemplating her answer. "You're more afraid of lying than dying. Is that right?" He sounds slightly irked.

"Correct," she says without waver. "I'm sure you think it's pointless to take the high road when our lives are on the line."

"Yeah," he grumbles. "The Games don't care if you're a saint or an asshole. It only cares for one person—the victor. Doesn't matter if the victor killed seven children in cold blood. They're pardoned for their crimes, praised for being a survivor than a murderer. It's messed up, but that's the world we live in—a world where kill or be killed matters the most." He looks back at her scornfully. "You think you can survive without someone's blood on your hands?"

"Probably not," she admits. "Don't misunderstand what I said earlier. I'm capable of defending myself, and I'm willing to shed blood if necessary."

"Then, what gives? I don't understand you at all."

"Of course, you don't," she scoffs. "I'm just a Career in your eyes. I'm not like you—an ordinary person with an ounce of humanity still left in them." Her remark stings him badly, making him realize how offensive his intentions to be allies with her can come off as presumptuous and crummy.

"Sorry," he apologizes, turning his gaze away. "I assumed you were like most Careers. You trained your whole life to take part in the Games. I didn't think you were different. More precisely, I thought you were a killing machine who could be useful for my survival."

"A killing machine?"

"Yeah. My bad."

She sighs, "Now that you know I don't intend to be a pawn in the Games, can you leave me alone? I want to finish my lunch in peace." She returns to eating her fries, now cold and not as crispy.

"... No," he clenches his fist, looking back at her with determined eyes, "I still want to be allies."

She quirks a brow. "I'm not going to be a hunting dog who's going to make anyone's life harder or easier. I'm set on being a lone wolf, and you can't change my mind."

"Yes, I can. I'm not giving up on you just yet. And you can't change my mind either."

She sulks. "Why me? You can easily find other tributes more open to being allies. Why can't you leave me alone?"

"I don't know, to be frank." He smirks.

She groans, "You're so annoying."

"You'll come around eventually," he chuckles.

~

"Munch, munch, munch..." Oklahoma hums, somewhat astonished by the crunchy texture. "It could use a bit of salt though..." he mumbles, eating another fried cricket from a bowl at the edible insects station.

Mouth agape, South Dakota stares at him in revulsion. "How can you eat that without gagging?"

"I'm more surprised he still has an appetite," Alabama mutters. "It has only been an hour since he ate that huge slab of chicken fried steak for lunch."

"Well, this is essentially snack food. One or two of them isn't going to make my stomach explode." Oklahoma shows them the cricket in the palm of his hand, highlighting its tiny size.

"Still," she shivers, "you aren't at all squeamish of eating bugs?"

"Food is food. It may not be as tasty as chicken fried steak, but it's still food. We can't be picky when we head into the arena."

"That's true..." She tries to pick up a beetle grub out of a bowl, but she drops it when it squirms. "I think I'll stick to hunting and foraging though."

"Suit yourself." Alabama takes a bite out of a beetle grub; the juices wet the corners of his mouth.

"How about you?" she asks him. "You're not at all picky?"

"Nah. I can't be picky." He gulps down the rest of the grub. "People were always starving in District 11. Crops were only grown for the Capitol, not for ourselves. Anyone who ate so much as a seed would get ten lashings. Already weak from hunger and sickness, people couldn't do much about it." He pinches a grub between his fingertips. "It isn't much, but this little fella has saved me countless times. I'm countin' on it to save me again."

Hearing a bit of his backstory, South Dakota looks back at the bowl of beetle grubs. She takes one and watches it squirm between her fingers. There's disgust. There's a slight sting of pity. There's some hesitation in taking a deep bite into the fat wriggly worm. So, she takes a small bite instead. She spits the gooey remains onto a napkin after chewing for a few seconds.

"How is it?" Oklahoma asks.

"Terrible." She wipes her mouth. "I think crickets are the way to go."

Passing by, California shakes her head in repugnance. "Yuck. I rather starve to death than eat bugs." She moves on to the next station.

~

Maine and New Hampshire are helping each other out at the edible plants station, trying to memorize all sorts of plants.

"This station will be a waste of time if we end up in a tundra of all places," New Hampshire fusses.

"Or, worse," says Maine. "Some years ago, I read a book about the history of the Hunger Games. The Games in its earliest years were held at the Capitol Arena."

"The Capitol Arena? That old structure?"

"Yeah. Back then, the tributes didn't have to worry about hunger, thirst, or the thought of dying to the natural elements. It was all about beating tributes until a victor is left standing. Those Games usually lasted a day."

