I cant believe this only took me like 4 days 😀 usually my wips take like 2 weeks to a month to finish 😭 that’s what happens when I crave minho UGHH

full drawing down below and im probably gonna prob post a close up of him pulling his shirt since tumblr wont let me repost with the video but that was a fun thing to learn/animate LALALALALALA

Comforting someone else when they were crying was something Thomas had always been a little lacking in. Chuck was the main exception, though. But now, as his prep team sobbed and whimpered during their routine, he realized just how awkward it was to merely stand there and do nothing while someone cried their heart out.

Apparently, they'd gotten quite attached to him. Him returning to the arena simply broke them. 'Shocker.' He assumed it was because of the many big social events they wouldn't be able to attend anymore, which included his 'wedding', so everything became excruciating for them. Being that they never had to be strong for another person, he put himself in the role of consoling them.

Since he was the one being sent into a slaughter house, he was a little annoyed.

In spite of that, it was interesting, to say the least, to even think that the people in the Capitol thought anything of the Victors at all. They'd ultimately be forgotten once the gong sounded, but still. It was a considerably big thing when those in the Capitol felt something regarding the human lives of the people going into the Games. Watching children die every single year wasn't a hard task for them to do. This Quarter Quell, however, made them uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that they knew these Victors, especially the ones who were celebrated for so long. It was like watching an old friend die.

Maybe this time, they were forced to acknowledge who the Victors were. What they were: human beings.

When Mary finally showed up, he was mentally exhausted from pouring his energy into comforting the prep team, mainly because it brought back to mind the tears that were undoubtedly being shed at home. 'Can't think of that.' He repeatedly told himself. Standing there in his thin robe with his stinging skin, he couldn't handle another single look of regret or pity. So the moment she walked in the door, he spoke, "Please don't cry around me right now. I will go out on the chariots wearing this if you do."

Mary only smiled. "Damp morning, I assume?"

"That's a starter," he replied wryly.

She hooked her arm through his, leading him into lunch. "I won't cry, don't worry. I channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."

"I can't go through that again," Thomas muttered.

"I know, I know. I'll talk to them," she reassured him.

Thankfully, lunch made him feel slightly better – moreso the dessert did. He'd forgotten about his love for sweets with all of the tragic circumstances that'd been lobbing at him as of late, but the chunks of fruit he dipped in a pot of melted chocolate reignited his enjoyment for them. Mary had to order a second pot because he started to eat the chocolate directly with a spoon.

"Hey, so, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?" He asked as he scraped the second pot clean. "It's got something to do with fire again, right?" He already knew the chariot ride would require him and Teresa to be dressed in something coal related.

Mary shrugged. "You could say that."

When it was time to get in costume for the opening ceremonies, she excused the prep team upon their arrival, telling them they did an excellent job but could take it from there. He was in Mary's hands, and he couldn't have been more grateful. She styled his hair first; fluffing it with gel and granting it extra volume. She even added a bit of makeup on him. It focused on his eyes, lining them in a deep black and filling his eyelids with an elegant dark shade that almost appeared like a dusky, midnight blue. "Kind of dramatic, huh?" he said.

"That's the point," she returned.

His eyebrows were touched up and then he was put in his costume, which looked deceptively simple at first. It was a fitted black jumpsuit that covered him from the neck down. Mary placed a half crown similar to the one he received as a Victor on his head, but it was made of a heavy black metal, not gold. She went to adjust the light in the room to mimic twilight and pressed a button she gave him. He looked down and was in awe. His costume was alive. It started off as a soft golden light but gradually transformed to the orange-red of burning coal. He turned into a glowing ember — fire on legs. The colors shrouding his body rose and fell, shifted and mixed, in exactly the way a fireplace would.

"How the hell did you do this?" he asked, utterly fascinated.

"Mark and I spent a lot of hours just watching fires," she answered, as if it were common knowledge. "Now look at yourself."

She turned him toward a mirror so he could take in the entire effect, and he gaped at the being before him. No longer was he the boy who hunted in the woods. Instead, he looked as though he emerged from a volcano itself. The black crown, which now appeared red-hot, casted engrossing shadows over his face. Thomas Everdeen abandoned his flickering flames and fancy suits. He was the embodiment of fire, who would burn anyone in his way.

He let out a breath of admiration. "Y'know....I think this is exactly what I needed to face the others."

"Mhm, I think your days of gullible smiles and cute bow ties are behind you," Mary touched the button in his hand again, extinguishing his light. "Let's be sure we don't waste your power pack. Press it once you're ready. And when you're on the chariots this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, like the entire audience is beneath you."

Thomas grinned. "Finally something more easy for me to do."

She patted his shoulder and, since she had a couple things to attend to, he decided to head down to the ground floor of the Remake Center that housed the huge gathering place for the tributes and their chariots before the opening ceremonies. He expected to find Jorge and Teresa, but they didn't arrive yet. The scenery was very different from last year. The tributes weren't glued to their chariots; they were actually socializing. The Victors, both this year's tributes and their mentors, were standing around in small groups, just talking. They all knew one another and he didn't know anyone. Therefore, he deemed it fit to go wait next to his horse and gently stroke its neck, trying not to be noticed.

