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Some members of the Capitol audience cheered as the twenty-four District children were paraded before them, dressed in white. Most of the audience looked on in various states of mild boredom. They were tired of war and reminders of war and the whole affair felt quite dreary.

A few audience members even dared question if the whole thing was, well, wrong. The rebels had been stopped. Further bloodshed felt excessive. None dared voice their opinions. They didn't want to be viewed as rebel sympathizers.

Sympathizers tended to disappear.

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Mink York was an artist, an actor! The weapons before him were beneath him. He tentatively poked at a knife. It could work, he supposed.

A glance around the room told him it would do him little good. The girl from District 10 looked like she could bash his head in. And would enjoy doing it.

The only tributes he could have a physical advantage over where the younger pairs from Districts 11 and 12.

Mink would most definitely have to play a mental game. The boy from District 7 looked gullible.

"Hi," Mink said brightly, turning on the charm, "I have an idea, so hear me out. Let's make an alliance."

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Everyone was positively abuzz with the news; someone had volunteered.

The Capitol wanted all the details, of course. But only speaking with one of the tributes was quickly deemed unfair. So, all the tributes would be interviewed, and they would have to be dressed for the occasion. It was only natural that they look their best while speaking before all of Panem.

More supplies were introduced to the arena and the Games took longer. Camping supplies had been scattered among the weapons.

The audience watched the tributes that had come to know die one by one. In the end, the Volunteer became Victor.

He had volunteered in hopes of freeing his sister, who had been imprisoned for her actions during the Dark Days. He learned she was executed three days before the Reaping.

The Capitol audience found the whole drama most delightful.

Their unease about the Games had begun to fade.

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The more supplies provided for the tributes, the longer the Games lasted. This made them more entertaining for the Capitol and more horrifying for the Districts, a resounding success all around.

The Gamemakers formalized the supplies, placing them in a gilded Cornucopia as a symbol of the Capitol's mercy and generosity. And their cruelty, the Districts would amend.

The fight for the supplies was a bloody affair.

Gunnar Tepes fought with brutal efficiency. He had no intention of letting the Games last. He saw those intentions through.

The following day, after the laceration to his arm had been tended to, the Capitol saw fit to do a follow-up interview. At least that way he could still provide come entertainment.

Unfortunately for them, Gunnar proved just as taciturn as he was efficient.

The Gamemakers were determined to do better next time.

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Plain white tunics had become a bore. The Hunger Games were meant to be an event. A spectacle, even.

Top designers and fashion consultants were sought out and given the opportunity to have a blank canvas on a grand stage. They readily accepted. For an added challenge and interest, the outfits would keep to the theme of the District's industry. The audience would even be given the opportunity to vote for their favorite.

Crowds cheerfully lined the streets as the tributes were presented before them. Shining metallics and glittering gems and flowing silks covered the tributes. All were in awe.

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Something was wrong about the boy from District 1. The other Tributes whispered among themselves, trying to pinpoint what it could be. Something was wrong, though.

The way he held the sword was correct. Too correct. The trainers complimented him on his natural form and grace.

"Do... do you think he trained?" Ventured the girl from District 8.

The whisper dispersed through the room.

"But that's illegal," countered the boy from District 10.

The boy from District 1 noticed and grinned, "So what?"

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Brendon liked everything in the Capitol. He liked the food and the music and the colors. He liked all the people, they seemed so nice.

The audience thought he was adorable.

The Gamemakers looked forward to breaking him.

The arena could not break him. He optimism resisted the trials of starvation and dehydration. He even made an ally.

The designated mentor, picked from District citizens who had been loyal to the Capitol during the Dark Days, sent Brendon a hatchet. He had a choice to made. He made the one that let him live.

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Five generations of loyal service and the Capitol had the nerve to throw the Pantina family in with the rabble within District 1. They treated them like they were a family of miners, not the finest bred bodyguards and espionage agents to serve the Capitol's elite in the history of Panem. They had spied for the Capitol during the Dark Days. They had succeeded where Capitol mutations had failed. Yet their children were eligible for this Reaping business, which was supposed to be a punishment for the rebels.

The Pantina family were not rebels.

The new academy opened up. The dean, Mink York, said it was to train new bodyguards. But the Pantina family had enough connections to learn otherwise. It would train tributes for the Hunger Games.

If the Capitol would treat them like rabble, the Pantina family would prove themselves as elites.

They offered up the scion of their house, Matte, the heir to the family name and reputation. He could be a Victor and return the family to its rightful place above the rest of the District. No more would the ranks of the Victors be filled with second-rate actors and the children of miners.

Good breeding would matter once again.

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The ninth arena was as close to a dream come true as any arena could be for Mags. The flooded city provided plenty of places to hide, and most importantly there were fish in the bodies of water. Mags fled the supply melee, which the Capitol had begun to refer to as the bloodbath.

Using grasses and bits of scrap metal and wire found in the ruins, Mags wove herself nets and fishing lines to capture fish and frogs for food and to set traps for any tributes that tried to approach her position. The boy from District 1, the first tribute to make it past Mags' traps found her camp on the third day, but no sign of Mags herself. He made the grave mistake of not looking in the water. Mags emerged from a deep pool and wrapped a rope around his neck from behind and strangled him to death.

Many of the Capitol sponsors that had been backing the boy from District 1 turned their focus to his killer. Mags was sent a knife and a water filter. No longer as focused on staying around one of the rare sources of fresh water she had centered her camp on, Mags went on the offensive. Over the next week, Mags tracked down and killed just one other fellow tribute.

On the eleventh day, the Gamemakers made an announcement. A feast of food and drink would be held at the Cornucopia the next morning. Despite her fishing abilities, Mags had struggled to catch enough to keep herself properly fed and made the decision to risk getting food at the feast.

