1 . Name: Canookian @ 2012-04-05 16:41

Hey guys, here's Chapter Two for you. Thanks for all the feedback so far! I recognize that some people haven't read/seen The Hunger Games, so this won't be for everyone, but for those who do know about it I hope you enjoy it!

***

Dell was fascinated by trains. Each year when the Victory Tour headed to District Three, Dell found himself front and center at the train station. He had no interest in the celebration itself, in fact he was often disturbed by the haunted look in the Victor’s eyes, but he always showed up to see the train pulling into the station. He was lucky enough in District Three to have a job that he genuinely enjoyed, namely the building and maintaining of automobiles, but some industrial sized trucks were about the biggest thing he ever had the chance to work on. Seeing the raw power of a train as it arrived in District Three always excited him. He never thought he would get the chance to actually ride one.

It was wonderful - better than he had imagined. As the train pulled out of the district and towards the Capitol, Dell could almost feel the torque propelling the locomotive forward in his bones. It made him shiver. When the train began to pick up speed he expected the ride to be bumpy and unpleasant but, to his surprise, it was almost like gliding on air. It was hard to imagine that a beast of a machine like this, built from heavy steel as sturdy as an elephant, could create the illusion of weightlessness. It was soothing. If he managed to win the Hunger Games, he certainly looked forward to his Victory Tour, if just for the rides.

Dell was sitting in the parlour car of the train mentally constructing the type of engine the thing might have when Miss Pauling walked in. Since their meeting in the Justice Building, he and Miss Pauling had only seen each other for a brief few minutes, mostly to smile for the cameras and tell the people of Panem what an honor it was to play in the Games. Per her advice, he had tried to play the role of the charming everyman in his sound bites. Martin Graves, the other tribute from District Three, grunted his answers and seemed very cold and distant from the whole affair.

Miss Pauling sat down at the small table in the room and began to unpack a few things. Her eyes looked somewhat grave, but the rest of her body language was positively bubbly.

“Everythin’ all right there Miss Pauling?” Dell asked, joining her at the table.

“Oh, I just had a meeting with Mister Graves. He’s got the attitude of a cold fish, you ask me!” she said with a good deal of cheer. She seemed very different than from when he had first met her that morning in the Justice Building.

“Beg yer pardon?”

“His public image is already a disaster. He keeps moping around and hasn’t cracked one smile since he was reaped! The public views him as having already given up, and they don’t like a sourpuss! I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for him.”

“Well maybe I could give ‘em a talk and rustle up some sense into that noggin of his.”

Miss Pauling looked up from her papers with incredulity, but also with a faint smirk on her lips. “You know, the whole image we’re trying to create for you must come so naturally. You already are that person! You’re making my job very easy.” When Dell seemed perplexed, she continued. “He’s your opponent, Mister Conagher. If he’s already resigned himself to losing then you shouldn’t let it bother you, not one bit. It just means one less tribute for you to worry about.”

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry, Miss, I ain’t used to thinkin’ like that.”

“Learn quickly. Smile and be polite to your fellow tributes all you want, especially in front of the cameras, but never forget why you’re here.”

Dell nodded. Message received.

“Now, let’s go over what’s going to happen once we reach the Capitol. You and the other tributes will be taken to the training facility and you will get three days to practice together. You’ll have a variety of weapons to choose from, as well as a number of stations that will teach you certain skills. Trap making, camouflage, that sort of thing. There will also be a station where you can learn about what sort of flora and fauna may or may not show up in the arena.” She looked at him intently at that point, raising her eyebrows and staring quite directly. It took him a moment to understand why.

The Capitol had forbidden the escorts from giving advice to their tributes on how to survive inside the arena. Dell could only assume the punishment for doing so would be swift and extreme. This was Miss Pauling’s way of telling him, without really telling him, that studying up on the flora and fauna of the arena was very important. Dell nodded, silently acknowledging her advice. He had to assume there was some sort of audio bug in the room. It dawned on him that that’s why she had been acting so bubbly. If somebody was listening in, they would be expecting her to adopt this attitude. Most escorts did.

She smiled with a glint in her eye as it became clear to her that Dell had caught on. If he didn’t know better, it would seem as if Miss Pauling was actually enjoying bending the rules. “On the fourth day,” she continued as if their little exchange hadn’t happened, “you’ll get to show off your skills to a panel of judges. They’ll give you a score between one and twelve…”

“And the higher the score, the more impressed the judges were with you,” Dell finished. “I have seen quite a few of these things on TV over the years, ya know.”