Unfortunately, his luck ran out at the worst time possible.

The crunching wrapped around his ear before he even realized the other Victor was beside him, and when he turned his head, Newt's honey brown eyes were only inches from his. Unironically, he popped a sugar cube in his mouth and leaned against his horse.

"Hello, Tommy," he greeted, using the nickname as if they were good friends.

"Hello, Newt," he replied just as casually, although he was a little nervous at their closeness, especially because of the bare skin he had exposed.

Newt lifted his hand, offering a sugar cube. "Want one this time?" he asked, his tone eerily similar to what one would call cheeky.

Thomas blankly stared at him. "No, thanks," he declined, not knowing why it was offered when his answer would never change.

He hummed, glancing at the horse. "That's alright. The horses can always have it anyways. They've got years to enjoy plenty of that stuff. You and I," he returned his attentive gaze to Thomas. "Not so much."

After a moment of silence, Thomas briefly gestured at Newt and changed the topic. "I would love to borrow that outfit sometime, though."

The outfit must've been a deliberate choice on the stylist's end. He was draped in a golden net that was strategically knotted at his groin so he wouldn't be labeled as naked, but it was a pretty fine line drawn.

Newt chuckled, making it evident that he was examining Thomas's costume. "You're bloody terrifying me in that getup. What happened to those adorable bow ties you wore?"

"I got bored of them," he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

"You sound just as intimidating as you look," Newt fired back dryly. Taking the collar of his outfit and running it between his fingers, he shrugged faintly. "It's too bad about this Quell thing, huh? You could've made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Money, jewels, anything you wanted."

Thomas recognized the exaggerated pity in the blond's words, but he ignored it. "I don't like jewels," he reminded him. "And I have more money than I need. You're not one to talk either, though, are you? You don't even let others pay you that way."

When he thought he went too far, that he shouldn't have brought that up, a slow smile spread across Newt's lips. "Oh, you remembered. How sweet," he practically cooed. "Since you remember what my form of payment is," he tipped his head in so his lips were almost in contact with Thomas's. "Do you have any secrets for me now, Mockingjay?"

For some stupid reason, Thomas blushed, heat crawling up his neck and onto his cheeks. Nevertheless, he forced himself to hold his ground. "No. I still don't," he paused, then whispered, "I'm an open book. It isn't that hard to read me."

Newt's smile didn't fade. "I think you're right on that one," his eyes flickered to the side. "Teresa's coming. I'm sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you," he held his gaze for another second before popping another sugar cube in his mouth. "Have a good day." He turned and sauntered off, 'politely' bowing his head to Teresa as she approached them.

She was dressed in an outfit nearly as identical to his, except hers was designed a little like a dress. "What did Newt want this time?"

Thomas shook his arms out, trying to calm his nerves from the unexpected encounter. "To know all my secrets."

Teresa surprisingly laughed. "Well, at least it's never a dull moment with him."

"I'd rather have it dull," he grumbled. "But I'll probably tell you more when my skin stops crawling." The music began and he saw the wide doors opening for the first chariot, heard the roar of the crowd. "Shall we?" He held out his hand to help her into the chariot.

She climbed up and purposefully pulled him up after in an overly rough manner, snorting at his startled reaction. "Sorry," she said.

If they were in any other situation where they weren't being sent into the arena again, he wouldn't have found that as funny, but he was glad to see that she still had the capacity to smile after everything that happened. "No you're not," he flicked her crown in retaliation, making her straighten it. "By the way, have you seen your outfit turned on? We're going to be glowing again."

"Of course. But Mark told me we're to be very above it all. No more Mr. Nice Guy...and Gal," she glanced around the area. "Where are they?"

"I dunno," he noted the procession of chariots. "But we better be ready." He could see people pointing at them, chattering away, and he had a feeling that he and Teresa would be the talk of the opening ceremonies again. They were almost to the door as he craned his head around, but neither Mary nor Mark were in sight. He was confused for their sudden no-show, but his thoughts were interrupted as his hand was grabbed.

Teresa gave him a reassuring nod, the dramatically dark makeup on her face – the smoldering eyes, high arching brows, sharp cheekbones – not able to hide her true candor from him. "We got this, Tom."

Looking at her now, Thomas welcomed the surge of relief that washed through him. He was more than glad he wasn't doing this alone. He had her by his side. Without further discussion, he squeezed her hand once and then their chariot rolled into the light. The voices of the crowd erupted into an ecstatic bellowing upon their entrance, yet the two of them didn't react.

Whether the Capitol viewed them as star-crossed lovers or not, he knew where his relationship with her resided. He held her hand as her best friend, as someone he cared for. He held her hand like she was his sister. And he wouldn't let them change that, not even as the people cried and hollered for them, idolizing them as two young people in love; a story the Capitol fabricated for themselves.

He fixed his eyes on a point far in the distance and pretended there was no audience, no uproar. He caught a glimpse of them on the huge screens along the route and had to suppress an elated smirk. The so-called star-crossed lovers were unforgiving. They would not catch the crowd's kisses. They would not wave. They weren't afraid to broadcast their fury.

And he completely loved it.

As they approached the loop of the City Circle, Thomas looked toward the balcony where President Paige stood, overseeing the parade. There she was, utterly composed, her face aloof and haughty while she watched from her Hightower.

