If you're wondering where I went for the past however long I've been MIA, it's been here. A month or so ago I rewatched the Hunger Games trilogy and in a NyQuil-induced stupor, this massive fic was born. And by massive, I mean MASSIVE. It's currently not done-almost there, actually, so I'm posting part one now-but it's about 250 pages and close to 100,000 words. I don't know what happened. All I know is for the years I've been writing fic I've always wanted to make a Clique-Goes-Hunger Games fic and this is more than I could ever imagine. Seventeen year old me is shook.

I've taken a lot of liberties here since I am in no way an expert on The Hunger Games and I haven't read the books in quite a while. If anything is weird or wrong, ignore it. This is written in a very different style than I'm used to and you'll see that more in the coming parts.

For now, please enjoy what has consumed my life for far too long. I can't even believe I'm giving this to the world.

Let's Kill (Tonight)
Part One

volunteer | välənˈtir
noun
a person who freely offers to take part in an enterprise or undertake a task
synonyms: come forward, enlist, sign up, step forward

District One is all about the glam.

That's probably what brought her mother here, all those years ago, purposely flirting and weaseling her way from District Seven, somehow—conveniently, some may say—having William Block, most famous Victor, fall for her. Granted Kendra was a Victor in her own right, but there was something about the way William beheaded all of his opponents that commentators still call poetic and awe-inspiring. If there was anything to talk about, Massie believes it should the length of time that Hunger Games lasted. Her dad's no joke; he was in the arena for a little under two days.

Massie takes a long pull from her champagne flute and forces a smile at the next random guest to greet her.

It's her parents' annual victory party. Screens all around them show off their respective Games, and it'd be interesting had she not watched them time and time again. Had she not taken notes, been quizzed.

The room is magnificently decorated to portray both themes of their arenas—artful brick and green, green ivy. A lion cub prowls near the forest they'd spent a little under five grand on, lets out roars that it probably shouldn't be able to make at this age. An experiment, a Capitol creation, no doubt a gift from the president, who, if Massie is not mistaken, is around here somewhere.

She grabs another one of those drinks as they pass her by. Their guests are enraptured with her father, who does an excellent commentary on her mother's Games. They've just gotten to the part where she fights the lion—and Massie is actually quite certain that same animal is in their ballroom right now—and William says something like this is the moment when I knew I loved her.

Which.

That's a lie.

He says that every year.

Kendra's sixteen year old self irritates the animal so much it looks like it's about to rip her throat out.

Instead, it bites through the flesh of a District Four tribute, Kendra having flipped over the beast at the last moment. The other's dying screams are drowned out by cheers: present day William has pulled Kendra into a rather public kiss.

That's my girl, he says, and Massie fights back a scoff. They're so fake. If only the revelers could see them in the privacy of their home: Kendra has her own bedroom. She and William haven't slept together—sexually and non-sexually—since Massie was conceived. She knocks back her fourth champagne of the night as they dip into another nauseating public display and twists in her strappy gold heels, eager for an escape from whatever this is turning into.

Escape, unfortunately, is not in the cards. She turns, becomes face to face with a picture of herself, mouth taut, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched. Her skin is so airbrushed the freckles along her cheeks are indistinguishable. Her hair is pulled away from her cheekbones, two dark braids down her back.

Watching her parents made it easy to forget the other reason they're all gathered here. Her eyes flicker to the other poster, to the dark face of her fellow volunteer.

Congratulations to our District One Tributes! the sign screams, and there's her age, weight, height, specialty all spelled out for everyone to see. It's like she's getting married and this is some sort of engagement party, not a celebration of someone's imminent death.

She spots her partner several feet over, grinning at the slew of girls, all resplendent in jewel tones and tight fabrics, cooing all over him.

Kemp Hurley's a pig. She catches him run a hand down the back of some girl in green, cups her ass. She giggles. He looks up, winks at Massie, ducks his head to whisper in a different girl's ear.

Massie allows herself a moment for the sneer that graces her lips (though she is normally scolded for creating such an ugly look on a pretty face) and once again turns away from such an unpleasant sight.

It's not like she expects any different. Not from him. Not on their last night of freedom, but. She may have hoped a little more than she should have.

"Let him live," a voice tells her. "I remember being in his shoes."

Massie rolls her eyes. "You were fourteen," she replies silkily. "Can't imagine you thought much about being slutty."

Cam chuckles, a husky sort of thing that Massie imagines sets Capitol women's hearts aflutter. "I mean," he starts, tongue running against his front teeth. "No," he admits. "But I remember wondering if I'd ever get the chance."

"And look at you now," Massie simpers, insincere. "Voted Hottest Male Tribute three years and counting. Must be nice."

His eyes, the color of fucking gemstones, sapphire and emerald, dance with amusement. "I know you're jealous."

"Of your certainty of life, sure," she returns. Then, uncomfortable with her honesty, changes the subject: "Know who else is competing, Mentor?" She purrs the last word, relishes in the flush that creeps up the length of his neck.

He may be twenty two years old and significantly older than her, but she loves the effect she has on him. How easy it is to rile him up, to embarrass him. It's always made his mentorship all the more fun, seeing what would make him snap. How far she could push. Sexuality seems to make him nervous.

It also makes her feel the tiniest bit better about the whole Kemp thing, which should not upset her, but does. Why doesn't she have boys fawning all over her? Why's he the only special one here? She has a better aim.

"No," Cam says. "We'll find out for sure tomorrow, but… most likely the usual suspects if the information I've been given is anything to go by. Legacies have kids up for volunteerism in Career districts, so." He shrugs.

"Useless," she murmurs. Pats his cheek condescendingly.

"Doesn't matter who ends up in the arena," he returns. "Win."

Massie smiles, close lipped. "That's what I do best."

