Chapter 48 : Training with Victors
Rue hit me at full speed.
The training center doors had barely opened before she broke from District 11's position, sprinting across the floor with the desperate grace I remembered from our first arena. She crashed into my chest, arms wrapping tight, face pressed against my shirt.
"I knew you'd come." Her voice was muffled, trembling. "I knew."
Katniss joined the embrace. Three survivors holding each other while twenty-one other victors watched. Let them watch. Let the cameras broadcast this moment to all of Panem. The District 11-12 alliance was public now, announced in a way no words could match.
"Are you okay?" I pulled back, examined her. Thinner than before. Eyes older than any twelve-year-old's should be. But alive.
"I'm here." She managed a smile. "We're together. That matters."
Behind her, Chaff and Seeder observed with expressions I couldn't fully read. Haymitch's friends. Potential allies. Or potential threats, if they decided their district's survival mattered more than ours.
"Stay close today," I told Rue. "We assess together."
She nodded, and we turned to face the training floor.
The dynamics were unlike anything from my first Games.
Children had clustered in fear, drifting toward stations where they might learn skills to survive. Victors clustered by calculation, demonstrating abilities meant to intimidate or identify allies.
The Careers dominated the weapons stations. Brutus wielded his sword like it was an extension of his massive frame. Enobaria's fighting style was savage, predatory, designed to terrify as much as damage. Cashmere and Gloss moved in coordinated patterns that showed years of training together.
Their message was clear: we are the apex predators here.
Johanna Mason attacked training dummies with an axe, each swing carrying fury that went beyond practice. She wasn't demonstrating skill. She was venting rage at everything the Capitol represented.
Beetee and Wiress huddled at the technology station, muttering to each other in half-sentences. Wiress kept repeating something—"tick tock, tick tock"—while Beetee adjusted wire configurations with methodical precision.
And Finnick moved between groups like water, charming everyone, trusted by none. His smile was perfect. His eyes calculated constantly.
"Where do we start?" Katniss asked.
"Survival skills. Let them underestimate us."
Finnick found me at the knot-tying station.
"You know things." His voice dropped, smile absent for once. "Things you shouldn't."
I kept my hands busy with the rope, weaving patterns I'd learned across two lifetimes. "Everyone knows things."
"Not like you." He worked his own knots without looking—finger memory from years of fishing nets. "I recognize it. The look of someone playing a longer game than the one everyone else sees."
"Maybe you see what you want to see."
"Maybe." His voice dropped further. "Or maybe we should talk. Really talk. Away from the cameras watching everything."
I studied him—the bronze perfection, the Capitol-designed beauty, the eyes that didn't match the smile. "Why?"
"Because some games are bigger than the arena. And some players are tired of being pieces." He tied off his knot, stood. "Think about it."
He walked away, leaving me with questions I couldn't answer. Not here. Not surrounded by cameras and competitors and people who might be allies or enemies depending on factors I couldn't see.
The technology station offered different possibilities.
Beetee looked up when we approached—Katniss, Rue, and me. His expression shifted from dismissal to interest when I asked about electrical systems.
"You understand circuitry?"
"Basic principles. Enough to improvise." I gestured at his wire construction. "What are you building?"
"Nothing specific yet. Testing conductivity, current flow, material properties." He adjusted a connection. "The arena will have variables. I prefer to understand variables before encountering them."
Wiress hummed beside him, arranging components in patterns that seemed random. "Tick tock," she murmured. "Tick tock."
"She does that," Beetee apologized. "She sees patterns others miss. Sometimes they're meaningful. Sometimes they're just... Wiress."
"What pattern does 'tick tock' represent?"
He paused, looked at his partner with something like respect. "I don't know yet. But she's rarely wrong about patterns."
I filed this away. Tick tock. Clock. The arena—was it designed like a clock? My meta-knowledge stirred, fragments pushing against conscious thought. I couldn't act on speculation directly. But I could be ready.
"We should work together," I said. "In the arena. Technical expertise would be valuable."
Beetee studied me. "Why would you want us? We're not fighters."
"Fighting isn't everything. The right tool at the right moment matters more than brute strength." I held his gaze. "I learned that in my first Games."
Something shifted in his expression. Calculation, maybe. Or hope.
"We'll consider it."
Lunch was a study in alliance politics.
The Careers claimed a central table, their positioning deliberate dominance. Other victors clustered in smaller groups, gravitating toward familiar faces or shared history.
We sat together—Nolan, Katniss, Rue. Three tributes from an alliance that had defied the Games once already.
Mags joined us uninvited.
She settled across from me without a word, produced bread from somewhere, and began eating with the methodical patience of someone who'd learned to savor every meal. She offered a piece to Rue, who accepted hesitantly.
"Thank you," I said.
Mags nodded but didn't speak. Couldn't speak clearly, maybe—her file mentioned communication difficulties from age or injury. But her eyes were sharp, watching everything.
"Is this from Finnick?" Katniss asked quietly.
Another nod. Another offer of bread, this time to Katniss.
"Tell him we'll talk." I kept my voice low. "Tonight. Somewhere private."
Mags smiled—the first expression I'd seen from her beyond assessment. She gathered her things and left, message delivered.
"Are you sure about this?" Katniss asked once she'd gone.
"No. But we need allies, and Finnick wants something. Better to find out what."
Rue had been quiet through the exchange. Now she spoke: "I heard things in District 11. Before the Reaping. People talking about symbols, about hope, about fighting back."
"What kind of things?"
"The three-finger salute. Mockingjay images painted on walls. People saying the victors showed it was possible to resist." Her voice dropped. "And people saying someone would try to break us out."
Break us out. The rebellion was real, moving, planning. And Haymitch's cryptic warnings suddenly made more sense.
"Don't repeat that to anyone," I said. "Not until we know who to trust."
She nodded solemnly.
That night, a note slid under my door.
No signature. No identifying marks. Just a location and time written in careful script: Rooftop. Midnight.
I showed it to Katniss. "Finnick?"
"Or someone else." She examined the paper as if it might reveal secrets. "Could be a trap."
"Could be." I tucked the note into my pocket. "Only one way to find out."
"I'm coming with you."
"If it's a trap, we both die."
"If it's a trap, we die together." Her jaw set in the stubborn expression I'd learned meant argument was pointless. "I'm coming."
I didn't fight her. Partnership meant facing things together—even midnight meetings that might be ambushes.
The rooftop waited.
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