'Pedestal of power.'

He remembered what he had thought of her the other day, making the spark of his rage rekindle. She would see him. She would see what she had done to him, what she had taken from him. He was already being paraded to his death, the least he could do was flaunt his indignation.

President Paige intently studied him and Teresa, tilting her head ever so slightly as if they were mere ants to her.

Thomas kept his eyes locked on hers and unhesitantly pressed the button in his other hand with his thumb. Teresa promptly followed suit, not missing a beat.

The audience's cheers merged into one universal scream as they began to glow, mesmerizing all of them with their ever-changing coal costumes. He heard people chanting his name, but he only kept his attention on Paige, ignoring the rest of them. In his peripheral vision, he could make out Teresa staring right at her as well.

'They're shouting a rebel's name. How does that make you feel?' He silently questioned her. President Paige's lips twitched into an uncordial smile in response. He didn't waver. Instead, he lifted his head higher, basking in his sweltering anger. They curved around into the loop and Teresa looked away with an uninterested roll of her eyes at the President. He wouldn't let Paige off that easily, though; he continued to instill his message to her, the message of so many other dead tributes.

Her smile fell once she saw that he didn't back off.

When the chariot was nearing the other far side of the loop, he knew he'd done what he was supposed to and finally returned his gaze straight ahead. That's also how he noticed most of the other tributes were watching them, too, albeit for a few seconds. He tried to act like he didn't know.

Him and Teresa waited until the doors of the Training Center closed behind them to relax. Mary and Mark were there, satisfied with their performance. Jorge showed up as well but he was with the tributes of District 11. He nodded at their direction and those from the other District followed him over to greet them.

Thomas recognized Chaff because of the years he spent watching him and Jorge share bottles of liquor on television. He was dark skinned, his height somewhat intimidating, and had one of his arms ending in a stump due to his lost hand in the Games he won thirty years ago. The woman, Cecelia, was also with them. Her auburn hair, which was tied in a high ponytail, must've stood out in her District – there weren't many who had that color from what he remembered. Her golden brown eyes enhanced her beauty, and her olive skin appeared healthy despite her age.

Before he could properly greet them, Cecelia suddenly moved, throwing her arm around him and giving him a big kiss right on the mouth. He instantly jerked back, his words getting caught in his throat, completely startled. Chaff cackled alongside Jorge; they must've found his reaction hilarious.

That was about all the time they had because the Capitol attendants sternly directed them toward the elevators. Thomas had an inkling that they weren't comfortable with the camaraderie among the Victors, who clearly could care less. 'Is kissing someone on the lips normal here?' As he walked to the elevators, trying to forget what happened, someone else rustled up to his side. The boy roughly unclipped the thick, gold cuff bracelets off his wrists, tossing it behind him without checking to see where it fell.

A frown of disappointment settled on Thomas's face.

Minho Mason. From District 7. Lumber and paper, resulting in the tree theme his costume had going on. He won, at age fifteen, by very convincingly portraying himself as weak and helpless so that he'd be forgotten. Little did everyone expect, he had a wicked ability to kill. He ran a hand through his already smoothly combed black hair, as if it needed fixing, and rolled his dark brown eyes. "Well, you guys look amazing, don't you? My costume sucks ass. My stylist's the biggest idiot in the Capitol. Our tributes have been stupid trees for forty years under her. I'd rather have Mary for myself, honestly."

Thomas could only blink at him, unsure of what to say. Teresa, who was still next to him, didn't offer any comment either. "Uh, yeah, she's great," he began hesitantly. "I'm grateful I have her. All of her designs are...super comfortable for me."

He internally cringed at himself. Was that the best he could come up with?

Minho huffed. "I know they are. I can tell. That suit you wore in District Two? The deep blue one with the diamonds? I was tempted to reach through the screen and rip it right off your back."

'Uh-huh, I'm sure,' Thomas thought. 'Along with some of my skin.'

While they waited for the elevators, Minho tugged his sleeveless gray overcoat off, then his bark-patterned pants, and unzipped his green bodysuit, letting it drop to the floor and kicking it away in disgust. Except for his sleek, brown Oxford shoes, he didn't have one stitch of clothing on him. "That's better."

Thomas, absolutely terrified, stepped into the elevator once the doors opened, but Minho ended up following them in. "So," he said casually. "What do you think? Now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?"

"I don't think that the whole world—" Thomas scoffed, but was interrupted.

"I wasn't talking to you." Minho corrected, any form of civility or respect being tossed away just like the rest of his clothes.

"Oh, okay..." Thomas muttered, looking anywhere but at him. He desperately wanted to cover Teresa's eyes from the awful sight before them, but he didn't, knowing that would probably give Minho a sense of satisfaction he was not going to provide. 'Not the best question to ask when you're naked, either.' He restrained himself from saying that out loud, letting Teresa take the lead in the conversation.

And she did. The two of them chatted about the clothing line she was working on as well as her painting hobby – her two talents she perfected after the 74th Games – all while keeping direct eye contact. The light of her still-glowing costume reflected off his bare, toned chest until he left with a smile. "That was fun. Let's do it again sometime."