"Lay off the champagne, Massie," Fawn Davies hisses, their other mentor, all aglow in this sparkly black number that does nothing to conceal her curves. She lays a territorial hand on Cam, who snakes his arm around her waist, and spots Kemp out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she snaps. "I thought I told you to keep them under control. We have an image to maintain."

Cam squeezes her hip. "Sorry," he says, but doesn't sound sorry at all.

…

The Reaping in District One is a formality.

They hardly get to pull a name from the bowl before Kemp is shouting I volunteer and Massie is propelled forward moments later, following in his footsteps.

The cheers from their fellow townspeople are deafening.

She likes to think the ones for her are loudest of all.

(She knows they aren't.)

…

From the footage provided by the other Districts, it's clear Massie is the best female tribute. Presumptuous of you, Fawn says to her, lounging on the leather couch fit for a District of their rank. Massie ignores her stupid mentor, glad she chose to help Kemp, not her.

She knows she should wait until they actually get to the Capitol, but it's so easy to size up her competition based on these small snippets of footage. No one else looks as fast. As mentally fit. She's going to be judged based on her looks, but she's vicious as much as she's beautiful. A rose, thorns hidden on her stem, just waiting to pierce her enemies.

But really, come on.

Her only real concern is Skye from Two, but she'll be able to pinpoint her strengths and weaknesses as soon as they meet up to form alliances. She's a tad bit worried about the girl from Four; she's small, maybe twelve years old. She'll be done in a second, if she even survives the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. But she has a fire in her eye that is commendable. She looks to rely way too much on her partner, but with the way that kid is built, it may benefit her until, y'know, it doesn't.

"You've got to be fucking shitting me," Kemp snarls, and he's shirtless, muscles glistening with sweat. "That's who they picked from Four? Fisher you told me it was going to be that Abeley kid!"

Cam hardly spares him a glance. "They must've changed their minds. Hotz didn't mention any changes last I spoke to him."

"Of course Casanova hasn't," hisses Kemp. "You're the competition."

"Hardly." Cam snorts.

Massie licks her lips, reaches forward to pour herself a glass of ice water.

Kemp moves to stand in front of her, eyes trained to the television. They don't give any more information on District Four, moving to the next Reaping, but Massie can tell by the set of his shoulders that he's more worried than annoyed.

She shoots her leg out, prodding him in the thigh. "Go take a shower," she orders. "You smell."

He throws his wet towel at her, the one he's wrapped around his neck, and doesn't move until he's seen all the tributes. Even then he's stiffer than she's ever seen him, uncharacteristically concerned, though he'll never admit it.

…

They live so close to the Capitol that their train ride is much shorter than the other Districts'. They leave later than the others and show up last, making a grand entrance that Massie loves. She lives for the drama.

She spots the rest of the tributes as she waltzes into the building, hair billowing behind her in immaculate curls, tamed to perfection by Jakkob. He's followed her from One, part of her Glam Squad, as she likes to call them.

Massie can feel the inquisitive gazes from the others. Notes the way they rake up and down her body. She's in her usual training outfit, tight leggings and an equally tight mesh top. Both breathable, workable fabrics. She and Kemp have plans to hit the training room when they're done here, whatever here is supposed to be.

And technically they aren't allowed to get extra training time before the Games, but… District One (and Two, she supposes) normally gets what it wants when it comes to the Capitol.

Kemp sneers at somebody, some bulk of a figure from Eleven, and latches on to Massie's arm. His grip is tight, his hand huge.

She breathes, ignores the heat (and the irritation spreading through her body; she is not an object he owns). She allows herself one perfunctory glance at the boy he's staring down and fights back a scoff.

"Hardly anything to be concerned about," she whispers, a ghost of a breath.

Kemp harrumphs, pressing her into his side. "Don't care," he says. "I don't like the look of him."

Later on, he'll have been right to be wary.

But for now:

Massie elbows him hard and untangles herself. He coughs, glaring, and she thinks she hears someone snort.

"I can take him," she announces grandly, making a scene. They're all already watching, so she might as well stand her ground, make them know she's not one to mess with.

Kemp quirks a brow, follows her lead. He knows her theatrics. Has known them since they were seven, forced together in training. "Yeah?" he shoots back, recovering from her attack quickly. "Who?"

Massie makes eye contact with Eleven, and that boy from Four Kemp is (silently, but obviously) worried about. "Does it matter?" she answers back. "All of them."

…

"Go," says Fawn.

Massie closes her eyes, centers herself, and shoots forward. In every direction simulated opponents chuck axes, shoot arrows. They jump from ledges, attempt to distract her. Arms throw punches. Legs try to sweep hers from underneath her.

All the while, she's using her (untraditional) skill of gymnastics to avoid it all.

There's a whoosh of wind by her right ear, signaling a weapon come too close.

Once she makes it across the room, all of her virtual enemies clustered in one spot, she snatches a sharp object from its home on her back, cocks her head to the side, and throws.

She is not concerned with the rush of the dummies running towards her. She watches, calculating, and smiles as the boomerang sings, splitting the air and soaring through computerized necks. Any enemy the boomerang touches disappears with a crash.

Massie catches the weapon, runs a finger gently, lovingly along its silver, safer side.

Those who do not get destroyed by her first line of offense charge to finish her off, but she merely waits. Fits the boomerang back in its secured pouch. When they're close enough, lifting their various weapons to make killing blows, Massie jumps, flips, engages them in hand to hand combat.

A high kick here, right in the face, where it would force the nose so far back into the skull the person would die on impact. Or shortly after.

A punch to the gut, then the neck; a stab of a knife through the heart.

She ducks, avoids what looks like a long sword, sweeps her leg out. The simulation trips, Massie leaps, and, if this were a real person, would land on shoulders. Instead, she twists the head while she's in the air, breaks the neck with a snap.