Miss Pauling giggled. She actually giggled. “Of course, silly me! Well, my advice to you is to try and score a seven.”

Dell understood why. Scoring too highly marked you as a serious threat in the arena and would put a target on your back. Likewise, scoring too lowly marked you as easy prey to the tributes that scored highly. But saying such things to him directly would, he assumed, constitute giving him advice for survival. Miss Pauling was being awfully clever.

“…for your public image, of course,” she added hastily. “If the public is to see you as a likeable man, you can’t be seen as some sort of killing machine, but you also can’t be seen as a wimp. Nobody likes a limp noodle! Scoring a seven makes you seem capable, yet not threatening. Isn’t PR so much fun!?” she added with dramatic flourish.

“It sure is, Miss. I find myself very much obliged to you and your expertise.”

“Oh, don’t you mention it for one second! It’s my job, after all, and I’m very good at my job.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” Dell responded with an honest smile. He felt very fortunate that Miss Pauling was his escort. She was smart as a whip, clever as a fox and genuinely seemed to be on his side.

“Now, let’s review your interview strategies. Caesar Flickerman is going to just love you!”

***

Hunter Mundy stood at the edge of the training room and watched shrewdly as twenty three tributes went from station to station, honing their survival skills in whatever way they could. It was only the second day of training and he already had most of the tributes sussed out. Eleven of the tributes he had already written off as little to no threat. They were all weak, slow or dumb or a combination of all three. They were the easy prey. Most would probably die at the Cornucopia and those who survived the bloodbath wouldn’t last more than two days. Six of the tributes he couldn’t quite read yet, but he still had a few more days to figure them out before the Games started. The other six were his real competition.

Both tributes from District One seemed to possess qualities that could prove to be troublesome. One was tall, slim and quite dapper. He didn’t seem to have the brute strength that some of the other tributes had, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in stealth. He was adept at disguising himself and moving silently, but had the kind of precision with a dagger that could end a life with one blow. He was a smooth talker, too, and was probably sussing out the competition, just like he was. Anybody who allied with him would have to watch out; he seemed like a backstabber.

The other tribute from District One was quite handsome. He had a strong jaw, black hair with a touch of gray, and was a little broader in the shoulders than the first. From what he had observed, the second tribute had some previous knowledge of the medicinal powers some of plants the game makers had on display possessed. If he had to venture a guess, the second tribute had probably been a healing man in his district. But the ability to heal isn’t what made him threatening. It was his somewhat unhinged enjoyment of driving a long blade into the gut of one of the dummies that had him worried. He wasn’t quick and efficient like the first was. He was deliberate and menacing, almost cackling with delight as fluff began to pour from the wound in the dummy.

From the corner of his eye he could see a Peacekeeper approaching. “Mr. Mundy, you’re required to participate in group training. Don’t make me ask you again.”

Mundy scowled but knew better than to argue. He had tried arguing with a Peacemaker on the first day of training and had been met with a punch to the gut. “Bloody bogan,” he muttered as he stepped away from the edge of the room.

The key to surviving the Hunger Games wasn’t being the best with a weapon, although that certainly helped. Observing targets, watching their patterns of movement and how they reacted to stimuli, that was the key to survival. Most of these tributes would end up charging into battle blind, with no idea of their target’s strengths and weaknesses and just hoping that brute force and trying hard would guarantee them a win. All it would guarantee them is a death sentence. He was smarter than that. If you could predict your target’s next move you could stay three steps ahead of them. As he approached the training stations he continued his observations of the other tributes.

The two tributes from District Two posed the biggest threat, physically. One was built like an ogre, heavy and powerful and just as mean. He didn’t speak very much but when he did it was usually to issue a battle cry before attacking a training dummy. His movements were perhaps the least graceful of any tribute, but the power that rested in those clumsy muscles was enough for Mundy to want to keep a good distance away from him at all times. Those bear-like hands he had could probably crush a skull and the axe he had come to favour sliced one of the training dummies in half with barely any effort at all. Killing him would be tricky. He hoped somebody else would do it for him.

