Chapter Text
The waiting room smelled faintly of sweat and antiseptic, a cold, concrete gray that pressed against the skin like a weight. Tributes sat in rigid rows of plastic chairs, their hands folded, some fidgeting, some staring blankly ahead. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, making every shadow sharp and every movement exaggerated. Red and Johanna sat side by side, shoulders brushing, hands clasped in that silent solidarity that only those who had survived the Games could understand.
Mags was perched nearby, small and alert, silver hair resting against her back, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Finnick sat next to Red, his long legs stretched out, one hand lightly holding hers, the other moving in fluid, deliberate motions as he signed to Mags. His eyes flicked between her and the other tributes in the room, sharp and attentive, a subtle protectiveness humming beneath his calm exterior. Red’s thumb brushed over his hand, the smallest touch of reassurance, while her other hand tightened around the leather strap of her training bag at her feet.
Around them, whispers floated through the air like restless shadows. Some tributes speculated about who would be called next, others nervously tested the weight of their own weapons or traced the lines of their assessment sheets. The energy was taut, heavy, a mixture of fear and anticipation that made every small sound—shuffling feet, quiet breathing, the distant hum of the intercom—feel amplified.
Then the announcement came, the intercom cutting through the room like a blade:
"District Seven: Red Briar: Report for Individual Assessment."
The words echoed in the concrete chamber, bouncing off the walls, and every tribute momentarily froze, as if the air itself had thickened around them. Finnick leaned forward just slightly, brushing his lips against hers in a quick, careful kiss. The world shrank for that brief moment, leaving only the heat of their connection, the familiar certainty of each other’s presence amidst the sterile, impersonal expanse of the Capitol facility. Johanna’s hand squeezed Red’s, firm and grounding, and Red felt a tiny spark of courage ignite inside her chest. The shared understanding between them—survivors, warriors, sisters in all but blood—was unspoken but palpable.
Red stood slowly, letting go of Johanna’s hand with the faintest touch of regret, the contact lingering in her mind even as her feet moved toward the training room. Her posture was straight, her jaw set, a mask of determination over the churning storm of nerves inside her. Finnick’s hand lingered at hers for a moment longer, then released, fingers brushing the back of her hand, a silent promise that he would be there when she returned.
She took a deep breath, the sharp scent of concrete and anticipation filling her lungs, and stepped forward into the gray corridor, moving alone now, each step deliberate. Johanna’s eyes followed her for a heartbeat, tight with solidarity and unspoken words, before returning to her own seat, still gripping her daggers and the quiet, latent fire that always seemed to simmer beneath her surface. The room felt a little emptier as Red walked away, her heart pounding in her chest, and Finnick’s gaze followed her every step. He held up a sign to Mags, subtle, precise, the only acknowledgment needed, but his eyes never left Red until the training room doors swallowed her whole.
The training room felt impossibly vast, sterile, and cold under the harsh Capitol lights, the gray concrete stretching in every direction. The bleachers above were filled with the Capitol elite—mentors, stylists, and officials whose expressions were as sharp and unreadable as carved stone. Every step Red took echoed, soft but insistent, against the polished floor, each one a drumbeat in the silent challenge she was about to issue. Her boots scuffed lightly, the metal buckles of her training outfit catching the light as she stepped forward. The black fabric clung to her, flexible and snug, a second skin that mirrored the precision of her movements. Her hair was tied back, but a few rebellious strands curled around her temples, framing a face that was sharp, predatory, and alive with calculated fire.
Her eyes swept upward, locking with Plutarch Heavensbee’s from the gallery above. The man’s gray suit seemed even stiffer under the scrutiny of her gaze. The light caught his spectacles, glinting for a fraction of a second, but Red’s eyes didn’t waver. She crouched slightly, the angle accentuating the readiness in her posture, every muscle coiled like a spring.
Her voice, low and controlled, slid across the room with an almost feline quality, a purr that carried confidence and edge: “Who do you believe are the three most lethal tributes in that room, sir?”
Plutarch tilted his head, caught off guard, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Katniss Everdeen, Finnick Odair, and Johanna Mason,” he replied, calm but confused, the tilt of his head betraying that he was unsure why she was asking such a question. Red’s gaze didn’t move. Her eyes were sharp, almost dangerous, and a sly grin ghosted over her lips. She spoke again, louder this time, commanding the attention of every system and sensor in the room, every hidden microphone, every digital recorder the Capitol had installed:
“RUN TRAINING PROGRAM HOLOGRAMS: EVERDEEN, ODAIR, MASON, AND BRIAR.”