The feast contained a bounty of pastries and hot drinks and more that Mags did not have time to try, being attacked by the boy from District 2. She took a sword cut to the arm but slipped under the boy's guard and sunk her knife deep into his gut, disemboweling him, then guaranteeing his death with a rope around his neck. Mags left the feast to find a safe place to tend to her wound.

The Games were beginning to drag on for the Capitol citizens. Pallid alligator mutts were unleashed and herded the remaining three tributes back to the Cornucopia. The boys from District 6 and District 11 viewed each other as the greatest threats remaining and overlooked the bedraggled girl from District 4. Both wounded each other heavily enough for Mags to strangle one and jab a fishhook up the other's nose. With that, she became the Victor of the 9th Hunger Games.

The Capitol loved their first female Victor and so did the girls of the Districts, finally seeing that they stood a chance.

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Previous Hunger Games had largely been won by physical prowess and combat ability. For the Games that would be the finale of the first decade of peace, the Gamemakers wanted to try for something different.

Deaths by natural causes were boring, but their threat provided excellent dramatic tension. The items placed in the Cornucopia were selected with utmost care. Three knives, a sword, and an axe made up the weaponry. It also would contain a single canteen of water.

The desert held a bounty, if one knew where to look.

Ion Guri knew where to look.

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Two hundred and thirty dead children and ten Victors later, the whole of Panem knew the Hunger Games were around to stay. Dissent in the Districts had reached an all-time low. The horrors of the Dark Days and the Capitol's vicious response, along with more than a few purges of remaining rebels, cowed the Districts into obedience.

Feather May of District 12 was born into the Seam and always thought she would die in the Seam. Being Reaped changed all her plans.

When Feather rose into a pine forest, some of her fears were quelled. She knew woods like these. Her aunt had shown her how to get beyond the electrified fences to look for herbs and berries. The other tributes had no such experience. Feather stood the slimmest of chances.

Poisoning the competition turned slim chances to Victory.

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Sprout had lost his right eye to a childhood infection and was nearsighted in his left eye. He had learned early on to compensate with his hearing. In the dank, echoing tunnels of the 12th Arena, Sprout used his talents well.

In the arena, he did what he had to do to come out alive.

He just wished there had been someone that could warn him about the cost of that life. Someone to tell him that no matter how hard he scrubbed, the blood would never come off. Someone to tell him that the shadows would always be haunted.

When he began mentoring, he made sure to be that warning voice. For better or worse, the children of District 9 would know what they were getting into.

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Muttation Profile

Designation: Quarry Piranha
Type: Aquatic, Direct Damage
Component Species: Red-bellied Piranha (Pygocentrus nattereri), Bull Shark (Carcharhinus leucas), Giant Moray Eel (Gymnothorax javanicus)

Deployment Strategies

- Target elimination
- Conflict separation and delay
- Resource guarding

[Edit: Add Entry]

- Slow down D4M

[Edit: Modify Entry]

-Slow down D4M To be eaten by D4M and used by him to eliminate D2M, I guess

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The tributes kept forming truces. District Partners refused to kill each other. Districts 3 and 5 formed an alliance. Then Districts 9, 10, and 11 formed an alliance. They slowly whittled each other down, nonetheless, but one week stretched to two weeks and was swiftly approaching a third.

It was time for things to end, already.

The Gamemakers were hesitant to intervene too clearly. Polls had shown the Capitol audience preferred tributes killing each other. Observations had also shown that in the Districts, tributes obviously and clearly killed by Gamemaker traps tended to incite violence against Capitol personnel.

Still, when no one tried to kill each other at the Feast, it was time for a direct statement to be made.

When a block of C4 tore the Cornucopia asunder, killing the boy from District 2 and the girl from District 10, it made it very clear that the Capitol's generosity had its limits.

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The six teens stood in uneasy silence, loosely grouped into their District pairs. The ground before them was streaked with gore and the bodies of the fallen.

It was Tiramisu of District 1 who spoke first, "I propose an alliance."

Bracken of District 4 scowled. "We know your mentor's idea of an alliance, One."

She rolled her eyes at him. "An actual alliance, not a pretty lie. We're stronger together. And do you really want to get injured fighting over supplies, only to get picked off by some sneak from an outer District later?"

It hit close to home for all of them.

Sigurd of District 2 folded his arms, trying not to obviously favor his uninjured leg. "An alliance between One, Two, and Four? We are all volunteers. It makes sense. Alright, then. Allies."

He crossed the space between him and Tiramisu, extending a hand.

She shook it. Their partners shook hands as well. Bracken still scowled, looking to Leandra. She shrugged and went over to Sigurd. She did not immediately shake his hand, instead asking, "What happens, though, when we're the last?"

Not if, but when.

"Then we fight. But only then."

She shook his hand.

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Septimius Ferrum and Dayta Nguyen came to an arrangement over a breakfast held after her crowning ceremony. Septimius had the funds and legal ability to make a tech company startup. Dayta had the technological know-how and manufacturing connections to make a tech company flourish.

District 3 had always been the Technology District. However, they had been trapped in a stranglehold of Capitol patents and limits on District R&D programs. Most days, they were glorified tech support and precious metals recycling, children breathing in solder fumes which left lasting damage. If research firms could be established within the District, those actually making the tech could be the ones able to make improvements and new designs, rather than a Capitol citizen pouring over holographic displays who had never seen a computer chip laid bare before them.

Together, Ferrum and Nguyen, Capitol and District, working for a common goal, could get around that red tape and make something better.