It's over in eleven minutes.

"Slower than usual," Fawn informs her with a yawn. "Again."

Massie's chest heaves. She wipes sweat from her brow, clenches her jaw.

Her best time is under seven minutes, but goddamn.

"Hey," Kemp says, brash and large and loud. "Why does she get to have all the fun in here?"

Fawn taps her nails along the dashboard. "I thought you were boxing."

"I was." Kemp saunters further in the room. Massie's tired gaze settles on his biceps, on display in his ripped shirtsleeves. A tribal tattoo wraps around his left one. "But I got bored." He runs a finger along the part in her hair, tugs on her braid. She grits her teeth, bares them when he ducks to look at her. "And I broke Fish's knuckles, so I'm currently without trainer," he says to her, though the explanation is for Fawn.

She doesn't give him recognition, stares straight ahead.

He wraps his whole hand around the back of her neck, gripping it like they're wolves, like he's an alpha and she's a beta, and he wants her to drop in submission. It's dominant of him, everything always is, and Massie lets him handle her like this but does not back down like he wants. Hisses through her clenched teeth as he smiles, if the sneer on his mouth can be called that. Fawn watches them closely, brows furrowed, and mutters something about finding him the right setting, the asshole.

Kemp grins, rubs his thumb along the skin hidden behind her hair. She shivers.

…

Fawn runs her fingers through her hair, nails sharper than usual. Massie bites the inside of her cheek, refusing to show weakness, to show that it hurts.

"Do not embarrass us in there," the older girl says.

"You're talking to me," Massie reminds her, throwing all sense out the window and gripping Fawn's wrist with a tight grip. She twists, pulling the other's hand out of her hair. "Not Kemp. I know how to behave."

An imperial quirk of the brow. "No champagne. No wine. You need to make nice with the Capitol. They need to find a reason to bet on you. To send you gifts in your time of need."

"As if I'll ever be in a time of need," simpers Massie.

She catches Fawn's hand before she can slap her. "No, no, no," she taunts. "My face will help make nice. I'll have all those Capitol men eating out of the palm of my hand." She smirks.

Fawn releases a breath through gritted teeth, shoves Massie roughly with her shoulder. "If it were the two of us in that arena next week, you'd be my first kill," the blonde promises, making a dramatic entrance into the ballroom.

Massie watches her, entitled grin still playing on her mouth, and turns to inspect her reflection once more.

Luckily for her Fawn has not ruined anything a little flick of the neck and pinch of the cheeks can't fix. Her eyes are a little wild from her argument, something that will no doubt benefit her in the long run, and the slit running up the side of her dress shows off the miles of toned leg she's spent half her life perfecting. Even if she wasn't as beautiful as she is, those losers inside would wet themselves at the sight of William Block and Kendra Oh's only child.

"Like a viper," a voice comes from her left.

She blinks, hand clenching at her side like she's reaching for a blade; she grabs a fistful of dress instead and focuses on smoothing it down. Her eyes settle in on the dark figure in the corner—has he always been there?—and she presses her lips together, disappointed in her surveillance skills.

Not that Fawn noticed, either, a snide voice whips through her mind. She still decides to spend an extra hour or two at the Surveillance and Tracking station the next day. Maybe even tonight if she can sneak out.

"Excuse me?" she snaps at him, trying to place the name to the face but drawing a blank.

"Striking and lethal," he elaborates. He opts to step forward, into the light, which shines off the blonde of his hair, the dark of his deep tan. He's this bulk of a guy, bigger than Kemp, who, quite frankly, is huge.

"Striking," she deadpans. "As in—"

"Beautiful, yes," he interrupts. His eyes hold her gaze, even through the reflective surface of the mirror. There's a twinkle in them that's indescribable, like he's constantly having fun. Like life is a game and he knows he'll win.

That kind of attitude will be his downfall during the Games. It's not fun when you're a murderer. Not fun when you know you'll have to turn around and kill your district partner when the time comes. The right time, to create the right kind of TV.

It's not fun when your mentors are deliberating over who will be the one to kill who. When your mentors are going to give you a fucking script to follow.

Massie's arrogant, yes, and a Legacy, of course, but she knows who the world wants to see win. It's not her. It's their diamond, beautiful to look at and sharp around the edges, able to fit and mold himself into the perfect Capitol boy. The winner the world will pay millions, billions, to interact with, to dine with, to—

"Vipers are not particularly beautiful," she retorts. "Try another analogy when you're in there. Flirting is clearly not your forte."

This boy grabs her wrist as she passes him, a more gentle touch than she's received since arriving here. In years, actually, if she deigns to think about it.

"It depends," he says. "It depends on the person doing the comparing." His voice is a breath against the back of her neck; he's moved her hair to drape it over her right shoulder. "Your mentor bruised you here," he informs her, a ghost of a touch along her collarbone. "Nasty little thing, yeah?"

Massie swallows. The goosebumps spreading along her skin are from the cold of the manor. That's all.

"Looks like I'm not doing too bad," the boy murmurs, catching her body's reactions. "Might get just as many sponsors as you. Maybe more."

She grits her teeth, points her chin.

"I'm Derrick, by the way," he introduces. "From Four. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Massie Block."

"I bet it is," she shoots back.

…

From the stairwell, Kemp seethes.

…

"Twelve," Derrick tells her the next day. He tosses her a water bottle.

She quirks a brow, uncaps the drink, chugs half.

"Sponsors," he replies helpfully. "Twelve. That's how many I confirmed before I left. Not sure how many it is now, though, after the fact."

"Hm," she offers.

He grins, this thing that makes his face even more unbearably attractive than it already is (not that she notices things like that, no), and leans against the wall, nestled by the weapons. A sword shines behind him, sparkles like his teeth.

"What," she snaps.

"Nothing." She watches his mouth as he says the word, tongue caressing the second syllable.