He frowns. "I don't know why, but that somehow makes me feel better not to exist during those days."

"I somewhat feel the same way. Then again, the Capitol may try to recapture the setting of the 1st Hunger Games."

"I doubt they'll ever recreate it. You said those Games usually lasted a day."

"Yeah, the Games were confined, so tributes were more likely to face each other. It wasn't until the 10th Hunger Games with the discovery and use of hidden tunnels after a bombing did the Games ever last for more than a day. I'm worried the 50th Games may recreate it but make it bigger to accommodate 48 tributes."

"That would be hell," he grumbles. "There was a story I read about a group of people who were forced into a giant maze to eventually be killed by a horrifying beast called the Minotaur." He shakes his head fearfully. "If they do recreate that idea, I hate to face whatever mutation introduced to us. That would be scary..."

She shivers at that terrifying thought. "Maybe it's for the best we stop guessing what kind of arena they'll place us in."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's hurry up and memorize most of these plants before moving on to the next station."

~

Minnesota of District 3 is learning how to make a shelter from tree branches when she notices a blond boy pacing apprehensively around the ax-wielding station. 'Why's he so nervous?' she wonders.

In Vermont's mind, he's thinking, 'Should I practice using an ax? Or, should I not?' Being from District 7—a district based on forestry—he's quite familiar with using an ax. His mentor recommends he save that talent for the private session. However, he doubts his abilities. Sure, he can use an ax to chop down a tree. To use it to cut down a human being, it's a gruesome possibility he hopes to not commit. For that matter, he doesn't want to kill anyone.

"Oy! Whatcha doin'?" Wisconsin startles him with a perky shout.

"O-Oh. It's you..." He sees the rest of his fellow tributes from District 7 follow behind her. "How's training so far?"

"It's going well. The three of us have been trying all sorts of weapons to see which ones were best for wielding." She rubs the side of her neck and chuckles, "Personally, I'm not great at throwing. I nearly killed a trainer with a spear veered too far to the right, so spears and tridents are out of the question."

"Swords are too cumbersome for me to wield," Oregon admits begrudgingly.

"Any weapon is better than nothing," says Idaho with a shrug. "But out of preference, I prefer the hatchet."

"Yep! Me, too!" Wisconsin giggles, grabbing a hatchet from a rack. "I know our mentor told us to save our strongest talent for the private session, but it doesn't hurt to show off a teeny bit." She launches the small ax at full force, striking the center of a log located twelve feet away from where they stood.

"Whoa," Vermont awes.

Situated close by, American Samoa applauds her throw. "Well done! That was perfect!"

"Aw, thank you!" She blushes, turning to her fellow tributes. "Anyone else wanna show off?"

"I'm good," says Oregon. "I'll save my talents for the Gamemakers."

"What about you, Idaho?"

"No problem." He grabs a hatchet off a rack. Readying his stance, he throws the small ax at an unmarked log. Nearly identical to Wisconsin's attempt, the hatchet deeply lodges itself at the center of the log. He makes a content nod, feeling quite confident of his chances to impress the Gamemakers. "Nice."

"Awesome!" Wisconsin claps for him. "It's your turn, Vermont."

"O-Oh. Okay..." Though reluctant, he feels pressured to try and impress his fellow tributes. He grabs a hatchet he thinks is suitable to his standards before preparing to throw it at a target.

"Oh? You're left-handed?" Oregon remarks.

"Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. It's something I just noticed. Carry on."

His eyes back on the target, Vermont takes a few practice swings, figuring out how much force he'll have to put in his throw for the hatchet to hit the target. While doing so, his shoulders tense up. Aware his fellow tributes are watching him intently, he can't afford to mess up badly. Taking a deep breath, he pulls back his left arm. A second later, he swings forward, throwing the hatchet at a slight tilt. The ax rotates multiple times—flying across the room—until the blade hits the bottom corner of the log.

"That sucks," Idaho mutters.

"S-Sorry," he stutters. "My hands are pretty sweaty, s-so my grip slipped."

"That's alright. It happens to a lot of us." Wisconsin pats him on the back. 

"Keep practicing," Oregon advises. "If that happened in the arena, you would be defenseless."

"Yeah. Got it..."

"Well, see you later. I'll be brushing up my knowledge of edible plants, so you know where to look if you need me for anything."

"Me, too!" Wisconsin chirps.

"I'll be going to the lunchroom for some potato chips," says Idaho, going off on his own.