After they shook on it, Septimius did admit that it was not personal. He was going to make the offer to the first District 3 Victor, whoever they were. Though, from what he saw in the arena, he was glad Dayta was the one to be first.

Dayta, too, admitted it was not personal. She favored cutting wires over cutting tendons. This way, she could make a difference in her District. Without the need to stoop to training child killers.

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Hauling bales of cotton and wool had strengthened Woof over the years. He had relied on his size growing up to stay out of fights, or to stop them. His presence alone discouraged anybody from trying anything.

In the arena, he had to use that strength for real.

It worked.

Back home, scrubbed clean of blood and dirt and scars by the Capitol, Woof was afraid to touch anyone. He had seen what his hands could do. He was afraid that now he had started hurting, instead of helping, he wouldn't be able to go back.

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There was hunger in the Hunger Games, but rarely starvation. Violence had always set in before starvation.

The Gamemakers had miscalculated this year. The poisoned fruits of the orchard arena had deterred most of the tributes from eating anything at all, even supplies from sponsor gifts. Even those with appetites struggled to hold down food as an aftereffect of those same poisons.

Someone was going to hang for it.

The Games dragged on. The longest and most boring yet.

More than one person was going to hang.

After thirty days, only two tributes remained. Neither had much strength to move.

The Gamemakers had to do something, but what? They could no show obvious favoritism by intentionally killing one tribute and leaving the other to be Victor.

After another two days, mutts were sent. Not to kill, but to drag the tributes to opposite ends of the same clearing. A knife was delivered by golden parachute between the two.

Seeder was the one with the strength to reach it.

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A new team of Gamemakers sat at the consoles of the 19th Hunger Games. They did not speak of their predecessors, who were either no longer among the living or no longer had a tongue.

The Games were in desperate need of a change of pace. Something flashy, something quick. And, well, the ever-full banquets spread among the casino game rooms were just part of the aesthetic.

There was also a silent agreement to favor the alliance between the volunteers, at least for the next year or two. They were what tributes were supposed to be. Brave, strong, cunning individuals that rose above the rest of their District to be something better. The Districts that gave rise to those volunteers were also what the Districts were supposed to be like. They knew their place.

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Patricia had to be heavily sedated for her crowning ceremony. The Capitol continued to provide various therapies after. There was a delicate line to balance upon with the Victors. Yes, they needed to be broken so they would not become leaders. But not too broken, or else they would become martyrs.

The most concerning thing about Patricia was the pity she invoked among some of the Capitol citizens. That could not be allowed to fester. The Districts were not to be sympathized with.

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Four hundred and sixty dead children and twenty Victors had come before and many more were destined to follow. It was difficult for most of the younger generation to even imagine a time before the Games. They had become a fact of life. It was normal that every year, two children were sent to the Capitol to die. Sometimes, ever so rarely, one of them even came back. How else could it be?

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"What do you mean you didn't think of this?" Head Gamemaker Theodora demanded.

On the main screen, D10F was seated on the back of one of the equine mutations, tugging on its mane to guide it in a slow circle around the paddock.

Head Muttation Designer Arctos threw his hands in the air. "No, I did not anticipate a tribute feeding my carnivorous horses jerky to gain their trust. No one would think of something like that!"

The Gamemakers continued to watch the screen. It was a first-year intern, Roy Exxon, who quietly suggested, "Why not just let her have it? It's no different than a tribute cutting up a blanket to make a rope."

There were some immediate outraged reactions, but Theodora silenced them with a glare. "Go on."

Roy shifted nervously but did continue. "If we retaliate, wouldn't that make it look like the tribute outsmarted us? If we let her keep the mutt, then it's just a tribute doing something unexpectedly clever, but not something in defiance of the Capitol's will."

"A fair point," Theodora turned back to the screen. "Alright, let's continue to allow it for now."

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The Energy District was not all glittering solar panels and sedately turning wind turbines. Zephyr knew its other sides. She had shoveled biowaste from 10 (i.e., cow dung) into great furnaces. She had worked the algae vats, scooping green slime into presses where they were rung for their oils.

In the end, the work had made her strong and stubborn.

Zephyr's ruthless streak was something all of her own.

It was a simple decision when the cat muttation was bearing down on her and her sort-of-ally. She didn't need to be faster than the mutt. She had to be faster than the other person with her. Taking his knee out with a swing of a branch worked well.

Zephyr never really did figure out why so many people took issue with that.

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There had been some interest in visiting the grounds of prior arenas among the Capitol citizens, wanting to see where their favorite Victors had walked before. Limited access had been granted but it was by no means a formalized system.

The crystal caves, however, were something else entirely. Everyone who had the money and time for the luxury of travel was vying to visit the site. Even District 1's mayor filed a travel application.

President Lucretia Alexandri saw an opportunity she hadn't imagined since she had taken the presidency from the late President Ravinstill eight years prior. Construction was done swiftly, and she cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony herself. The first Hunger Games Arena Park was open, with construction already undergoing on the previous twenty-three sites. Why not be able to experience the Hunger Games all year round?

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President Lucretia appeared on every screen in Panem. A sealed envelope was presented to her. The first removed from a box that contained centuries' worth.

"It was decided, upon the founding of the Hunger Games, that each Twenty-Five years, a Quarter Quell would be held. These special Games are to serve as a reminder for what caused the Dark Days and why we continue to hold the Hunger Games."

There was silence across all of Panem as President Lucretia opened the envelope and pulled out the card.

"For the First Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the Districts that it was they who chose to rebel, the twenty-four tributes will be selected by vote. Voting booths will be placed in the Hall of Justice in each District and a list of all of the District's eligible citizens, ages 12 to 18, will be provided. Voting is mandatory."