Thomas felt like he couldn't move from his spot, even when Minho was gone. He ignored Teresa, but he knew she was grinning. He slowly turned to look incredulously at her when the doors closed behind Cecelia and Chaff, leaving them alone. She doubled-down, laughing uncontrollably.

"What?" He asked, storming off as they stepped out on their floor.

"It's you, Tom! Can't you see?" She said.

"What's me?"

"Why they're all acting like this. Newt with that whole sugar cube thing he has going on and Wright kissing you and...Minho stripping down." She snickered, then attempted to take on a serious tone, which she failed at. "They're playing with you because you're so...you know."

"No, I don't know," he hissed.

She sighed dramatically. "Pure. In the Capitol's terms, you're pure."

"I don't care about the Capitol's terms!" If anything, he hated being described by the Capitol. To hear that was just offensive.

"Hey," Teresa raised her hands. "It's true. I would've done the same thing, honestly. I'm not fully surprised by their actions."

"Oh, please, like you knew all of that was gonna happen," Thomas countered.

He started to rethink the question of who should survive the Games when the other elevator opened. Jorge and Trina joined them, looking pleased about something.

"C'mon, Tom," Teresa said a little more softly. "I was joking."

Jorge narrowed his eyes at her, most likely wondering what went wrong. Thomas shook his head and went down to his old bedroom. He was probably being petty, but at the moment, it felt as though everyone was trying to irritate him when he was about to go fight for his life in an arena.

Teresa joining in on that trend wasn't what he needed from her.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

By the time Trina knocked on his door to summon him to dinner, he was already out of his suit and clean from the makeup on his face. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants, he made his way down the hall to the dining room.

He ate in silence, not sparing Teresa a single glance. The others – Jorge, Mary, and Mark – were there, too, but they didn't pester him for his lack of speech. When they decided to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies, he wedged himself between Mary and Jorge on the couch because he didn't want to be next to Teresa. Still a bit petty. He didn't have the energy to care. He didn't change his mind about saving her in the arena, yet he couldn't forget her laughing at him like the other Victors had.

Watching the procession to the City Circle, he couldn't help acknowledging how cruel the whole thing was. Kids riding chariots in a costume was silly, but aging Victors taking that place was a pitiful sight. A few were on the younger side, like Minho and Newt, who happened to be the same age of nineteen, or whose bodies hadn't fallen into disrepair, like Wright and a tough-looking guy named Barkley. There was also Minho's District partner, a woman who might've been the same age as Chaff. The majority, however, who were under the bondage of drink or morphling or illness, looked grotesque in their costumes, depicting cows and trees and loaves of bread. Last year, he and the others rambled on and on about each contestant, but tonight there was only an occasional comment.

Nobody could deny how deplorable this year's Games were.

As soon as it was over, he stood, thanked Mary and Mark for their spectacular work, then headed off to bed. Trina reminded him to meet early for breakfast to discuss their training strategy, but even her voice sounded empty.

He delayed going down to breakfast in the morning when he awoke. What was there to talk about? Their training strategy would be the same as last year: him and Teresa would continue to act in love. That was it. Every Victor already knew what everybody else could do. Or used to be able to do.

Thomas took a long shower, dressed sluggishly in the outfit Mary left him for training, and ordered food from the menu in his room by speaking into a mouthpiece – far too fancy for his taste. In only a minute, sausage, eggs, potatoes, pancakes, juice, and hot chocolate appeared. He ate his fill, purposefully dragging out the minutes until ten o'clock, when they had to go down to the Training Center. By nine-thirty, Jorge came pounding on his door, ordering him to the dining room that instant.

He still brushed his teeth before going, adding another five minutes to the clock.

Besides Teresa and Jorge being in there, the dining room was empty. His mentor's face was flushed with drink and irritation. On his wrist he wore a solid-gold bangle with a pattern of flames – what Thomas guessed was the concession to Trina's matching-token plan – that he twisted somberly. It was actually a very elegant bangle. "You're late." Jorge snarled.

Thomas shrugged. "Sorry. I was enjoying the little time I have to myself before I go to death's door," he meant to sound hostile, but his voice ended up cracking a bit at the end of his sentence.

Jorge scowled but soon relented. "All right, never mind. Today, in training, you've got two jobs. One, stay in love."

"Duh," he said.

"And two, make some friends."

"No," Thomas scoffed. "Not happening. The other Victors are as weird as it gets. I don't trust any of them, and I'd rather operate with just the two of us."

"That's...what I said at first, but—" Teresa began.

"But it won't be enough," Jorge finished. "You're going to need more allies this time, Thomas."

"Why?" He asked, becoming impatient.

"Because you're at a big disadvantage. Your competitors have known each other for years. So who do you think they're going to target first?" Jorge pressed.

"Us. And nothing we're going to do is going to change any old friendship," he answered through gritted teeth. "So why bother?"

Jorge gestured his hand at him, as if that was all the explanation he needed. "You can fight. You're popular with the crowd. That could still make you desirable allies. But only if you let the others know you're willing to team up with them."

Thomas didn't say anything at first. Then, "You mean to tell me that you want us in the Career pack this year?" That heartily repulsed him. Usually the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 collaborated, possibly taking in a few other passable fighters, and hunted down the weaker competitors. That wasn't his way of thinking. At least, he hoped it wasn't.