"See you later then..." Vermont waves, watching his fellow tributes walk off with a disappearing smile. "It's hopeless for me," he moans.

"Um, are you okay?" Minnesota's question startles him.

"O-Oh! It's you, Minnie." He breathes a sigh of relief.

She cocks her head, repeating the question, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

She frowns. "You don't sound alright. Did they say anything to make you sad?"

"N-Not at all." He shakes his head. "Besides Idaho, my fellow tributes aren't the kind of people to be mean for no reason. It's just..." He sighs. "I'm not confident in myself. I'm fine using an ax to chop wood. But when I look at that log," he refers to the target he hit earlier, "I have to imagine it's a human being. I need to be ready to take a life, but..."

"Then don't."

"What?" He gives her an astonished look.

"You can win the Games without hurting anyone," she claims wholeheartedly.

"Is that possible?"

"Of course. There have been victors who survived without killing anyone. At the very least, you should try." She blushes shyly. "I know it sounds naive, but I can't help myself wonder about everyone in this room. Their friends, their families, their livelihood... I don't want to be the one to bring about their demise. I don't want to crush the hearts of their friends and families. I don't want to think of the futures they could have lived weren't for me. That kind of guilt is too much to bear." She shakes her head. "I rather die than take someone's life. Rather, I intend to win without taking a life." Her smile shines brightly enough to banish the shadows of doubt plaguing Vermont.

Sure, her words sound naive. But they're also kind, beautiful, and faithful to the human heart. Somehow, her warm soul hasn't become corrupted by fame, greed, or the primal instinct to survive. It's a breath of a fresh air. Even more extraordinary, the thought of dying doesn't even disturb her. Is she brave, or is she so ignorant as to not recognize the unknown dangers of death in the Hunger Games? Her selfless nature may seem good. But what about her friends, her family, and her future? She should care more for the life she holds now. And yet, despite knowing how fragile her ideals may be, it still shines as a shimmer of hope. If among the stars and galaxies her beliefs remain true, then there's nothing to fear.

"I believe you." Vermont nods.

She softly smiles. "Nice. Let's do our best to survive."

~

A solid hour at the shelter-making station has left Vermont feeling wiped out. He decides to head back to his district apartment early to rest. On the way back, he looks up at the Dakotas moving quickly across the rope course. "Wow. They're quite nimble."

"You should've seen them move around the gauntlets," says Tennessee of District 8, approaching him. "It's quite scary."

While watching the brother and sister, he frowns. "It must be terrible."

"Huh?"

"Having a sibling fight in the same arena. It's like rubbing salt into a wound."

"Yeah," he mumbles, understanding where he's coming from. "Too bad the Capitol thinks indifferently. They'll probably react more to watching one of them cry over their sibling's death than watching one of them win the Games. It'll be a highlight for them." He scratches the back of his head. "That aside, they're tributes like the rest of us. If they're planning to team up for the Games, it'll be a problem dealing with them. I hate to be in a two-to-one fight." His eyes glance to the side, quickly adding, "Except them. I'm sure I can beat them." Vermont turns to where he's looking.

With a sword resting on her shoulder, South Carolina nags her sister with remarks about wasting time at the camouflage station. "Such a cowardly skill. I thought you're better than this."

"The Games aren't always about stabbing people with a sword," North Carolina mutters while painting her arm to blend in with a mossy rock. "Some victors of previous years have managed to survive without encountering a threat simply by hiding and waiting things out."

"You seriously believe you can lay still against a rock for more than a day?"

"If it saves me from fighting someone, sure. I'll lay on a rock—covered from head to toe in moss and mud—and prove my strategy works better than yours."

She scoffs, "Yeah, right. I'll be the first person to find you and prove how stupid you are to think you can lay back while the rest of us fight to the teeth and bone to survive. Even if you're my sister, having a victor be a pig covered in mud is insulting to our district."

"That's your opinion. Fighting dirty doesn't matter if it helps me win."

"Same, but at least have some dignity. I'm going to follow the steps of the previous victors and win through courage, strength, and grace. I'll be the most coveted victor of District 8 and all of Panem. You'll be praying to rise from the grave just to spend a day admiring my majesty."

"If I do die in the arena, I'll pray for your death, so District 8 and all of Panem don't have to cater to your vanity. Seeing you win is a greater punishment than anything in Hell," she grumbles.

Tennessee chuckles at their bickering. "Maybe siblings aren't that overpowered after all."