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Two days before the Reaping and Braydon Goldsmith, chosen volunteer, was dead.

Mink sat at his desk, pondering what to do. They had already caught the perpetrator. Seventeen-year-olds were not known for their ability to keep their mouths shut.

Mink made his decision, hitting the intercom button, "Jessica, please bring Mr. Rose to the Headmaster's Office."

It only took a few minutes for the teen to be brought to the office. Mink gestured at the seat, watching Hamlet Rose's body language. The teen took a seat, shoulders tense but a rakish smile on his face.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Hamlet, did you poison Braydon?"

The smile faltered, but only momentarily. "And if I did, sir?"

Mink rested his chin in his hand. "Yes or no question, Hamlet."

"Lily of the valley. There's a patch of it growing by the western dormitory."

So, that answered the question of sourcing.

"Report to the stylists, you'll need a haircut, and they need to take measurements."

Hamlet scurried off before Mink could change his mind.

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Something broke in Tigris' heart when she watched Alice Track, face blood-spattered and tear-streaked, stare into the camera and ask, "Can I go home yet?"

It was easy to blame her reaction on the molly. It always made her weepy. She downed another glass of champagne as the new Victor was lifted out of the arena and the celebrations really kicked off.

The next morning, hungover and with what appeared to be a new tattoo, Tigris still felt that pang of... something she didn't want to name.

That blow-up she'd had with Coryo after the Quarter Quell announcement made her wary of voicing her opinions on the Games.

She still wanted to do something.

That Stylist position had opened up. They were accepting portfolios, still. Perhaps that was a way. Get closer to the Games to break them down.

For the first time in a long time, Tigris felt something like hope.

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The arc of blood spattered on the closest camera. The gore obscured the view of Evander stumbling away from the body of Dorothea. One of the other cameras still caught the shot of him double over, retching.

The live blogs filled with screen captures of the hatchet blow that had split Dorothea's ribcage open. Slow motion replays overlaid with graphics became top posts. And there were complaints that Evander wasn't celebrating. Why wasn't he cheering, whooping in triumph? He was supposed to be happy. The audience was happy.

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Mina stalked the waters. Spear in hand, she hunted the shallows for fish and tributes alike. She plodded along the endless sandbars, following the methodical loops of the seabirds. When the birds descended, clawing at the eyes of any unfortunate tribute they could reach, Mina hid in the waves.

It was only right that, when she at long last returned home, she build a temple to Poseidon hidden in the waves offshore. She swore to serve as the high priest for the rest of her life, now that she had one to live.

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The house in the Victor's Village only became home for Oat when he got the first cactus. He hated cacti, but they were the only thing that was real anymore. The house, with it's sturdy walls and not-leaking roof, wasn't real. But the cactus made it real.

The cactus reminded Oat that the Arena had happened.

He killed. Others died. There were cacti.

If there was a cactus, then Oat could trust reality.

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Radiance Coach was the Victor of the 6th Hunger Games and seven years later he had a wife and baby girl. And that baby girl would be his legacy. No more would his family be destined for work in the mines and processing plants. They would be important.

But the houses of Victors' Village belonged to the Victors and were not passed down to their families when they died. This thought rooted itself deep in Radiance's mind.

His daughter leaned to crawl, then walk, then run, and swim, and climb. He taught her how to throw knives and duel with swords. He had friends from the Academy teach her archery and hand-to-hand combat.

His dear wife, Fleur, said nothing during all of it until he suggested they sign their parental rights away to the Academy of Silver. She said no and would not budge. If her husband insisted Caramel would volunteer one day, they would train her together and she would die their daughter if that were what it came down to. No one else would have her.

Radiance understood because he knew he would have read that part of the paperwork over, again and again and would have hated himself for signing it.

They trained her together.

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She couldn't look at her hands. It was always there. Blood.

Caked under her nails. Oozing out of a split knuckle. Even knowing it was there, just under her skin, was too much.

They tell her it was four days. Ninety-four hours, thirty-one minutes, to be more precise. It felt like four years.

All that time when there was only flickering flame and dancing shadows, endless velvet darkness, and blood.

The worst thing is, part of her misses it.

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Nkiruka carried the small television with her the whole time. Working in packing made it easier. At least she never needed to take it into the orchards. When she had trouble with the signal, or the battery died, or any other reason for a lapse in coverage, it would not take long before someone came running to give her an update.

That was how they did it in District 11.

Nkiruka did not know who first got the small television sets, three in total, though more were borrowed as necessary. Perhaps it had been one of the families of Clair Stonefruit or Umar Vert, the first children to be lost.

Nkiruka never expected to watch her child become one of the ones to return. Amara would be changed, yes. But she was alive.

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For a record three months after the 34th Hunger Games, over 90% of Capitol citizens stopped eating beef.

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They were not District 1, with their fancy academy and silken smiles. They were not District 2, with their military precision and foolish concepts of honor. They were District 4, hard working people making the best of a bad situation.

That was the mantra that Boral had grown with. He always thought it was kind of stupid. He wasn't exactly struggling or anything. Not even counting Mina's Victor stipend. His dad owned a fleet of five ships and was partners with a guy that owned a few shrimping boats down in Gulf Port.

Boral trained because he wanted to. He wanted the glory and the fame. He wanted to rub it in Mina's face because she called him small and weak and by Hades, he would prove her wrong.

Let the others try to be humble. Boral wouldn't be bothering.

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Joseph Moore served his twenty years as a Peacekeeper in the slums of District 6. He saw addiction that lead to people craving a drug more than they did water.

When he returned to District 2, he moved to the sleepy settlement of Sand Town. It was the southernmost part of District 2 and far away from anything that resembled a city. Joseph was tired of cities.