"That's been our training strategy, hasn't it? To train like Careers?" Jorge insisted. "And who makes up the Career pack is normally agreed upon before the Games begin. Teresa barely got in with them last year."

Last year. Thomas suddenly remembered the loathing he felt when he discovered that his best friend was with the Careers during the last Games. It was a trick, a plan she played on everyone, including those watching, all to save his life. He thought she had betrayed him. He was beyond relieved to find out it was fake. "So we're to try to get in with Newt and Barkley — is that what you're saying, Jorge?"

"Not necessarily. Everyone's a Victor, hermano. Make your own pack if you'd rather. Choose who you like. I'd suggest Newt, I actually...talked to him many times over the last couple of years. And Cecelia and Chaff," his mentor said. "Find someone to team up with who might be of some use to you. Remember, you're not in a ring full of trembling, scared children anymore. These people are all experienced killers, no matter what shape they're in."

Not only did Jorge drop the information of him speaking to Newt on separate occasions, but Thomas realized, begrudgingly, that he was right. But who could he trust in there? Certainly not someone who stripped right in front of him and his best friend. Even if he chose to trust Newt or Cecelia, that would mean he'd eventually – possibly – have to kill them. Any alliances wouldn't produce good results in the long run. But he recalled his pact with Alby, and knew he had to try. He told Jorge he'd give it a shot, even though he was probably going to be pretty bad at it.

Trina arrived earlier than expected to take them down since last year, even though they were on time, they were the last two tributes to show up. Jorge told her he didn't want her taking them down to the gym. None of the other Victors would be going with a babysitter, so it was important they looked self-reliant. She had to satisfy herself with taking them to the elevator and pushing the buttons for them.

"Stand straight. Be sure to be courteous!" She chirped, seemingly forgetting that everyone in that arena would inevitably kill one another or die some other way.

Her worrying was pointless in the end. Only Barkley and the woman from District 2, Rose, were present. Rose appeared to be about thirty and, from what Thomas could remember, she killed one tribute by ripping open his throat and severely damaging his nose with her teeth. She became so famous for that 'marvelous' act that, after she was a Victor, she had her teeth cosmetically altered to make each one as sharp as a fang. Everyone adored her.

Next to him, Teresa leaned in so she could speak in a lower voice. "Don't forget, Tom, today's about making allies."

He knew, at least for the training, he couldn't hold on to any bitterness toward her. So he didn't act angry as he responded to her. "Yeah, well, so far I'm not overwhelmed by our choices," he whispered.

By ten o'clock, half of the tributes arrived, and he told Teresa it'd be a good idea to split up in order to cover more territory. When she went off to chuck knives with Barkley and Chaff, he headed over to the knot-tying station. He was fond of the trainer, who remembered him from last year and how much time he spent at that station. She was pleased when he showed her he could still set the trap that left an enemy dangling by a leg from a tree. She must've taken note of his snares in the arena last year and saw him as an advanced pupil, but he also had Brenda to thank for that.

He pushed away the twinge of sadness that came with her name being brought to the surface of his thoughts.

He asked the trainer to review every kind of knot he could make, as well as a few he'd probably never use. He would've been content spending the morning alone with her, but after about an hour and a half, someone put their arms around him from behind, their fingers easily finishing the complicated knot he was sweating over.

Thomas flinched and immediately moved out the way, not completely surprised to see Newt lightly chuckling at him. "M' sorry," his laughter regressed to something quieter, his smile becoming more faint. "I'm really sorry." He said.

Not anticipating for the genuine apology, Thomas managed a nod, watching what he did next.

Newt picked up a length of rope, made a noose, and then pretended to hang himself for his amusement. He must've spent his entire childhood doing nothing but wielding tridents and manipulating ropes into fancy knots for nets. Or something.

Ignoring the slightly unsettling joke of a noose, Thomas awkwardly gestured at the blond's toned arms. "Do you always sneak up on people like that?"

"Not all the time. Consider yourself lucky," Newt jested with another smile returning to his lips.

"I don't think so," he replied, rolling his eyes and heading over to another vacant station where tributes could learn to build fires. He heard Newt's subtle laughter, but forced himself to carry on. He was already capable of making excellent fires, but he was still dependent on matches for starting them. The trainer had him work with flint, steel, and some charred cloth. It was much harder then he thought.

Even working as fervently as he did, it took him about an hour just to get a fire going. He huffed triumphantly, grinning, and looked up, then discovered he had company.

The two tributes from District 3 were beside him, struggling to start a decent fire with matches. Thomas was going to leave, but he wanted to try using flint again, and if he had to report back to Jorge that he at least tried to make friends, those two could possibly be a bearable choice. Both were relatively small but had different appearances. The woman, Rachel, was probably around his mother's age, maybe a little younger, and spoke in a quiet, intelligent voice. She had dark skin, dark eyes, and pure black hair that was tightly curled together. He did notice, however, that she had a strange habit of dropping off her words in mid-sentence, as if she'd forgotten anyone was there. Aris, the man, was a bit older than her and somewhat fidgety, always reaching up to mess with his dark brown hair in one way or another. 'Kind of weird...but I don't think they're the type to strip naked.'