"Kay." She narrows her eyes, aims the half empty water bottle at his chest. He catches it without effort.

Derrick from District Four lets her get halfway across the training center before he shouts, "If you straighten your posture more you'll be able to throw your knives farther!"

Massie shoves her foot against his favorite weapons display (not that she notices things like that, no), letting the steel and metal tumble loudly to the floor.

She makes a scene, but somehow Derrick's laughter is louder than the ringing of the swords and spears.

…

"No."

"No?"

Massie thinks Fawn is particularly insipid tonight, but wisely keeps her mouth shut. She opts to dip strawberries into chocolate instead, rewarding herself on her training score.

"I don't want them," Kemp spits. He crosses his arms over his chest, a formidable figure against the couch. Or so he thinks. He merely looks like an overgrown toddler causing a scene.

Cam presses his fingers to his temples. "It doesn't matter if you want them; it is expected. You will make nice with Two and Four, choose others you'd like to ally with, and then pick each other off one by one."

"It's how it works," Fawn adds. It's unnecessary. They know.

But still: the remarkably casual way they speak of child murder is disgusting. Massie bites down on her fruit so hard she feels the vibration of her teeth slamming together travel down her neck.

"Two is fine," Kemp says. "I don't want Four."

"You will take them—"

"A preteen and an overgrown golden retriever?" Kemp scoffs. "I'd rather the twig from Twelve and the stupid kid from Five that confused his poisonous berries yesterday."

"I'll take them, then," Massie comments, if just to watch Kemp lose all semblance of control. "They seem adept."

"No," Kemp says again.

"If you don't want them, what's the point?"

"The point is you are my partner, and we are allying together, and I don't want them. We can do to shake up some traditions. Two's pathetic this year, and Four isn't any better now that Abeley is not in the picture. We're obviously the District to win…"

Massie fights her eye roll. "There was no point there, just your stubbornness." She nods at Fawn. "I accept the alliance. Let Josh know."

"No," says Kemp. "I will not tolerate two twelves in this group—"

It takes Massie a moment to understand what he's saying, and then: "That's what this is about? A score? A fucking number?"

"Of course it doesn't matter to you," he hisses. "You were so impressive doing god knows what that they gave you a full score. Harrington probably fucked each judge to get his, and I perform exceedingly well to only get an eleven."

"An eleven is practically a twelve," Massie snaps, "and no one even cares about your training score unless it's under a seven. Fuck, Kemp. Reign your tantrum in."

"Actually," Cam says, watching Kemp carefully, "save it for the arena. People like to see tributes come undone."

"Sure, whatever." Kemp flicks his fingers in an obvious dismissal. No one moves. He's no one's leader yet. "You'll see worse when I run my sword through both of you at the same time."

Massie does not like the way her shoulders go rigid, coughs delicately around a mouthful of strawberry to rid anyone of the thought that his comment actually upset her. "So that's how it's going to be."

There is a flicker of something in Kemp's eye, maybe regret. Guilt. "We talked about this," he says. "I didn't care what score you got as long as it was below mine."

Massie grits her teeth.

"And now you just accept this alliance—"

"—because that's what we do, we accept beneficial alliances, that way we get ahead—"

"I didn't want to kill you first," Kemp muses, more to himself than anything, but the seriousness in which he says it cuts Massie to the core. "It's so tasteless, but you leave me no choice. I don't want to, but I have to—"

Massie takes her fork and stabs it between his fingers, making sure to dig the prongs into the skin between his index finger and thumb.

He takes in a sharp breath, watches the blood pool around the silver. Other than that, he makes no move that she's even pierced him.

"Maybe I'll kill you first," she snaps.

Kemp chuckles darkly. "Cute," he offers, "but that's not how this game works."

"I'm only playing one game," Massie retorts. She slams her fist down on the end of the fork, presses the utensil deeper into his hand. "And it's not yours. Fuck your perfect victory."

"Massie," Cam begins, warningly, "take the fork out of his hand."

She stands, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "His other one works perfectly fine. He can do it. I'm going to go find my new allies."

Kemp's eyes narrow, darken, at the word, at her movements. He looks like he wants to say something more but thinks better of it. He pulls the fork out his hand, weighs it in his palm.

When the door shuts closed behind her, he throws it, lets it embed itself in the wood.

…

There are two notes on her bed when she returns from her walk. She hasn't really gone to talk to Four, not even really sure if she's interested in their alliance, but it's tradition, it's expected; it's a clear shot of eliminating half the competition. And it's fun to get under Kemp's skin like that, to watch him break apart. For a strong kid, he's so embarrassingly sensitive.

The first: an apology from Kemp, and a rose, pink. His handwriting is terrible but the words are easy to read. Of course I won't kill you first. We have to make a spectacle. We can team up with Four, but only until half the the tributes are gone, then it's me and you against the world, baby.

The second, from Cam, has her more confused than Kemp's hypocritical babbling. I know you've known him your whole life, but do not trust him. Not even in the alliance.

She rips it into little, tiny pieces, and throws it into the fire, just to be safe.

…

She hardly pays attention to the individual scores recap. Doesn't find a reason to care, not when she's so effectively shown off how good of a tribute she is.

She notices Two's scores, tens across the board, and finds herself flushing at the picture they use of the male tribute from Four (twelve, twelve, twelve, like her). She's just as confused as the rest of them when the girl from Twelve matches Kemp's score, and is concerned by the calculating looks the kids from Six both seem to wear.

When it's over, and the anthem has played, Massie goes back to mulling over her favorite Victors' strategies, and Kemp flips over their dining room table.

Cam sighs. Fawn wipes her hands on her training pants, though Massie hasn't seen her train in any of them in the time they've been here, and gets up to follow him.