He got a bride, fifteen years younger than he was, the daughter of a quarry worker. Her name was Ursa and she was splendid.

She bore him three sons. The first, Corpus, died young. The doctors called the disease osteogenesis imperfecta; his bones were brittle and broke under their own weight. The second, Scaberous, was clever and loyal and would make a fine Peacekeeper. The third, Rictus, was strong but slow. The Pax Program took him in anyways.

Rictus was taught how to kill. The Pax Program forwent any notion that Rictus may one day be a Peacekeeper. He would be a volunteer tribute. They pumped him full of steroids and the year he turned eighteen, they unleashed him on the arena. Joseph watched with pride as his youngest smashed his way through the arena with mace and bare hands.

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The Cornucopia held no weapons that year.

Light, airy cakes and rose-syrup and meringues were the primary rations provided. Sparkling wines and white tea were provided for drink.

The only other item was a singular sleeping mask.

Chandelier killed for that mask after 70 hours, bashing in Jolene from District 2's head with a candlestick, but still couldn't sleep.

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It only took one broken nose for Calders's brothers to stop making fun of his nightlight.

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The blood was everywhere. It stained everything out of the corner of his eye, glistening pools on the ground and dried flakes drifting in a mockery of snow. Its scent, fresh or old or putrefying, always lingered on the wind. Whenever silence fell, it splashed or splattered or dripped with a splat-splat-splat.

When Alice offered the morphling on the train ride home, he took it.

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Brendon taught Blight to whittle after the Games, so he had something to do with his hands. He wished his old man had been the one to teach him that kind of skill. But his old man had taught him how to survive the Games. It evened things out close enough to his reckoning.

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Justinian Praetorian, head of the District Youth Outreach Division of the Pax Program, demanded there be an official inquiry.

Lyme Paver's actions stood in direct opposition to all that the DYOD stood for. She had displayed no teamwork or honor in her victory. She may have not slain her District partner directly, but she had shoved him in the path of the mutts all the same.

Petra silenced his rantings with a knife driven into the mahogany desk. "Outreach gets us to the Reaping Stage. Your part is done once we say the sacred words and make our sacrifice. Her life is her own now. I'll have no more interference. Not after you drove Rictus to an early grave."

Petra left the knife quivering between them, her point made.

There was no inquiry.

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Head Gamemaker Trillum Hawkwood trembled with barely contained rage.

"Do not fire that last cannon."

"Sir?" The intern in charge of firing the cannons froze.

The vital signs for tribute D2M clearly showed he was deceased, along with his district partner and the remaining tribute from District 1.

"Wait an additional four minutes, then fire the cannon." Trillium instructed, checking records and confirming what he wanted to know. "Mark it as drowning. I don't want an impossible to beat set time made by a tribute with a trap. Who knows what that will encourage."

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No one had trusted a word out of Demitria's mouth before the Games, and they sure as hell didn't trust her after.

It was too bad; she would have made a fine rebel.

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Even years after his Games, Xanthos still found himself a bit salty about the fact he hadn't been allowed to keep his leg.

It was his leg. He grew it himself. And if he wanted to make scrimshaw out of his own leg bones, it only seemed right he should be allowed to, "medical waste" or not.

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They don't talk about it after the crowning. They don't talk about it during the party. They don't talk about it on the train.

It's only when they're in the relative safety of the Victor's Village, in Seeder's kitchen where the pantries are perpetually full to bursting, that they finally broach the subject.

"They don't like that Anna and I killed most of their Careers, do they?"

Amara laughs but Seeder takes Chaff's question more seriously. "No, they didn't. Consider the lack of a prosthesis a warning."

Chaff looks at the stump where his left hand used to be. He considered it a warning against picking a fight with a boy from Two armed with a battleaxe. "Warning for what?"

Amara still snickers but is the one to answer, "Play by their rules. Walk their lines. Or else."

Chaff gets the sinking feeling that life after Victory isn't all that it's cracked up to be. "Else what?"

That gets Amara to stop laughing. She turns her bright green eyes on him. Full of a mania that hides pain. "People die. Parents. Siblings."

Chaff thinks of his folks and his little brothers settling in at the mansion just a stone's throw away. He wants to put his head in his hands, but only has one to work with, so he rests his chin in his remaining palm. "Well, damn."

Seeder goes to put a kettle on for tea. They've got a lot of rules to go over.

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Radio Host was not a typical talent for what the Capitol expected from its Victors. It was still the talent that Jack went with. He only got a few bit spots on Capitol stations, the citizenry quickly tiring of his puns and "District humor."

Back home, though, every morning District 5 was greeted with a joke and the chipper tones of Jack Sunlight. He always did have a particular talent for using wordplay to avoid Capitol censors. From the radio broadcast he heard from District 13, his wordplay would be needed there, as well, so he never had a mind to work with them.

One of the only times Jack couldn't come up with a satisfactory pun was after the announcement of the Third Quarter Quell. It was hard to make fun of his own, inevitable demise.

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An unexpected west coast hurricane struck District 4. The Capitol meteorologists had noted the storm. The warning was not sent. The Capitol's message was received, the strike ended, and boats were once against sent to the treacherous waters off North Point for crabbing season.

The damage did not end there. The main dormitory for the Polis Program had its roof torn off by the winds. There was only one death, but the number of injuries meant one thing.

The Capitol confirmed it with an order to the Polis Program mentors. No volunteers.

Word was quietly sent around the District.

When Clara Garza and Reed Yellowtail were Reaped, and no volunteers took their place, it was not a surprise.

It was, however, a surprise when Clara Garza came back home a Victor. She never disclosed to anyone the details of the conversation she had with President Coriolanus Snow that let her family live.