He glanced around the Training Center. The morphlings from District 6 were in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls. The male tributes from District 5 were...vomiting wine on the sword-fighting floor. 'Gross.' Newt and the old woman from his District were using the archery station. Minho was practicing with an axe.

He decided to stay put.

Aris and Rachel made some decent company. They were friendly but didn't pry. They talked about their talents, and he was impressed to find out that they both invented things. It made him feel quite stupid compared to them.

At one point, Rachel stopped and gazed up at the stands where the Gamemakers roamed around, eating and drinking, sometimes paying attention to them. "Look," she murmured, her head vaguely nodding in their direction. Thomas did, and he saw Vince Heavensbee in the grand purple robe with the fur-trimmed collar that designated him as Head Gamemaker. He was eating a turkey leg.

He didn't know why that was brought up, but he hummed in acknowledgment. "Yeah, he's been promoted to Head Gamemaker this year."

"No, no. There by the corner of the table. You can just..." She trailed off, distracted by something in her head.

"Just make it out." Aris finished, squinting attentively.

Thomas stared in that direction, perplexed. But then he saw it. A patch of space about six inches square at the corner of the table seemed to vibrate. It was like the air was rippling in tiny, barely visible waves, distorting the sharp edges of the wood and a goblet of wine someone had set there.

"A force field. They've set one up between the Gamemakers and us. I wonder why they did that," Aris wondered aloud.

After a moment's hesitation, Thomas replied, "Me, probably. Last year I shot an arrow at them during my private training session." They looked at him curiously. "I was angry. So, do all force fields have a spot like that?"

"Chink," Rachel answered.

"In the armor, as it were," Aris continued for her. "Ideally it'd be invisible, wouldn't it?" He paused, examining the force field again. "Electromagnetic." He concluded.

"How can you tell?" Thomas asked. That must've been a funny question to them; they started laughing, grinning at each other as if he'd spoken the most hilarious thing ever to be uttered. He felt uncomfortable. "Is it...obvious or something?"

"Is it obvious?" Aris repeated with a chuckle.

"They might as well have a sign," Rachel snickered.

Aris settled down, becoming uncannily serious. "Look around you. All the lights in here, every now and then they flicker. Why?"

Having the need to prove he understood, Thomas thought about his answer before responding. "Because the force field is taking up too much energy."

Smiling faintly at him, Aris nodded in approval. "There's always a flaw in the system," he observed.

Thomas wanted to ask them more, but lunch was announced. He searched the room for Teresa, but she was hanging with a group of about ten other Victors, so he decided to eat with District 3. 'Maybe I could get Wright to join us.'

When they walked into the dining area, he realized some of Teresa's gang had other ideas. They were dragging all the smaller tables to create a large one, granting them the ability to eat together. 'Great.' He took a tray and started making his way around the food-laden carts that encircled the room. Teresa jogged up to him at the stew. "How's everything going?"

"Good. Fine. I like the District Three Victors," he said. "Rachel and Aris."

She furrowed her brows. "Really? They're something of a joke to the others."

"And why does that not surprise me?" Thomas retorted dryly. He remembered how Teresa was always surrounded by a large group of friends in school. He truly considered it a miracle that she even noticed him enough to be his friend as well.

She shrugged. "Minho calls them Nuts and Volts. I'm pretty sure the girl is Nuts and the guy is Volts."

He sighed. "Yeah, let me just take Minho Mason's word for it because I'm so stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because, by all means, let's take the advice of someone who stripped his clothes off and talked to us, naked, in an elevator."

"Actually," she said in a tone that warned him to calm down. "I think the nickname's been around for years. And I didn't mean that as an insult, Tom. I'm just sharing information."

"Well, Rachel and Aris are smart. They invent stuff. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to get some allies, I want them." He tossed the ladle back in a pot of stew, splattering them both with the gravy. His shoulders sagged.

Teresa blinked and wiped the spot of gravy off her cheek. "What are you so angry about, Thomas?" She scrubbed another small blotch from her shirtfront. "Because I teased you on the elevator? I'm sorry, I thought you would just laugh about it."

He wiped gravy off his eyebrow. "Forget it. It's a lot of things."

"...The Games?"

"Yes," he said, emphasizing the word. "Jorge, too — him making us team up with the others."

"But he is right, Tom," she urged gently. "You know that."

Thomas stared down at his bowl of stew. "I do. Don't tell him this, but he usually is right, when the Games are involved."

"Okay, to cheer you up, you can have the final say about our allies, hm? But right now, I'm kind of leaning toward Chaff and Cecelia," Teresa suggested.

"I'm okay with Chaff, not so much with Ponytail," he muttered. "At least, not yet."

The nickname he gave to Cecelia didn't register to her right away, but when it did, she chortled.

"Come on," she dragged on. "Eat with her. I promise I won't let her kiss you again." She grinned, nudging him with her elbow.

Reluctantly, he did. Cecelia didn't seem as bad at lunch. She was sober and civil. She even apologized for startling him with her kiss. He warily accepted her apology. Chaff, on the other hand, was loud and terrible at making jokes, most of which were at his own expense.