…

She's never trusted Kemp, not once. She's not going to start now, not when he'll be given the opportunity to kill her in a few days' time.

But that doesn't stop the hollowness that fills her bones, the disappointment that replaces the blood in her veins. She won't say she's nervous, but she won't say she's not, either. It's a conundrum.

…

"Be careful, those dual-ended spears are vicious." Derrick is in her personal space again, like he has been all week, and his fingers move behind her ear. She slaps them away. "Sorry," he says, though his smile says otherwise, "may I?"

She's unsure what to say. He takes that positively.

"You've nicked the skin here," he tells her. His fingers come back bloody. "How did you get this thing"—which is significantly taller than she is—"back there?"

"Talent," she says.

He sighs, and she ignores the fondness she hears in the sound. Boys always get attached.

"Come on." He grabs her wrist. "Ripple's really good at first aid."

…

Later, the seat to her left is filled by Kemp, not with the Four boy, who has taken to becoming her shadow. To sparring with her. To eating with her. To making her laugh, smile, despite the horrors that face them.

He slips into the room, Derrick, a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, his eye swelling shut, and avoids her gaze.

For the days they remain at the Capitol, he keeps to himself and his district partner.

…

Massie is ashamed to admit it, but she puts on a show, hoping to get something out of him. He's too stoic for his own good. She purposely asks her Glam Squad for something a bit more risqué than they were planning on putting her in, bats her lashes and smiles, murmurs please please please.

Jakkob knows it's pointless to fight her. The rest fall quite easily.

She convinces the others that this may as well be the last thing she'll ever get to wear besides the Capitol-regulated tribute bodysuit. They sigh sadly, literal fucking tears in their eyes, and quickly disperse, creating a look that does not necessarily showcase the District persona she is supposed to cultivate.

But she is supposed to be beautiful, to have bite beneath her shine. There has to be a reason she's there.

They make her into a ruby with high waisted red dress pants and toned ab muscles gleaming with glitter. A tube top the same color as the pants wraps around her chest. A brilliant diamond choker wraps around her throat. Her hair is in loose waves, cascading around her face, and her makeup—

Her makeup reminds them how vicious she is. Sharp wings, and full lips as dark as the liner. A dab of bright red lip gloss settles atop it, on the pillow of her bottom lip, giving off the appearance of blood. She has instructions to rub her lips together at a certain time, she'll know when, to give off the air of a predator. A pretty, pretty predator.

It's not what they will expect from One; it's an outfit that belongs to Two, to bloodthirsty, dirty murderers, people who live for the thrill of the Games, or the lives of the guards they turn to as careers. But Two is, for some reason, trying to sell Skye as a doll, probably like one of those that come alive at night and terrorize people, killing them swiftly. Like a horror movie.

And no one can stop Massie Block. They cannot tell her no, not with a father like William, a mother like Kendra. She's spent her whole life listening to recaps of their Games in excruciating detail at the dinner table. Just because she lives in One does not mean she can't survive the Academy in Two.

(She'd destroy them.)

(She needs to remember that.)

(She is not here to be Kemp Hurley's glorious final kill.)

(Remember.)

There's time before the interviews start, so she straps on her heels, black, and traipses from her room. The other tributes are starting to arrange themselves in a line, making last minute conversation with their mentors and escorts, hoping for some tips to enthrall the crowd.

A hush settles over them as she glides by, practically the only one comfortable in her shoes. The boy from Six, all calculating in his promo pictures, looks like he's swallowed his tongue. Landon from Two eyes her like a meal, links his fingers behind his back, smirks.

"What," Fawn says, her hair in some crazy Capitol crown of braids, rubies and diamonds and pearls placed perfectly within the nest, "is this?"

Massie wonders if the jewels on Fawn's head are being used to tie her new outfit together. Wonders if, perhaps, she hadn't really needed to beg for a change. Wonders if this was their intention all along. She never saw the original look.

"You don't like it?" Massie pouts, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

Fawn is dumbstruck. "You look like a slut," she decides.

Massie knows she does not, but that does not stop her from wishing she could punch her in the face.

"Thank you," she coos instead. "You look… nice." The pause is deliberate.

"You weren't supposed to wear this," her mentor continues, fighting a snarl. "I told your team—"

"And they made something else." Massie shrugs. "This is the last chance I'll have at procuring sponsors. One last chance to dazzle. Right?" She delights in the way Fawn's face reddens. "This will do just fine."

"I hate you," the blonde hisses.

Has there ever been a trainee-mentor pairing worse than this? Massie thinks this over. Perhaps a better mentor would have prepared her for the Games differently, but Fawn merely spent most of her time trying to intimidate her and falling over her feet for Kemp. As it's been with every girl Massie's entire life, which is kind of gross because Fawn is actually much older than them. She's older than Cam, too.

She's determined to make herself more than an afterthought compared to Kemp. Even if she has to die at his hand, she'll make sure they remember her.

Fawn evidently does not like to be ignored and snaps Massie out of her thoughts with a, "Go find Cam and go over your talking points."

Massie doesn't. She doesn't need help making people love her.

Instead, she waits, but she doesn't have to wait long.

She feels it when he notices her, like an electric shock, like a jarring fall in her training. It settles in her belly, simmers there.

They do not make eye contact. They do not interact.

There is nothing but a low whistle, and that, too, clings to her. She wears his appreciation like a second skin, allows herself a smug twist of the lips, and lines up ahead of them.

First interview, first impression: They'll never forget her now.

…

And they don't.

No one else compares.

…

Even Fawn, as surly as ever, has to agree she's done well.

Watching the recap of the interviews in the safety of their rooms, Massie hardly recognizes herself. She's that good.