Accordingly, she was never included in the planning of the Second Rebellion. Clara had her suspicions, but suspicions were never enough to give to her Capitol handler. For that, she was grateful.

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It was a strange feeling, to hate the sunset. The particular hues of the light grated at Brutus. The golds, the purples, and the reds.

Thirteen days, marked only by the anthem. Brutus had over three hundred hours of sunsets in his arena. He could do without anymore.

The first sunset in the arena for the Third Quarter Quell was no less wretched than the rest.

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Wiress used traps to keep herself safe. She blocked off passages to prevent pursuers, tributes and mutts alike, from following in her wake.

It was only natural for the traps to follow her home.

Beetee did his best to make a catalogue. Wiress never pointed out which ones he missed.

Front Porch Steps: Non-Drying Adhesive

Front Door: Trip Wire

Back Door: Nails on Door Handle

Main Staircase: Oiled, Bucket of Paint on Rope (sometimes switched with glue and feathers)

Pantry: Salt and Sugar Switched (then switched again, and again, then swapped with citric acid, continuing in undiscernible pattern)

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No matter how much Haymitch drinks, the forty-seven faces never go away.

No matter how much Haymitch drinks, three more faces join when Snow punishes him for being clever.

No matter how much Haymitch drinks, two more faces join each year after.

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Amber's father may have been the mayor of the richest District and she had accordingly been raised in the lap of luxury, but she still looked to the Capitol with longing. Everything was better there. Brighter, more colorful, more luxurious. The only way she'd get close enough to touch it was to be a tribute in the Hunger Games. So that was what she would become.

When the recruiters from the Academy of Silver went from class to class, Amber asked for a pamphlet. The recruiter was surprised because Amber was eleven and most Academy kids started when they were seven or eight, but handed her the application packet anyway. Amber filled it out and got her mother to sign it, lying that it was actually for a field trip to Roseville, and then stuck it in the Academy's mail slot.

Three weeks later her father stormed into her room, demanding to know why there were Academy of Silver representatives at the door to congratulate Amber on her acceptance and take her to the beginner dorms for phase 1 testing. Instead of saying anything, Amber darted past her father and down the stairs to where the representatives were at the door. The most important thing Amber remembered from the Academy paperwork is that parental rights were signed away, which meant her parents couldn't tell her to do anything anymore.

Amber stood next to the Academy representatives as they explained this to her father. He went angry red then ghost white. He said the Academy could not do this, they had no right. One of the representatives, a tall woman with black hair and swirling black tattoos, smiled a not-so-nice smile and replied, "Your wife's signature says otherwise."

So eleven year old Amber went to the Academy of Silver without her parents' blessing. Each time she threw a knife or rattled off the names of every Victor and how they won their Games, she thought of the beauty of the Capitol waiting for her. When Caydence broke her arm in hand-to-hand combat training, Amber thought of the cakes and pastries that would be served in the Capitol. She was given a puppy for her thirteenth birthday. For her fourteenth birthday, she was told to kill it with her bare hands. She did so thinking of the dress she'd wear during her interview.

Amber almost volunteered for the 50th Hunger Games, but decided to wait, because she did not want to share the Capitol with 24 more tributes than she had to.

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Nick knew he had run his mouth too much.

But how could he not, when his big sister died in 48 and his little cousin died in the Quell?

When he got whipped the first time for running his mouth, he should have wised up.

After the second time, he just knew to get ready.

When they called his name in 52, I sauntered up the steps. He had to wonder if every slip of paper in that bowl had his name on it or if they really left it up to chance.

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Brutus Tepes was less intimidating in person, Roland decided. He still sat ramrod straight in the interview chair, waiting for his prospective mentor to say something.

Instead, Brutus just casually flicked through Roland's training file.

It was hard not to fidget.

Roland started listing off Games' statistics silently in his head in an effort to keep still.

Eventually, Brutus closed the file and shrugged. "You'll do."

And with that, Roland Takala would go to the Hunger Games.

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Jian really did miss the green. There had been so much infill around the Victor's Village, it did not leave much room for a lawn, let alone a garden that would satiate his need for growing things. Industrial runoff also meant he couldn't maintain anything resembling the frog-filled ponds he's learned to love in the foothills of his arena.

He'd mentioned missing the green in some offhand comment on his third date with Chao.

When their fourth date began with his boyfriend struggling up the steps with a massive potted jade plant in hand, Jian knew he'd found the one.

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Daniel actually hated heights. He was from a paper mill town and his only experience with climbing was the jungle gym at the playground in elementary school.

It was Lammas that was the good climber from District 7. She proved that enough in training and her score of 8 reflected that. Daniel wasn't all that surprised when the Careers cut her down in the Bloodbath for the crime of being better at them at something.

But the Cornucopia was located in the basement of the ruined skyscraper. The only direction to go was up. Lammas' death gave him the time to inelegantly scramble up some conveniently spaced rebar.

When an alliance fell into his lap, meeting up with the pair from District 5, Daniel faked it until he made it. It turned out the bar was low enough that he was one of the best climbers remaining by default. Daniel could work with that.

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There were so many mouths to feed. Aunt Inas had triplets and there were twenty-one of them under the same roof after that. The house had four rooms, but four rooms did not feel that big when three of them were filled with crying babies and toddlers and the fourth room only had room for a sink, toilet, and bathtub. Neith tried to help but none of the whaling or crabbing boats would let her on since she was ten years old and not big enough or strong enough and still had school to go to.

Then Albatross Blackwood showed up to school one day and talked about the Polis Program.