The other tribute from District Two was a solidly built man, tall and broad shouldered and rippling with sinewy muscle. He recalled that this man was the only tribute who had actually volunteered to be part of the games. If Mundy had to venture a guess, this man had probably trained to be a Career tribute but never had his chance to shine. From what he could tell, he thrived off of violence. His attacks on the training dummies weren’t efficient and simple, they were brutal and messy. He was clumsy with the smaller weapons, but proved to be very efficient at nearly everything else. Swords, staffs, morning stars, spears, tridents and even throwing knives he had shown deadly skill with and he wasn’t afraid to loudly boast about it. Most of the other tributes steered clear of the man even now, for fear that he would kill them before the Games started.

Mundy made his way over to the traps and snares station and began fiddling around with some ropes half-heartedly, making just enough effort that the Peacekeepers would think he was actually participating. He tied a couple easy knots and set a couple of simple traps, eyeing the last two tributes he thought could give him trouble.

There was a well-built black man from District Twelve who seemed to be missing an eye that had Mundy worried. He didn’t have the raw power behind him like the tributes from District Two had, but he was relatively quick on his feet for his size and was highly skilled with the longsword. There was a pile of decapitated training dummies in the corner that could attest to that. Mundy had also seen the man frequent the explosives station frequently and seemed to have impressed the station hand on several occasions. Not only was he dangerous in close quarters, if he managed to rig up a few explosives he could kill you and be miles away.

The last tribute—

“Woo! Hey guys, did ya see that?”

The last—

“BONK! Got ya right in the eye, fluff face!”

The last tribute, the youngest one in the room—

“Oh man, you guys stand no chance against me! I mean, are you even seeing what I can do?”

“Oi!” Mundy snarled, spinning away from his station. “Listen you little wanka! If I gotta listen to that yubbin’ big mouth of yours jabberin’ on about bloody fantastic you are for one more minute I’ll turn your head into colored rain!”

“Ohhh, I’m real scared, tough guy,” the boy said, turning away from his training dummy. He laughed loudly when he saw who was speaking. “Hold up a second. What are you, like eighty years old? What are you gonna do, lecture me to death?”

“Why you spastic little gremlin!” Mundy yelled and charged forward, ready for a brawl. He could see a few Peacekeepers peel away from the walls and rush forward, batons at the ready. Before they got close enough to attack, however, Mundy felt a strong arm wrap around his waist and start pulling him back.

“Woah, nelly. Just take it easy there, Slim. Do us all a favor and save it for the arena.”

The Peacemakers paused in their pursuit, waiting to see if the situation would sort itself out.

Mundy eyed the Peacemakers and knew there was nothing he could do to the kid at this point in time without severe consequences so he let the matter go. “I’ll be gunnin’ for ya in the arena, ya mongrel!”

“You won’t be able to catch me, gramps!”

“Easy, now,” the man at his side said, still pulling him back. “Y’all better make nice for the next couple days. You got plenty of time to kill each other later.”

“No fighting amongst the tributes!” one of the Peacemakers yelled for good measure. With the situation under control the Peacekeepers retreated back to their spots by the wall.

Mundy wriggled free from the arm around his waist and looked at the man who had held him back. Short, a little pudgy and balding, from District Three. When he had seen the man for the first time when they arrived at the training center he had written him off as fodder, somebody destined to be slain at the Cornucopia. But something he had noticed over the past two days had changed his evaluation.

“Hey, you’re the bookie, ain’t ya?” Mundy asked.

“I’m the what now?”

“The bookie.” When the man seemed genuinely confused, Mundy elaborated. “While all these other blokes have been stabbing pillows and tying knots, you’ve spent most your time with your face buried in a book. Odd strategy, mate.” Mundy peered over to the ‘Flora and Fauna’ station, which was a sad sight to behold. There wasn’t even an assistant there to help the tributes. Instead, there were a few small diagrams plastered to the wall and one thick book plopped on the table. “See that book there?” he said, pointing to the text. “That thing has gotta be about six hundred pages long. Nobody has even bothered to flip through it but you, but I reckon you’re about finished by now, am I roight? No point denying it, mate. I’ve seen ya with me own eyes.”

The man shrugged noncommittally. “I s’pose you’re right about that.”

“Well then, I gotta ask. How do you think a book is going to help you stay alive? The name’s Mundy, by the way.”

“Dell.” They shook hands. “And they ain’t called the ‘Hunger Games’ for nothin’. I don’t expect we’ll be gettin’ steak and taters while we’re in there, so I thought it best to read up on what’s edible and what ain’t.”