There are flirty tosses of her hair, witty one liners, and coy winks to the audience. Her favorite part, though, is some random catcall she receives when she arches her back just so as she describes her weapon of choice, body subconsciously melding into perfect stance. And when she musses up her lips, the roar of the crowd is enough to keep her preening for months. She's perfect.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Kemp's knuckles turn white, clenching against the arm of his chair. He's charismatic, but she's won their hearts this time around.

Another thing she likes: the gauze around his hand. Evidently Fawn and Cam did not decide to heal the wound she inflicted on him. It gives her some satisfaction, knowing she's harmed his otherwise flawless physique.

It's not like Kemp isn't good up there. He is. He's got that hard, angry angle going for him. No smiles, no quips. Just pure muscle and might—and it works for him. Merri-Lee Marvil sing-songs about the perfect pairing of District One: beautiful and strong, charming and mysterious. They are everything the Capitol wants them to be, everything the Capitol strives for.

Layered, but easy to read.

They think they know them. They think Massie will use her sex appeal as a weapon. They think Kemp will use his hands to rip his enemies to pieces.

They think they're right.

Later, they'll find out they are wrong.

Two's tributes are just as memorable, just lesser. Skye perfects the doll role, sweet and girly, with just enough fire. She twirls in her dress at the end of her interview and the audience cheers. She blows a kiss, and they can see her mentor, Alicia, smirk as the Capitolites swarm her, whispering in her ear before the next tribute ascends the stage. She's an enigma; surely she is something else under there, but what? They are dying to put their money where their mouths are and find out. Massie is not concerned, if Cam's calm demeanor and lists are anything to go by.

Personally Massie thinks Landon is an idiot, has thought that since they met. He's all brawn and little brain, and he's duller than Kemp, who at least has more than one coherent thought. It's clear Landon is a stereotypical Two: itching to get blood on his hands. He may not even wash them if he wins.

Kemp exits the room after that, uninterested in the remaining interviews. He's convinced himself his biggest threat is Landon and from what he sees, it seems he's already figured out how to best him. Massie's heard him talking to Cam and Fawn, asking if there's any way he can make the big duel between the two of them instead of him and Massie. There's always a beat of silence, as if they are waiting for her to arrive, and then there is if she's eliminated before him, yes, but you know how the story must unfold—

She wants to take their story and shove it up their asses.

The girl from Four sits down delicately on screen. Massie tucks her legs beneath her, rests her head on a pillow. Ripple plays the little girl part so well Massie almost believes she's as innocent as she says, but then the flint in her eyes reappears, the same from her Reaping. It's still her most redeeming quality and Massie has watched her train all week.

And then Derrick appears. His full name is Derrick Harrington, which she must've known, after studying the Reaping so closely, but she hadn't remembered.

District Four is known for fishing and Derrick's dressed like a pretty boy about to set sail on some lavish boat. His pants are pastel pink, his shirt this chalky white with the top four buttons unbuttoned. The way they styled his hair makes him look like he's spent all day on the beach. His skin fucking pops.

She thought she was good, but he's better. She hates to admit it.

He drops jokes that are actually funny, makes sheepish look attractive, and somehow, while making himself relatable, proves he's as deadly as the rest of them. He even does that thing that boys do, casually rolls up the sleeves of his shirt while speaking, slowly showing off the tendons and veins in his forearms.

Girls like that. It appears Capitol women (and men) do, too.

Massie can see the sponsors rolling in for him. It irritates her to no end.

Twelve, she remembers him saying, mocking her.

"Abeley was easier to figure out," Kemp snaps, throwing her feet off the couch and dropping onto the cushion as far away from her as possible. "I can't believe I wasted time learning his tells and strengths."

"How did you manage to find those out?"

"How did he beat him out?" Kemp continues, as if he hasn't heard her. "He's big, I'll give him that, but he's not as—"

She knows he's going to say good so she beats him to the punch. "No, he's not," she says, "he's clearly better."

Kemp's hands ball up into fists. He looks like he wants to hit her but doesn't. Instead, he says, meanly, "You would think that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't think I haven't seen you," he murmurs. "The both of you. He flirts with you constantly and you just let him. You encourage it."

"Aw." Massie prods at him with her toes. "Are you jealous?"

"Of course I am," Kemp answers, meeting her gaze. There is nothing there, just his intense rage, always hiding beneath the surface. "You're mine."

"Yours," she repeats, a tiny thrill surging through her body.

His hand twitches as he lifts it, and he steadies it, holding it flat in front of him, before gently wrapping it around her ankle. She wonders if her heartbeat can travel that far, if he can feel it race.

"Mine," he repeats. "My district partner. My ally. My—" He cuts himself off, looking pained, and Massie holds her breath. "My beautiful, perfect kill. Do you want to know how I'm going to do it?"

Massie deflates. Lets out that breath she can't believe she even held. Of course.

"No," she answers, shaking his hand off her. She tries to bring her legs closer to her, to make herself smaller, to contort herself into a position that's uncomfortable enough to punish herself for her weak feelings.

"Probably for the best," he agrees.

He doesn't let her pull away from him, splays his hand against her leg, runs it slowly up until it's against her thigh.

"Stop," Massie says.

"Come on," he shoots back, and he's not even fucking looking at her, gaze glued to the interviews from District Six, and she's annoyed at her traitorous heart for revving up again when he's not even paying attention to her. "I know you want this."

She wants to move, she really does, but part of her also doesn't. Whatever she is, whatever he is, and whatever this is—it's the last time anyone will touch her like this. She's going to die in that arena.

Still, she can't help but shoot back: "You were just complaining about that kid from Four."

"I'm used to you flirting with me," Kemp says. "I've seen the way you look at me."

"I don't look at you—"

"You look at me." He finally turns his head, meets her eyes, and smirks. "I punched him in the face for touching you. He doesn't come near you anymore because he's scared of me."

He's not, Massie thinks. He's just smart.