Anyone ten or older could sign up to do some tests and if they passed, they'd go to an extra class after school for physical fitness training. If they kept doing well, at thirteen they could go down to Main Port and train full time. If they did well after that and were willing, they'd volunteer as a tribute in the Hunger Games.

What Neith really paid attention to was that every year a kid was in the program, each member of their family got a monthly "stipend," which meant money and food. It was like Tesserae rations, but better. Neith had already planned to take a lot of Tesserae as soon as she turned twelve and thought maybe she could do this Polis Program, too, since they'd let her start right away if she passed the tests.

Neith asked her mother if she could try the Polis Program's tests. Her mother went pale and said no but did not explain why. Neith asked her father if she could do it, not mentioning mother already said no. After a long moment, her father nodded his head once.

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Cecelia knew a lot about allergies, since her little brother had them.

He'd been so annoying. So loud and needy. So, when she was back from school and the babysitter had to leave early, and her parents were at work, she gave him a snack. From her drawer, not his spot in the pantry. That made it special.

It was a horrible thing to watch. The swelling. The struggling to breathe. Then the nothing.

She'd been eight. Everyone just thought she hadn't known what to do. Her parents blamed the babysitter. Everyone else blamed her parents.

So it goes.

And then in the Arena, all she had to do was the same thing she'd done eight years before.

Give someone food. Then do nothing.

Some problems solve themselves.

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Eight Victors of Districts 4 gathered at the side of the house of their newest, ninth member, looking up at the roof.

"How'd she even get up there?" Xanthos asked.

Neith looked around, noticing a few broken branches on one of the bushes by the downspout. "Over there, drain pipe."

Albatross observed the situation before shrugging. "She brought blankets and secured herself to the chimney with a rope. I say we let her sleep."

"We are not letting Emily sleep on the roof!" Mags proclaimed, feeling like the only sane one present.

There was much arguing about what to do, since no one really wanted to risk getting shoved off the roof should they startle Emily awake. In the end, they went with Albatross' plan to let her sleep.

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For the most part, Jasmine through Amber was a rather garbage mentor; rude at best and cuttingly condescending at worst. She was more concerned with touring around the Capitol window shopping than doing anything productive.

The hot bath waiting for Jasmine after recovery changed her mind a little bit.

But the cold didn't leave.

When Jasmine got to the Victor's Village, she got scalded in the shower twice before Caramel got a limiter put on the hot water heater.

It was Chandelier, with her ever-present sunglasses and constantly dim house, who seemed to understand the most. The hot water bottle in a thick, plush cover given to her before the Victory Tour became Jasmine's most prized possession.

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The main community home located in Silica served as a ready recruiting ground for the various criminal elements that operated in District 3. Officially, the dibs on promising recruits went to the Triads and Yakuza, with the various other less organized biker groups and courier-runners allowed to pick at the scraps.

Digit got a reputation for electronics work, snatching parts from the separate factories to make her own assemblies. Connecting them to the Capitol's systems proved difficult without getting caught, but when she pulled it off, she proved to be worth her weight in gold. It was nice having every big name in Silica fighting over her.

When the District Escort called her name, she really wished that her reputation hadn't preceded her that much.

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Climbing the fences to watch the drivers at the Day Town test track was always Edgar's favorite thing. The speed and skill it took to push the Capitol luxury cars to their utmost limits never failed to impress. Edgar hoped to one day be a test driver himself.

Running away from the Peacekeepers when he got caught was his second favorite thing. He figured it helped with the coordination and reaction timing and would give him an edge when it came to the driving tests.

There was no running, though, when his name was called at the Reaping.

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At the banquet, the Capitol served things they called tartare and carpaccio and sashimi. All Enobaria could see was the hunks of flesh and cartilage and tendon that she had spat onto the ground after she had taken a chunk out of that Seven Boy's neck. She couldn't eat a bite all night.

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Gloss might have been stupid, his trainers said that enough, but he wasn't dumb. He knew he was being sent into the Games as a sacrifice. He was supposed to get positive attention for District 1, but not actually win. That way, Cashmere stood a better chance next year.

He wanted to do it right. He'd do anything for Cashie. But the others were stupider than he was. And the mutts were vicious. And the flint was right there. And the fire burned so bright.

How could he do anything but become Victor?

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Cashmere had one more year to train than her brother. She spent it pretending the dummies she was slicing up or stabbing were all him. He had killed her by being crowned Victor. A District had never brought home consecutive Victors but she was seventeen and already considered a bit old for volunteering so she would volunteer for the 64th Hunger Games instead of waiting for the 65th.

Her brother had left her behind in his wake yet again. But that was the way it had been since they were small. He charged ahead and all she could ever do was hope to keep up.

They should have gone into the arena together. They had come into this world as one and should have left it the same. But Gloss had to charge ahead and left her behind for what seemed to be the last time.

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We want Odair, the Capitol liaison had stated.

He is thirteen, Mags replied.

One more year was all they had been given. So, even though it pained her, Mags put her focus on Finnick and let him think volunteering was his own idea. He was brilliant, it was true. He had been tagging along with her Polis since he was very small. Her Polis kids had thought it was funny to hand a five-year-old a stick and show him how to wield it like a trident.

Cleena had trusted Mags with Finnick's safety with her dying breath. Safety wasn't an option anymore, not with him being in the Capitol's sights. But Mags thought she could pull off keeping him alive.

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Boninite's hands had itched for knives as long as she could remember. From her father's knives in the kitchen, to her mother's skinning knives after a hunt, to her great uncle's whittling knives working sweet smelling maple wood.

The District Youth Outreach Division turned that itch into a combat focus. Boninite's favorite tests became how many knives she could hide on her person without being caught.