Thomas tried to be more sociable, not just with Ponytail and Chaff but with the entire group. After lunch, the Toad and Misty, the sister and brother from District 1, invited him over to make hammocks for a while. They were polite but cool, and he had to stop himself from gawking at their bright red hair multiple times. It was more vibrant compared to Cecelia's, that was for sure. Both his hammock and his attempt to connect with them were mediocre at best. He later decided to join Rose at sword training and exchanged a few words, but it was painfully clear that neither of them wanted to team up.

Newt appeared again right when he was wiping beads of sweat from his forehead as he arrived to the fishing station. "Tommy, there you are," the blond called, getting his attention.

'As if it was hard to find me,' he thought, but carried on respectfully. "Newt," he greeted.

Newt held his hand out at the old woman next to him. "Let me do the honor of introducing you to Keisha," he said, a hint of pride in his voice, as if she was his prized possession.

Thomas realized, after talking to them for a little while, that between Keisha's District accent and her garbled speech, he couldn't make out more than one in four words – mostly. But, on everything he loved, the lady could make a decent fishhook out of anything – a thorn, a wishbone, an earring. Eventually, he tuned out the trainer and simply tried to copy whatever she did.

Once he made a pretty good hook out of a bent nail, he beckoned for Newt to come over and fastened it in his hair, since it was a bit longer than his. Newt wasn't anticipating for that to happen, based on the brief look of surprise on his face, but he quickly relaxed. Thomas presented it to Keisha, unconsciously seeking her approval as he offered a small smile. She gave him a delighted grin in return and an unintelligible comment he assumed was praise, her dark eyes sparkling.

Something squeezed his heart, and he felt his stomach drop when he knew what it meant. 'I messed up.' This was just wonderful. Now he had to go back and tell Jorge he wanted an eighty-year-old and Nuts and Volts for his allies. That sounded fantastic.

Suddenly dreading what Jorge would say, he excused himself and went to the archery station in hopes to distract his mind. It was a little secluded room, high-tech, and had bow and arrows in excellent quality. Glass doors slid open as he stepped up to plate, skimming through the tablet that sat on a stand, giving him different options to choose from for his training. His eyes locked on a particular one that sparked his interest.

A bit of a challenge was just what he needed.

He selected the required buttons, thankful he understood how it worked, and walked into the open space with a bow and a full sheath of arrows. He loaded one on the string as the lights around him darkened, the glass panels doing the same, preventing him from seeing anything on the outside. He waited. Then they came.

Thin beams of orange light shot down from the corners of the ceiling, scattering throughout the floor before they all pointed to his left – when he was looking in the opposite direction, of course – and formed a holographic figure of a person. A tribute. He quickly saw it was charging at him for its attack, and he promptly released his arrow at it, making it shatter and crumble to the ground. That could've been a representation of Rose, but he'd never really know.

Then another one.

His eyes sharply followed the lines of light that shifted to the upper columns above, swiftly shooting his arrow at a hologram that was obviously supposed to be him; its weapon was a bow, just like his. He eliminated it before it could properly raise its arms.

The lights moved. He moved with them.

Thomas's hands nimbly loaded his bow once more, tracking the stirring orange beams. The new hologram launched a spear at him, to which he quickly pivoted around and fired at it, marking another one down.

Again, the beams changed, and he secured an arrow on the string. He heard it behind him this time. He turned, letting his arrow fly, making it land straight in the hologram's head.

And another.

He felt himself getting lost in the shooting, forgetting that he was still in the gym as he pointed his weapon at the next one above in the columns again. It was running in a different direction, but that didn't waver his aim. The tip of his arrow followed the hologram until he pelted the missile at it – another victory for him.

The lights shifted to stand a few feet off in front of him, but he was already prepared; the rhythm of nocking an arrow on his bow was all too familiar for him. He launched it at the enemy before it could throw its sword.

Another hologram appeared, more far back than the last, but it ran rapidly toward him, training its axe at him and precisely throwing it at his head. He knew who that was supposed to be. He rolled, ducking out of the way, then pointed his arrow right where a heart should've been, briskly getting rid of it as it raised a second axe.

He felt more accomplished than he probably should have.

The process repeated and a hologram charged at him from behind. Thomas whirled around, releasing his arrow at it, but it didn't disappear yet. He only had a second or two to see it, but he could tell this one represented Teresa, with the knives it was about to throw at him. He propelled an extra arrow, making it crumble to the floor into nothing, just like the rest of them.

He directed his aim to where the beams moved next, up above, and immediately knew it was meant to be Newt. It deftly wielded a trident, leaping down to 'pierce' him with the holographic blades. He wouldn't allow it.

Thomas launched his arrow, letting the sharp end fly dead center into it, resulting in the figure of a person to diminish into blocks of orange light, then nothing.

He panted a little, expecting more, but the noise of the holograms faded. The room brightened, the glass panels finally cleared, and he blinked at the crowd standing there. All of the Victors were watching him and he didn't know it. He saw looks that ranged from envy, to admiration, to hatred. Rachel was clapping for him.

Thomas brushed his hand through his hair. He wouldn't let their stares unsettle him. He's had enough of their attitudes for one day.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

"Good news," Jorge announced. "At least half the Victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally."