“Yeah? And what did ya learn?”

Dell raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve learned not to give away mah secrets.”

Mundy smirked. “Too roight.”

“If ya don’t mind me makin’ an observation of my own, you haven’t been doin’ much of anything yerself. Mostly just hanging back an’ watchin’ us all.”

“You’ve got your secrets, I’ve got mine,” Mundy replied.

The men stood quietly together for a few moments, each sizing the other up. Mundy liked to work alone. In fact, he enjoyed it. Working alone meant there was nobody there to give away your position. Working alone meant being able to concentrate without distraction. Working alone meant you only had to look out for yourself. History told him, however, that working alone was usually a death sentence when it came to the Hunger Games. As far as he could recall there had only been a handful of Victors who had won without having allied with another tribute at some point, and even then most of them had just been lucky. Despite his preference to work alone, it was truly in his best interest to find somebody to work with.

In his assessment, most of the tributes were useless to him. They were either too old, too meek or too unskilled. They would be killed quickly. The six tributes he had marked as threats were either too bloodthirsty, too unpredictable or already possessed a set of skills he had already mastered. Besides, killing them would be a fun challenge. That left him with Dell. Short, pudgy, clever Dell. Physically he wasn’t much of a threat. There was some strength in those arms of his, but not the bone crushing power the tributes from District Two had. He hadn’t seen him use any weapon with a high level of proficiency, either. He was skilled enough with a mace to take out some of the weaker tributes, but that was about it. If and when it came down to it, he could kill him without too much trouble.

But that wasn’t what really attracted him to Dell as a possible ally. It was that book. Back in District Four he knew how to survive the elements. He knew which berries were poisonous and which animals were dangerous. The gamemakers, however, had a habit of creating new breeds of flora and fauna just for the Games and unleashing them on the tributes. Plants and animals the world had never seen before would populate the arena and he would have no idea what to make of them. Dell, it seemed, would be the only tribute with advanced knowledge of what would be waiting for them once the Games started. He coveted that information.

Still, now wasn’t the time to make a proposition. It was too early. They still had one more day of training to get through before they performed for the judges. After that were the interviews and the day after they would enter the arena. He still had plenty of time to make a decision.

A loud horn went off in the training center, indicating that it was time for a lunch break. The station assistants began packing away their things and the Peacemakers started ushering the tributes towards the exit. The tributes weren’t forced to eat, but they were forced to dine together in a common room.

“Alright, pardner, let’s go and get us some grub,” Dell said beside him, patting him on the back. “Who knows, maybe you an’ me could share a couple of our secrets.”

***

Dell had scored a seven, just as they had planned. High enough to make the public think he was capable, but low enough to keep the target off of his back. The gamemakers had been very impressed with the amount of knowledge he had been able to memorize in three short days. They had almost been suspicious, but when one of them checked his IQ scores it seemed to put them at ease. He was able to set a few creative traps with the materials that had been provided in the judging room, which seemed to interest them, but he intentionally fumbled around when it came to the hand-to-hand segment of the judging. He was capable with the mace, much more capable than some might assume, but he wanted to make sure he showed some major weaknesses to the judges so they wouldn’t rank him too highly.

The tributes were usually forced to eat together, but the night before the interviews they were allowed to dine with their escorts in order to get some tips for their upcoming meeting with Caesar Flickerman. Dell sat at a large, fancy table with Martin Graves, waiting for Miss Pauling to arrive. Martin looked grim. He had only scored a four. He was just about to say something to raise the man’s spirits when Miss Pauling strode in, her heels clicking against the hard flood.

“Good news, Dell!” she said cheerily. When she saw Martin sitting at the table she seemed rather shocked. “Oh! Mister Graves, I didn’t expect you to be here. I thought perhaps you would have gone off to bed, as usual.”

He shrugged. “Might as well enjoy some company before I die,” he said solemnly.

Miss Pauling and Dell exchanged quick glance before he rested his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “C’mon now son, that ain’t the way to be seein’ things,” he said.

Miss Pauling lowered herself into a chair silently.

“Let’s face it,” Martin continued, “I’m a dead man. I got a four. I probably won’t get any sponsors. Nobody wants to see me win. The only way for me to survive is to find somebody to ally with.”

Miss Pauling tensed visibly.