"He knows you're mine. I know you're mine." He slides his fingers under the leg of her shorts, caresses her hip bone. "You know it, too, so why won't you admit it? Why won't you embrace it?"

Her heart is doing that thing again, where it thump, thump, THUMPS, and Kemp can feel it now. He takes that as an answer in itself, shifts himself onto his knees.

Massie thinks about Fawn's subtle (and not so subtle) threats, thinks about the jokes Derrick made during his interview, thinks about Skye and Landon and how they'll probably try to kill her as soon as the alliance breaks. She thinks about how Kemp's not wrong, how she's always wanted this but never allowed herself to acknowledge it fully. She thinks, again, about how this is the last time she'll be touched like this and how, if she has to choose someone to do it, she wants it to be him.

Kemp reads this all on her face and pulls her closer to him so they're chest to chest. "I won't let anyone hurt you," he says, and it would be nice, romantic, even, if it weren't for what follows. "I've claimed you. Everyone knows that. The only person that gets to hurt you is me."

She sighs, burning inside out from her anger (how could she be so stupid?), presses her palms to his shoulders, and pushes. He's startled enough that he's forced back, his mouth no longer hot against her neck.

She thinks about Cam's note, thinks about what was written between the lines. Do not trust him.

"No," she tells him, voice hard and sure and deadly. "I am no one's but my own, and I get to decide who hurts me." She kicks at him, trying to further the distance between them. Her skin tingles and crawls where he touched her, where she relished in that touch. "Guess what? It's not you."

…

She will not die in that arena. She will be victorious.

…

She escapes to the roof.

Tomorrow they will be injected with a tracking device. Tomorrow they will be dropped off in some sick fuck's creation, left to fend for themselves. Tomorrow the world will watch them kill each other off for sport until only one is left standing, a testament to their strength, their perseverance. A punishment to them all for the rebellion years ago.

Tonight, though—

Tonight she can look at the stars.

…

A hand jostles her awake.

"Hey," someone whispers. It's a voice she knows. "Hey," they say again. "Get up. This isn't a very comfortable place to sleep."

Massie grumbles something, nuzzles her head against this arm, almost like a cat. Maybe if she does this enough, they'll stop bothering her. She can still see the dream she's having, and it's so nice, and normal, that she doesn't want to lose it.

"Block," the voice says exasperatedly. "I can't just pick you up and drop you off in your bed. Get up."

"Mmrrph," she replies smartly.

"You'll have plenty of opportunities to sleep on the floor tomorrow," they continue. "Up."

"Oh my god," Massie mumbles, blinking. "You are so fucking—"

He comes into focus, illuminated by the moon, the stars.

"Fuck."

"I mean, sure," Derrick Harrington of District Four agrees, that familiar lopsided grin on his face. Is it always there? Is he ever unhappy? What the fuck. "Nice to see you, too."

She scrambles into a sitting position, wipes at her eyes, presses the heels of her palms against her forehead. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

"A little after two," answers Derrick, dropping from his crouch. "I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, I—"

"Don't agree with me," he interrupts. "You were just out cold."

Massie rolls her eyes. "I wasn't going to say that."

Derrick quirks a brow.

"Fine," she relents, caught. "I just needed to get away for a bit."

"I'll walk you back to your floor," Derrick offers when she yawns, large and loud.

"No." She pushes herself up. "I want to train."

"You're dead on your feet."

"All the more reason to do it," she retorts. "I highly doubt I'll be well rested for the next two weeks. Might as well see what I can do."

It doesn't dawn on her to ask if he's coming until she's at the door. She turns, mouth opening, but realizes she doesn't have to. He's already following her.

…

Massie imagines the dummy's head is Kemp's, and heaves a sword that's heavier than she is at his throat.

She imagines the hands are his, trailing up her leg, touching her, and aims tiny knives at all ten of his fingers.

She charges and kicks, slamming both her feet against the chest, allowing herself a moment of incoordination, falling on her back in a heap.

She itches to take another blade, a sharper, longer one, to rip the mouth off the dummy's face, head rolling a few feet away from the neck. She wants to remove Kemp's ability to talk, his words, his desires, his assumption that she is his.

His to play with.

His to do with what he pleases.

His to murder, to make himself the best.

The dummy does not have a mouth for her to slice off, so she settles on getting up, prying the weapons from the dummy's fingers—they all hit their target; if this were really Kemp, he'd be beautifully, magnificently without his hands—and twists her torso, closes her eyes, lets those same knives go flying.

When she looks, they've all hit their target, except one.

She snarls, stomps over, pulls it out, flings it over her shoulder.

"You've been slacking in training," Derrick observes from where he sits, meticulously tying and untying knots. It's a stupid skill to have, Massie thinks. "Why?"

"Why not?" she replies.

"You're a Career," he says. "You volunteered. We know you're good enough to be here, so there's no point in hiding your strengths. Not like the other districts. There's no need to pretend you don't have a leg up."

"I haven't seen you do anything remotely impressive, except your mediocre wrestling, which," she sneers, lifting her nose, "is rather pathetic for someone of your stature."

He grins, that crooked thing again, and flings his rope. The knots are perfect. It can easily hold his weight if he wishes to demonstrate, and he does.

"You kill during the Games, not training," he returns, rather loftily.

"Right," she agrees, not actually agreeing.

Maybe he hears her disbelief in her tone despite the monotone in which she speaks, for he says, "And my weapon of choice is not an option here."

"And that would be?"

He smiles again, though he seems rather put out. "Doesn't matter," he answers. "It's not an option."

She wonders if he'll even be half of the formidable opponent he could be without this so-called weapon. Wonders just what he can do with it.

A number of blades, swords, spears fly through her brain, like she's flipping through a book, trying to find the right one. She can't see him with any of them, though, not Kemp's preferred sword, not her boomerang and knives, not Skye's bow and arrow, or even Landon's twin blades.