Thomas stopped chewing the chocolate covered orange he had in his mouth. For one, it actually tasted better than he expected. Two...'what?'

"They saw him shoot," Teresa said jubilantly, pride tangible in her voice.

"You that good?" Jorge asked as he sat across the table from him, not even glancing at the dinner laid out. "So good that Barkley wants you?"

Thomas recoiled slightly. "But I don't want Barkley. I want Keisha and District Three."

"I should've seen that coming," Jorge sighed and ordered a bottle of wine. "I'll tell everybody you're still making up your mind."

After his shooting exhibition, Thomas got teased a little, but it no longer felt like he was being mocked. In fact, it was as if he'd been initiated into the Victors' circle. During the next two days, he spent time with almost everybody going into the arena. Even the morhplings, who, with Teresa's help, painted him into a field of yellow flowers. Newt, too, who gave him an hour of trident lessons in exchange for an hour of archery instruction. He was forced to acknowledge that Newt wasn't so bad – although he was still a bit odd. Maybe it was the District accent.

He found himself trying to point out the flaws of the other tributes, too, but it started to become more and more ineffective. As he came to make connections with most of the Victors, he realized that he was attempting to shield himself from liking them. He failed. Because, on the whole, he didn't truly hate them. And a lot of them were so damaged that his first instinct would be to protect them.

But all of them were destined to die if he was going to save Teresa.

The final day of training ended with their private sessions. They each had fifteen minutes before the Gamemakers to amaze them with their skills, but Thomas didnt know what they could show that would be super impressive. The morphlings had a chance, perhaps. If anything, there was a lot of kidding about it at lunch for what they might do. Sing. Dance, strip, tell jokes. Keisha, who he could understand better than he did last time, declared she was just going to take a nap.

The dining room became quieter and quieter as the tributes left to go perform. While they did so, he couldn't stop thinking of the fact that they all had a matter of days to live.

He was finally given some alone time with Teresa once they were the last ones in the room. She rested her elbows on the table. "Got any ideas for what you're gonna do yet?"

He put his forehead on the table, focusing on his hands in his lap. "I can't really use the Gamemakers as target practices this year because of the force field stuff. Maybe I'll make a couple fishhooks. What about you?"

She pursed her lips. "Not a clue, honestly. I'll probably ask if I can bake a cake or something."

Thomas snorted, lifting his head to meet her eyes. "Good luck with that. I suggest you do more camouflage."

"If the morphlings even left me anything to work with," she said bluntly. "They haven't abandoned that station since the training began."

They sat in silence awhile, but he couldn't contain the raging thought in his mind and blurted out, "How are we going to kill these people, Teresa?"

She wasn't quick to respond, yet when she did, she spoke in a whisper. "I don't know."

"I don't want them as allies. Why did Jorge want us to get to know them?" He persisted. "It's just making it so much harder than last time. Except for Alby, maybe," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But I guess I never really could've killed him."

Teresa's brows creased. "His death was very despicable, wasn't it?"

"None of them were pretty," Thomas said, thinking of the tributes he murdered in the arena.

They called Teresa, so he waited by himself. Fifteen minutes passed. Then half an hour. It was close to forty minutes, with him ready to take a nap like Keisha said she would do, when he was called.

As he went in, the sharp odor of cleaner products bombarded his nose, and he noticed that one of the mats had been dragged to the center of the room. The mood was entirely different from last year's, where the Gamemakers were half drunk and idly picking at tidbits from the banquet table. They whispered among themselves, looking annoyed. 'What did Teresa do?'

He grew worried. That wasn't a good sign. He didn't want Teresa singling herself out as a target for the Gamemakers' anger. That was his job. But how did she upset them? He needed to know, because he'd love to do just that and a lot more, to break their smug veneers and aloof demeanors. They, who used their brains to find entertaining ways to kill people.

'Don't you know how much I hate you?' He silently told them. 'How much we all hate you?'

Thomas tried to catch Vince Heavensbee's eye, but it looked like he was intentionally ignoring him, as he had been the whole training period. He remembered how Vince sought him and Teresa out, asking his best friend for a dance. His friendly mannerisms were nowhere to be found now. Why did it matter, anyway? Thomas Everdeen was only a tribute, bound to die, and Vince was the Head Gamemaker. So powerful, so careless, so safe.

He studied the exquisite purple robe on the Head Gamemaker, and it clicked.

He knew what to do.

Thomas went over to the knot-tying station and grabbed a length of rope. He started to manipulate it, but it was hard since he'd never made that actual knot itself. He only watched Newt's clever fingers, and they moved extremely fast. Who would've thought that joke would come in handy now.

After ten minutes, he made a respectable noose. He dragged one of the target dummies out in the middle of the room and, using a few chinning bars, hung it so it dangled by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would've been the cherry on top, but he figured he was running out of time. He hurried over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes had made a giant mess. But he found a partial container of bloodred berry juice that would serve its purpose for his idea. He carefully finger painted the words on its body, concealing them from view.

At last, he stepped away to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers' faces as they read the name on the dummy.

And since the Capitol loved it so much when he did it, Thomas held one of his hands over his chest, extending his other arm out, and bowed deeply.

Several shrieked upon seeing what he'd written.