Martin turned to Dell. There was something different about him as he spoke, something conspiratorial in his eyes, as if he had figured some secret out and was just waiting for it to reveal itself. “Hey Dell, I was thinking. You got a seven. I got a four. Together that makes us an eleven. The highest somebody else scored was a ten. Together we’re stronger than anyone else in the arena. What do you think about becoming allies?”

Dell looked to Miss Pauling, but her eyes were cast down to the table. She looked miserable. When he looked back to Martin he was smiling, but it didn’t seem genuine. “Well… I don’t see the harm in helpin’ each other out if we happen to cross paths. I could use all the help I can ge—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Miss Pauling said quickly, her eyes still downcast. “You shouldn’t ally.”

Martin sat back in his chair with a deep sigh and a sad smile. “I knew it,” he said to Miss Pauling. “You’ve written me off. You’ve already hedged your bets on him, haven’t you? You don’t expect me to live so you’re not going to bother trying to help me.”

Miss Pauling remained silent, her face slowly turning a shade of pink.

Martin pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He turned away and started walking off but paused at the door. He spun around and faced Miss Pauling. “I have a family too, you know,” he said before disappearing into the hallway.

The room was silent for several uncomfortable moments before Miss Pauling looked up from the table. “I’m sorry you had to see that, it’s just—”

“I get it,” Dell said.

“It wouldn’t be good for your image to ally with him. The public wouldn’t like the association.”

“I get it,” Dell repeated, a little more forcefully.

“Look, I don’t like that I have to choose one tribute over the other…”

“But you have to,” Dell said. “Miss Pauling, I get it. If I were in yer shoes I would do the same thing. At least one of us is gonna die in there. You gotta place yer bets on who you think has the best chance of comin’ out.”

Miss Pauling seemed relieved that Dell wasn’t angry with her. “If it came down to it, do you think you could kill him?”

Dell nodded. “Yes ma’am. Without question.”

Miss Pauling raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t been expecting such a direct answer. She told him as much.

“Martin says he’s got a family. Well, I got myself a family too, and they’re expectin’ me to come home. Now I feel poorly for Martin, I really do, but if it’s going to be him or me, well, you best believe that I’ll be a killer of man.”

Miss Pauling seemed intrigued, even hopeful. “I have to say, I didn’t think you had that sort of bloodlust in you.”

“I don’t, but I got to do what I got to do. I’m prepared for it.”

Miss Pauling sighed happily. “That’s good to hear. Our plan worked, by the way.”

“My score?”

Miss Pauling nodded. “Some people were excited by the tributes with the higher scores, but your seven is starting to rile up a couple of groups in the Capitol who are already enamoured with you. They should be even more riled up after your interview. Are you ready to go over some strategies?”

“Yes ma’am, I am.” Dell said. He reached down and plucked something off the floor. “I brought Teddy Roosebelt an’ everythin’”

Miss Pauling smiled, much more at ease now that they were getting back to what she was good at. “Excellent, because he’s going to be the star of the show.”

***

Mundy sat in the second row of tributes, only half listening as some sad looking man from District Three had his interview with Caesar Flickerman. The bright lights shining onto the stage blinded the audience from him, but he could make out several of the television cameras pointed at the gathered tributes. He made a point to scowl at every single one. His escort had long since given up on trying to make him more appealing to the audience. Smiling for the cameras and waving to the audience as if they were all his friends just wasn’t something he could fake. Instead, she had insisted that he try to emphasize his deadliness and his ability to actually win the games. Most sponsors wanted to assist a tribute that they liked. Others placed large bets on the tribute most likely to win and would do anything to achieve that outcome.

“Best of luck, Martin Graves, tribute from District Three!” he heard Caesar Flickerman announce. There was a mild round of polite clapping as Martin stood and walked back to his seat. The poor man tried to smile for the camera but it came out as a grimace.

“And now ladies and gentleman, the second tribute from District Three! Dell Conagher!”

There was a round of enthusiastic applause. Beside him, Dell stood, took a moment to straighten his shirt and started making his way to Caesar. “Wish me luck,” he mumbled as he slipped past.

Mundy leaned forward in his seat a little. This was the only interview he was actually interested in tonight, including his own. He wanted to see how Dell would play this. The two tributes from District One had come off dry and superior and the two tributes from Two had been all masculine bravado, which usually didn’t read well with the genteel nature of the Capitol. None of them had come off as particularly appealing.