"Maybe..." Vermont mumbles. "Well, I'm finished with training for today. I'm going to have dinner and get some rest."

"Same. My arm's all sore after spending more than an hour at the archery station."

The Dakotas hanging from the ropes watch them head to the elevator, both wondering if what they said earlier is a good thing or not.

"It seems we're getting more attention as the days go by," North Dakota mutters.

"That's good." South Dakota smirks.

"No, that's not good." He scowls. "If more people see us as a threat, we're more likely to be targeted."

"I like to see them try," she giggles.

He groans, "They better not."

~

Like many tributes of District 4 before him, Washington takes great interest in the tridents station. Having spent a vast amount of time fishing for anything he can catch in the nearby sea, a trident is essentially a third arm to him. As much as he wants to test a trident out, however, he knows it's better to save his primary talent for the private interview with the Gamemakers as recommended by his mentor. He's about to turn away when he sees Nebraska lift a trident off a rack.

'What's that girl from District 10 doing here?' he ponders, watching her get ready to throw it.

Gripping the shaft of the trident tightly, Nebraska flings the trident with all her strength at a practice dummy. The trident scrapes the side of the dummy's head before falling to the floor behind it, echoing loud clangs. She groans, "How did I miss that? It's only ten feet away."

"I can tell you why," he interrupts as she realizes he had been watching her.

"Uh, excuse me." She sees the number on his training uniform, recognizing him as a Career. "Do you plan to train at this station? I can head elsewhere."

"No, it's alright." He stops her from leaving. "I've already mastered the trident. You're fine where you are. Although," he mumbles, "you're better off with a spear."

"A spear, huh?" She briefly walks away to go pick up the trident. She returns to him after examining the weapon for a moment. "If you don't mind me asking, wouldn't it be better to use a trident instead? It's basically a three-pronged spear. It would cover more area, making it more likely to hit a target. Not to mention, it's even more deadly."

"You're right in that aspect if you can hit a target." He glances at the trident in her hands. "A trident is more complex than a spear. The extra prongs add more weight to one side, making that side heavier than the other. As such, the trident is more likely to drop significantly when thrown. Compared to a spear, the gap between the user and a target needs to be closer to be accurate."

"That makes sense."

"The way you throw the trident is an issue. May I?"

"Um, sure." She allows him to move her hands along the trident, positioning it much closer to the fork.

"Right there. You should be able to aim and throw better."

"Okay. I'll give it a try." Allowing him to stand back, Nebraska makes a second attempt to hit the practice dummy with the trident. She launches the weapon and the prongs hit the dummy in the neck.

"Not bad. Just practice some more, and you'll get the hang of it."

She gives him a nod of approval. "Thanks for the advice."

"It's no biggie. If you plan to use a trident in the arena, you better use it correctly. Otherwise, you'll make my district groan every time they have to watch their favorite weapon be used incorrectly." He walks off with a casual wave. "Anyway, I'll leave you to continue practicing on your own. Good luck."

From behind a pillar, Oregon watches Washington walk past her without noticing her presence, thinking, 'I need to be careful if I encounter him in the arena.'

~

After an intense thirty-minute training session with spears, Maryland decides to call it a day. She stops short of entering the elevator when her name is called. She turns around and sees it's a boy wearing the number ten on his uniform. More importantly, she notices her notebook in his hand. "When did you—" She swiftly takes her notebook back from him. "Did you look inside?"

"N-No! Never!" New Mexico shakes his head frantically. "Virginia told me to give it to you since she saw you leave without asking for it back."

His excuse doesn't assure her skepticism. "Couldn't Virginia come and give it back to me?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. She seemed to be preoccupied talking to New Jersey when I was passing by." He frowned. "I know it's hard to believe since we're strangers, but I'm not the kind of person to invade someone's privacy."

"... Okay." She breathes out, relenting her suspicions. "I believe you."

"Gracias (Thank you)." He watches her head into the elevator with her notebook. 

Going up with the elevator, Maryland checks her notebook, confirming nothing suspicious has happened to its contents. 'Thank goodness. Everything is intact.' She makes a mental note to scold Virginia for entrusting her notes to an unfamiliar tribute. She's lucky it didn't end up in the hands of someone shady—someone like New Jersey...

☆☆☆☆☆

• Compared to the "First Day of Training", this chapter was much shorter in length. I could've made it longer to flesh out more character interactions, but this was plenty enough considering the number of chapters still left to publish before the start of the Hunger Games.

~

Feel free to vote and/or comment on the chapter.