Chapter 42 : The Other Victors
Haymitch spread the files across his kitchen table like a war council.
"Twenty-four victors will enter the arena. These are the ones still breathing." He tapped a stack of folders. "Study them. Know them. Because any one of them could kill you."
The files were detailed—Capitol intelligence, updated yearly for Gamemaker reference. Photos, fighting styles, known alliances, psychological profiles. Everything you'd need to evaluate a threat.
Or identify an ally.
I picked up the first folder. District 1: Cashmere and Gloss. Siblings, winners of back-to-back Games. Their photos showed perfected beauty—the kind the Capitol manufactured through surgery and enhancement. Career trained, Career loyal.
"They'll alliance with the other Careers," Katniss observed.
"Definitely. District 2 as well—Brutus and Enobaria." Haymitch pulled their files. Brutus was massive, a volunteer from the 44th Games. Enobaria had filed her teeth to points. "These four are the core threat. Professional killers who've been waiting for exactly this opportunity."
I moved through more files. District 3: Beetee and Wiress. Technical geniuses, their Games won through invention rather than combat. Beetee had created an electrical trap that killed six tributes simultaneously. Wiress's file noted "mental instability" but also "pattern recognition beyond normal parameters."
"Potential allies," I said. "They're not physical threats, but their skills are valuable."
"Wiress is... difficult." Haymitch's voice was careful. "She speaks in fragments. Hard to understand unless you know her."
District 4 brought a name I recognized: Finnick Odair. The file photo showed impossible handsomeness—bronze hair, sea-green eyes, the kind of face that launched sponsorship deals. He'd won at fourteen, the youngest victor until Rue.
But something in his expression didn't match the smile. I'd seen that look before. In my own mirror, when the performance slipped.
"What's Finnick's deal?" I asked.
Haymitch's face closed off. "He's complicated."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I'm giving." He moved past the file. "Finnick is dangerous, but not necessarily to you. File him under 'uncertain.'"
District 7: Johanna Mason. Her file photo showed a woman with short dark hair and eyes that promised violence. She'd won by pretending to be weak, then killing her opponents when they underestimated her.
"She's unpredictable," Haymitch said. "Angry at the Capitol, angry at the Games, angry at everything. Could be an ally. Could stab you in the back. Depends on her mood."
More files. More faces. More people who'd survived exactly what we'd survived, and would be trying to survive it again.
The scale of it pressed down on me. This wasn't the bloodbath scramble of our first Games—inexperienced children dying in the first minutes. These were professionals. Killers. Survivors who'd outlasted twenty-three other tributes and spent years living with what that meant.
"We can't beat them all," Katniss said quietly.
"We don't have to beat them all." I set down the files. "We just have to outlast them. Same as before."
"Before, we had advantages they didn't expect. This time, they know who we are."
"They know who we were. They don't know who we've become." I looked at Haymitch. "What about Rue? What's District 11's situation?"
He pulled two files. Chaff—older, missing a hand, known for drinking nearly as much as Haymitch himself. And Seeder—quiet, competent, respected.
"Chaff is my friend. Seeder is solid." Haymitch's voice was careful. "But they're also going into that arena. Friendship only goes so far when survival is at stake."
"Rue is the only female victor from 11?"
"The only one alive. Her predecessor died three years ago." He paused. "Which means Rue is definitely being reaped. There's no one else to take her place."
The words hit like physical blows. Rue—twelve years old, barely survived her first Games—going back into the arena with killers three times her age.
"She's with us," Katniss said. The words weren't a question. "Whatever happens, Rue is part of our alliance."
"Agreed." I started sorting files into piles—threats, uncertainties, potential allies. "But we'll need more than a three-person alliance. Not against this field."
"Who else can we trust?"
I picked up Finnick's file again, studying the disconnect between his smile and his eyes. Johanna's folder, noting her anger at the Capitol. Beetee and Wiress, their technical genius potential game-changers in the right arena.
"I don't know yet." I set the files aside. "But we have weeks to figure it out."
The days blurred into preparation.
I stockpiled obsessively—every useful item I could touch went into storage. Weapons, medical supplies, food, tools. The space in my mind expanded to accommodate the growing inventory, capacity increasing under stress like a muscle being exercised.
Katniss trained with her bow until her fingers bled, then trained more. Her accuracy had been deadly before; now it was surgical. She could hit targets I couldn't even see.
Haymitch sobered up—partially, at least. Enough to be useful. Enough to provide the kind of strategic thinking that had kept him alive for twenty-five years.
And every night, we returned to the files.
Cashmere and Gloss: Career alliance, dangerous but predictable.
Brutus and Enobaria: same.
Finnick Odair: uncertain, possibly manipulable, definitely dangerous.
Johanna Mason: wild card, angry, potential ally if approached correctly.
Beetee and Wiress: technical assets, need protection, worth the investment.
Mags: District 4's female tribute, elderly, beloved by Finnick. A wild card in a different way.
The list went on. Twenty-four names, twenty-four possibilities, twenty-four ways to die.
But also twenty-four ways to survive.
I studied Finnick's photo again, trying to read past the Capitol-perfected surface. He'd been a victor since he was fourteen—nearly a decade of performing, of playing the role the Capitol expected. The same performance we'd been giving since the Victory Tour.
Something about his eyes suggested he hated it as much as we did.
"You keep looking at that file," Katniss observed.
"Something's off about him." I couldn't articulate it better than that. "He's not what he seems."
"None of them are."
"True." I set the file aside. "But some of them might be what we need."
The Reaping approached. Weeks became days. The arena waited.
But this time, we'd be ready. This time, we'd have allies beyond just each other.
And this time, we knew exactly who the real enemy was.
Snow had wanted to remind the districts that even the strongest couldn't overcome the Capitol. He'd thrown victors back into the Games as punishment, as warning, as entertainment.
He'd also thrown them together.
Twenty-four people who'd survived the worst the Capitol could offer. Twenty-four people with every reason to hate the system that had made them killers.
I started drafting a letter to Rue—new codes, new plans, new possibilities.
The Quarter Quell was coming.
We'd give Snow a reminder of his own.
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