The moment Dell sat down next to Caesar his strategy became apparant. Clever bugger. He had brought some sort of stuffed animal with him and sat it on his knee for all of Panem to see. Caesar picked up on it immediately.

“And who might this fine little fellow be?” Caesar asked, gesturing to the toy after a few basic questions were out of the way.

Dell handed it over to Caesar. “This lil’ feller here is Teddy Roosebelt. He belongs to my daughter, Delilah, but she wanted me to have it as my tribute token.”

Caesar Flickerman pointed the teddy towards the camera and waved one of its little arms. “Teddy Roosebelt says hi, Miss Delilah!” The audience cooed. “Why would she want you to have this as your tribute token?”

“She said it was so I could remember her while I was in the arena.” That was a lie, Mundy could tell, but Dell had sold it as truth. “I told her that whenever I gave that bear a big ol’ hug or a big ol’ kiss, she would know I was thinkin’ of her.” The audience cooed again, completely enamoured.

“Well, we’re all fans of Teddy Roosebelt, aren’t we?” he asked the audience, sweeping his hand outward to encompass them all. They screamed their approval. “Well, I’m just going to keep Mr. Roosebelt here with me for the rest of the interviews since our audience seems to have taken a shine to him. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Ain’t no skin off my hide. Long as I get him back before the Games,” Dell replied with a lopsided grin. Flickerman placed the teddy on a small table to his right and got back to the interview.

Mundy smirked. It was a power move, but one that was made outside the arena and not one any of the other tributes expected. If the teddy stayed with Flickerman for the rest of the interviews it served as a constant reminder of the tribute from District Three, the man who was fighting for his daughter. No matter who Caesar was talking to, there would always be a little bit of Dell in every interview. He wasn’t sure if that was something Dell had planned, but he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had. Over the past three days it had become apparent very quickly that Dell was perhaps the smartest tribute of them all.

After they had met on the second day of training, he and Dell had been on somewhat friendly terms with one another. Dell had ended up dropping a few nuggets of information about plant life in the arena and, in return, he had taught Dell how to efficiently kill an opponent with a mace. They had both thought it wise to keep their best kept secrets to themselves, however. That sort of trust still needed to be earned.

Once training was complete he had still been somewhat unsure whether he wanted Dell as an ally or not, but the impressive cleverness he was displaying in his interview was quickly changing his mind. Mundy knew he himself wasn’t that clever. He was deadly with a bow and excellent at tracking and observation, but he didn’t have the kind of smarts Dell possessed. He wasn’t adept at playing the social game whereas Dell was playing it like a fiddle. His brawn with Dell’s brains could turn them into quite the team.

In the center of the stage, Caesar Flickerman was finishing up his interview. “Tell us Dell, with a score of seven, how do you plan on winning the Hunger Games?”

Dell chuckled. Mundy knew it was fake, but the audience seemed convinced. “If I told you that, I’d be ruinin’ the surprise for the good folk of Panem!”

Caesar laughed good-naturedly. “Right you are! It seems we’re almost out of time. Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Yes sir, there is. It’s a message for my daughter.” Dell turned away from Caesar, found the nearest camera and looked directly into it. “Hey there, darlin’. I just want you to know that daddy’s gonna try real hard to win the Games and get Teddy Roosebelt back to you.” There was a loud round of ‘awwws’ from the audience.

A buzzer sounded, indicating the end of the interview. “Well, I’m certain that all of Panem has been thoroughly charmed by you tonight,” Caesar Flickerman said to Dell. He turned to the audience. “Let’s hear it for District Three’s Dell Conagher and our twenty fifth tribute, Teddy Roosebelt!”

The auditorium ruptured into thunderous applause as Dell stepped out of the spotlight and headed back to his seat beside Mundy. He tried to hide it, but he looked rather triumphant. The applause was still rolling even after he had sat down.

Mundy leaned a little closer as Caesar tried to quiet the audience. “Nice show, mate. Hard act to follow,” he muttered quietly.

Dell acknowledged him with a quick glance but was still smiling for the cameras.

In the center of the stage, Caesar had managed to settle the audience and was getting ready to call the next tribute. “And now, please join me in welcoming the first tribute from District Four, Hunter Mundy!”

Mundy tried his best not to roll his eyes. This was going to be a disaster.