Her gaze hones in on those knots, the long, thick fingers he's using to heave himself up the rope.

He doesn't have the weapon he wants.

She wonders, with a shudder, what he can do with his hands. If he's holding back in wrestling, what else can those arms do? He's as big as Kemp, if not bigger, and Kemp is able to annihilate his competition with just his body.

If Derrick…

She finds herself watching him, impressed by the lithe way in which he moves. He can pull himself up that rope easily, swinging to push against the wall. He gets up quickly, flips, kicks off the ceiling, makes his way down.

"Were you a swimmer?" she asks.

"Everyone in Four is a swimmer," he retorts, nose wrinkling. "What a stupid question."

Massie sighs, rubs her blades against her pant leg until it shines. She looks at her reflection in it, purses her lips. "You don't have to be rude," she snips.

He throws himself down next to her, arm covering his face. She admires the muscles there, flicks her knife against her thumb. Blood oozes.

"You work out your irritation?"

"No," she says. She's saving it.

"Hm," he replies. "You never answered my question."

"You didn't give me a straight answer either."

"Maybe I will, if you tell me."

She most certainly cannot.

She is not going to tell him she's kept half of her skill a secret just to help Kemp shine, because she was told to, by her mentors and her trainers and her classmates. She doesn't tell him she's keeping secrets from Kemp—who has known her for years, can tell by the scrunch of her nose, the blink of an eye, when she's going to feign right instead of left—and is hiding other, deadlier skills that will give her a leg up.

She doesn't tell him that despite her bravado and swagger that she had resigned herself to being lesser than him. Convinced herself dying in the arena at Kemp's hand would be the best thing to do. Despite all the talk—any Victor from One will do—it's Kemp they want.

If it were any other male tribute's year, they'd pick her to win. But it's not. Even her father agreed: His last words were Do me proud, make it count.

If that's not a District One goodbye, she doesn't know what is.

Massie frowns, throws the knife again. It soars through Derrick's knotted rope, sticks to the wall farthest from her. The rope snaps, drops to the floor with a thud.

He pushes himself onto his elbows, huffs. "And you think I'm rude?"

She smiles, cold and catlike.

No one knows she's this good with knives. No one but now Derrick. She finds she's not upset with this.

"The alliance," she says.

"You don't want it," he replies.

She licks her lips and does something she knows will not win her any favors. "Kemp doesn't," she tells him, and his lips turn nastily at the name (oooh, they do not like each other at all), "but I do."

"You do," he bleats.

"It's expected," she answers back, but her interest in the alliance is more than that. There's something he's hiding here, something she wants to uncover, and she'd rather be next to him when he decides to unleash it, not on the receiving end. "I like to follow rules."

Derrick snorts. "Right," he says, sparing a glance around the room they're technically no longer allowed in. "A real stickler, it looks like."

She doesn't respond.

"What does this mean then?" he asks instead. "You want it, but he doesn't?"

"Yes." She sighs. "It means—he'll do it, but he doesn't want it. He's probably just intimidated by you, but." She hesitates, because she shouldn't be doing this, should she? Shouldn't be betraying her partner, not yet. "I see it like this: we're going to be in an alliance, right, and he's either going to break it before it's time or kill you first and viciously once he decides it's over."

"I don't see the appeal here."

"I do." Massie rakes her gaze over his form. Strong. Sturdy. Long lasting. Another word tickles her brain but she ignores it, like she ignores the warmth in her belly. "I think it'll be good. Beneficial."

"Yeah, but in this situation I'm the one dying, not you."

"Here's the thing," she says, sticking her hand out. He looks at it, raises a brow. "I won't let that happen."

She prepares a whole speech to convince him of her strength, how she can manage to protect him until she's gone, has the words knives and boomerang and—

And—she doesn't have to.

He takes her hand, flips it so her palm is up, and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, essentially sealing their fates.

…

When she goes back to her room to feign some semblance of sleep before she has to be up again—in, fuck, less than two hours—she bumps into Kemp.

They make eye contact, this wide-eyed, surprised sort of thing, and she feels him zero in on her hair (a tangled mess), her cheeks (flushed from the adrenaline), her eyes (wild).

He smells like Skye's god awful perfume.

She smells like sweat.

He doesn't say anything to her, just breezes past. Massie waits until she hears his door close and lock and scurries to her own.

He threw a fucking table because Four got a better training score than him. He threatened to break code and kill her first because she wanted the alliance.

She whips out the dagger she nicked from the training room and shreds her comforter. Her sheets.

All around her there are strips of glimmering fabric, feathers from her pillow. She sits, pretzel-style, in the middle of it all, holds her knife so tight it breaks her skin.

Then, silently, because she's not a brute like Kemp, who cannot move without making a sound, she exits again.

The elevator slides open, and she slams her palm against the button for the fourth floor, over and over, until she's surging up.

It's when she's standing in front of the door to District Four's apartment that she stops, contemplates just what the fuck she's doing here, and leaves.

…

Jakkob styles her hair in two tight French braids, just like in her promo pictures, and they hurt her head. He kisses her forehead, presses his fingers against his heart, says nothing as she shoots up out of sight.

…

The injection hardly stings after all the time she's spent with her knives. She watches with a strange satisfaction as the tracking liquid enters her bloodstream, turns her veins neon, and travels up her arm.

Ripple, from Four, cannot contain her gasp at the sensation. It's then Massie remembers she is twelve, the youngest tribute this year. Derrick leans over to grab her free hand, squeezing.

Kemp and Landon sneer at what they think is obvious weakness.

Massie rolls her eyes, tries to offer up her nicest smile. It comes out as a grimace instead, her mouth not used to moving like that. Nice has never been necessary.

And now, hours away from the 74th Annual Hunger Games, nice won't be necessary ever again.