During training in the Capitol, she liked that she scared even her fellow "Careers." She did wonder why the Gamemakers seemed so amused at her preference. They chuckled at the District 4 predictable preference for tridents, too. And the District 7 equally predictable preference for axes, as well.

Then the platforms rose and the arena was full of nothing but spiked maces.

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Elektra and Roland stuck together, roaming through the seemingly endless hills and fields of low shrubbery and scraggily trees. They had quickly found that the Gamemakers were fond of making the pools of water and small streams dry up if they camped for more than a day.

The allies passed the time by talking. They swapped family stories, shared folklore, and even tried to describe old recipes. It was nice.

The cannons kept firing. Boom. Boom. Boom. Sixteen booms and it was the final eight.

The water was drying up more and more quickly. There was only enough for one person to drink properly. Roland suggested splitting up. Elektra said she wanted to wait until the feast was announced. Her ally agreed to wait another day.

Elektra volunteered to take the first watch that night. She felt bad once Roland was asleep and she took up the knife. She stabbed, stabbed, stabbed and then ran.

It took a couple of hours for the cannon to fire.

Seventeen booms and only six more were needed.

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District 11 has a long memory.

In the days before the tall walls, travel was possible. Not free, and always with a catch, but far more possible.

District 9 was a close sibling, a specialized focus on starches while District 11 cared for fruit and green, and distant cousin District 10 spilled blood.

It made sense for Districts to share talent. And, since talent is best shared among kin, marriages and moving were the obvious solutions. The Capitol got their quotas met easier, so they could hardly disapprove.

But those quotas grew too much. The Third Centennial Celebrations were a breaking point. And breaking meant war.

Losing the war meant walls and stagnation and cruelties for the Districts.

Still, District 11 remembers. And they sometimes name their children to remind the Capitol of those times. When the grain-children and the fruit-children and the green-children, and even the blood-children, could run together and do better together. Any shortcoming, any lack of innovation, were the Capitol's own doing.

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It was generally agreed that the lights in the skyscape were the only nice thing about the arena for the 69th Games.

Cheryl Sonata was allowed to quietly retire as Head Gamemaker. Shame about the illness that took her the next spring.

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"Annie, you can't be picking a fight with the rest of the Pack before the Games even start."

Tempting as it was to roll her eyes at the lecturing, Annie knew better than to provoke her mentor. And she did have a point.

"I know, Emily. I'll try to play nice."

Emily clapped her on the shoulder. "That's all I can ask. Now, come final twelve..."

Annie couldn't help a small laugh. Her mentor's fussing notwithstanding, she felt like she had things under control.

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Johanna had always been annoyed that she cried when she got angry. Turns out that it had its uses.

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Fordite had always been good at lying. When the quiet girl from District 9 started making doe-eyes at him, that caught in the headlights stare, it was easy to start lying.

It'll be alright.

We'll be okay.

I'll protect you.

Saying he cared was not a lie. He did. She was sweet. He still felt guilty about how it all ended. Her name hurt in a way he could never really describe. He just cared about himself a whole lot more than anyone else.

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A potted cactus sat on the windowsill in the brand-new kitchen. It looked out of place compared to the rest of the sleek, Capitol finery that Maize found himself overwhelmed in.

"Got one for Demetria, too. And Sprout. I find them grounding," Oat said from where he sat at the table.

Hesitantly, Maize picked the pot up. The cactus was so green. Nicer than any of the emeralds at the throats of the Capitol women. The thorns kept it safe.

Growing up in the middle of the mill quarter meant Maize was not used to green. His arena only had dangerous green in it. He's weaponized the poison ivy against the others.

He set the cactus back onto the windowsill. He liked having a kinder green around.

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Honestly, if you count Seneca Crane's execution, there were twenty-three deaths for the 74th Hunger Games.

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The Official List of Deaths during the 75th Hunger Games is as follows:

Gloss Candela, Victor of the 63rd Hunger Games
Cashmere Candela, Victor of the 64th Hunger Games
Brutus Tepes, Victor of the 48th Hunger Games
Beetee Latier, Victor of the 42nd Hunger Games
Wiress Ito, Victor of the 49th Hunger Games
Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games
Mags Lachance, Victor of the 9th Hunger Games
Jack Sunlight, Victor of the 46th Hunger Games
Zephyr Foley, Victor of the 23rd Hunger Games
Gear Carson, Victor of the 39th Hunger Games
Alice Track, Victor of the 27th Hunger Games
Blight Torch, Victor of the 40th Hunger Games
Johanna Mason, Victor of the 71st Hunger Games
Woof Holub, Victor of the 17th Hunger Games
Cecelia Loom, Victor of the 57th Hunger Games
Oat Chalk, Victor of the 30th Hunger Games
Demetria Williams, Victor of the 43rd Hunger Games
Rafael Austinson, Victor of the 34th Hunger Games
Doe Busto, Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games
Chaff Rodgerson, Victor of the 45th Hunger Games
Seeder Howell, Victor of the 18th Hunger Games
Peeta Mellark, Victor of the 74th Hunger Games
Katniss Everdeen, Victor of the 74th Hunger Games

In truth, there were more deaths that took place in the Capitol once things started to fall apart.

Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker
Sophia DuPont, Head of Arena Architecture
Lepidus Kennedy, Head of Traps Division
Denver Rosebreeze, District 4 Escort
Effie Trinket, District 12 Escort
Atticus Hawkwood, District 3 Stylist
Portia D'Art, District 12 Stylist
Cinna Tranquillus, District 12 Stylist
Tigris Snow, Shopkeeper
Sejanus Plinth, First Gentleman of Panem

The deaths in the Districts are too many to list, both during the three days of Games and the crackdowns afterwards.