***

The next morning, Dell sat at the breakfast table with Miss Pauling. Martin Graves had come in, put some food on his plate and retreated back to his room. Today was the day. The training was over. The judging was over. The interviews were over. In just a few hours he would be in the arena fighting for his life. Miss Pauling wouldn’t be there to see him off. After this meal she would be off at the Gamemakers Headquarters, signing up anybody who wanted to sponsor him. Since he lacked a mentor this year, it would also fall to her to select which tools she would procure from his sponsorships and when to send them into the arena for him.

Miss Pauling didn’t even bother putting on her affected attitude this morning. She was quite subdued. “I’ve already had some people approach me about sponsorship. I’m not allowed to take them until the Games actually start, but you should know that you’ll eventually be getting a little help in there.” She sounded sad.

Dell shoved a piece of egg in his mouth. This was the last full meal he was guaranteed to have and he didn’t want to squander it. “That’s good.”

“You were brilliant last night,” she said. “You were perfect. The public’s reaction to you was exactly what we had planned. You scored the highest of the night, by a mile.”

Dell grunted a pleased response, taking a huge bite of his toast. He hoped he wouldn’t get sick from all of this food.

“Dell?” she said meekly.

Dell looked up from his meal.

“I hope you win. I’ll help you as much as I can from the outside.”

“I’d be much obliged to you if you would,” he replied, smiling genuinely. In the grand scheme of things, he was glad Miss Pauling was one of the last people he would ever see who wouldn’t be trying to kill him.

A buzzer went off on her watch and she sighed. It was time for her to go. The prep team wouldn’t need too much time with Dell, there was only so much you could do for a middle-aged man after all, but Miss Pauling had her other duties to attend to. She slid out from her chair and approached him.

He forgot about his meal for a moment and stood.

“It’s been a real pleasure working with you, Dell,” she said, offering her hand. He took it gladly.

“The pleasure has been all mine, Miss. I’m honored that you’ve taken such a shine to me, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Remember what’s waiting for you at home. Let that be your motivation to win.”

Dell nodded.

“All of Panem wants you to be the Victor. Don’t disappoint them.” Miss Pauling’s watch went off again. She looked at him apologetically. “I really have to get going.”

“’Course you do. Don’t you fret none about me, Miss Pauling. I’ll be just fine.”

“Good luck,” she said before turning away and exiting the room.

Dell sighed as she left. Whatever tributes from District Three were reaped next year would be lucky to have her as a mentor. He picked up Teddy Roosebelt from the table and looked at him. “It’s just you an’ me now, pardner. Let’s get ‘er done”.

***

Dell was in complete darkness for about thirty seconds as his metal plate rose towards the arena. He had learned everything he could have learned about the arena in his three days of training. He had improved his technique with various weapons and was quite adept at setting traps. He had completed his interviews with more success than he had thought and he had already secured quite a few sponsors. He had done everything he possibly could before the Games. Now all that there was left to do was fight.

A shaft of light penetrated the darkness and Dell looked up. He was about twenty five feet away from emerging into the arena. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. He placed a hand on Teddy Roosebelt, who was secured tightly to his belt, and let his thoughts drift back to District Three. He thought of all the friends he had at the automobile factory who would be cheering for him. He thought of his parents, even though they were long since dead. He thought of Dara, his sister, whom he could only imagine was nearly in tears back at home. As the sun finally touched his skin and the scent of wildflowers wafted by, his last thought was of Delilah. He would win this for her. He had to win this for her.

Dell opened his eyes as his metal plate finally locked into place in the arena. They were in a large field of some sort. Most Hunger Games started in an expansive area like this. The audience loved to see the tributes sprint to the Cornucopia and didn’t like trees and vegetation getting in the way of their view. The field, however, was surrounded by trees in every direction. This clearing seemed to be the only open patch of land that he could see.

The tributes were in a large circle, each of them equidistance away from the Cornucopia that rested in the middle. To his surprise, the tributes were not arranged by district. He could see Martin standing on his plate five or six tributes down. Directly beside him was the young tribute from District Eight, the one Mundy had yelled at, and on his other side was a strange fellow from District Five. He was wearing jacket with a hood, but the hood was pulled so tightly that Dell couldn’t see his face.

Before he had a chance to make any more observations, the Announcer’s voice bellowed over the arena. Claudius Templesmith had been replaced several years ago by a cold, angry sounding woman.

“Ladies and gentleman,” she announced with a chill. “Welcome to the One Hundredth Hunger Games.”