Murmurs rippled through the gallery above, subtle but palpable. Some of the Capitol elite blinked in surprise, whispering to one another, because this was not what they had expected. Four holograms—the three tributes Plutarch had named, and Red herself—blinked into existence on the floor before her. The holographic projections were impossibly lifelike: Red’s own image mirrored her every detail, the black daggers strapped to her thighs gleaming under the simulated lights, the sharp curve of her cheekbones and the intensity in her eyes unsettlingly precise. She crouched slightly, balancing on the balls of her feet, and drew two black daggers from their sheathes at her hips. One more she clenched between her teeth, a subtle glint of steel catching the light as she leaned forward, weight centered and ready. Her lips curled into a feral snarl as she grumbled, “Start.”
And then the holograms attacked.
They didn’t hesitate. Everdeen, Odair, Mason, and the mirrored Briar surged toward her in synchronized, lethal patterns, their simulated weapons raised and bodies angled to exploit any opening. Every instinct Red had honed over the years in the arena flared alive, muscles coiling, heart hammering, mind calculating the probability of every strike, every parry, every feint. The room fell away around her. The hum of the Capitol machinery, the spectators above, the fluorescent glare of the lights—all became background noise to the pulse of steel and motion, the thrill and terror of the arena condensed into a single, electric moment.
The moment Red barked, “START,” the holograms lunged, and the room exploded into motion. The first to close in was Katniss Everdeen’s projection, bow drawn, eyes sharp and calculating. Red’s dagger in her left hand flashed, slicing an imaginary arrow in midair, her reflexes impossibly fast. She pivoted on her heel, letting the mirrored Briar advance, spinning into the motion to drive her dagger between the hologram’s ribs. Sparks of light erupted on contact, the synthetic bloodless simulation flickering as if wounded in reality. Next, Johanna Mason’s hologram came at her with axes raised, eyes narrowed. Red ducked under the first swing, using her legs to propel herself sideways, letting the momentum carry her into a low roll. She kicked upward, her steel-toed boots striking the wrist of the hologram’s axe arm, twisting the weapon into an awkward angle. The hologram staggered, but Red was already on it—her dagger now held in her teeth glinting in the harsh light. She snatched the second dagger from the floor, her hands fluid, precise, closing the distance between herself and the Mason projection.
It wasn’t enough. Finnick Odair’s hologram surged forward next, trident spinning in a lethal arc. The crowd of spectators blinked in surprise, and Plutarch’s eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. The love between Red and Finnick was not a secret—anyone who knew the history could predict her reaction—but they didn’t expect what came next. Red’s grin, sharp and dangerous, was fleeting as she zeroed in on the hologram. Every instinct told her to exploit what she knew of his style, the subtle ways he telegraphed his movements, the slight weight shifts when he lunged. She sidestepped his first strike, grabbing the trident with her free hand mid-spin and redirecting it, forcing the hologram off-balance. Sparks erupted from the simulated impact, but she didn’t pause. Her reflexes were an extension of her mind, and her mind was all clarity, all lethal intent.
Finnick’s hologram tried to pivot, spinning to catch her from the other side, but Red was faster. She ducked, rolled, and slid her foot along the floor, using the momentum to launch herself upward. Her dagger shot from her teeth, spinning through the air like a small, sharp comet, striking the trident again, sending it skittering across the training floor. The movement was a blur, a seamless fluidity that left the hologram momentarily stunned.
Red lunged, caught the other dagger in her hand, and pressed forward, keeping the simulated Finnick pinned against the floor. One dagger hovered near the hologram’s chest, the other still in her grip, ready to strike if it moved. She allowed herself a fleeting smirk, a spark of wicked amusement in her eyes, knowing the Capitol elite above had never anticipated this—never anticipated that a tribute would use their personal knowledge of love and trust to ruthlessly dismantle a holographic representation of someone they cared about.
Her movements weren’t reckless, though—they were precise. Each dodge, each pivot, each parry and strike calculated to not just block but dominate. Red twisted her weight, sliding one dagger under the hologram’s arm to the back of its leg, and shoved, sending it careening to the floor with a sharp metallic clang that echoed through the room. Sparks and projected effects scattered across the floor as if in acknowledgment of her supremacy. The hologram tried to rise, pivoting for a counterattack, but Red’s foot was already braced, and she used her entire body to swing her leg underneath it, flipping it over her shoulder. Her other dagger, still held in her hand, came up in a sharp, clean movement aimed at the hologram’s neck. It paused just short, symbolic but precise enough to mark dominance. The room was silent for a heartbeat, then the soft simulated electronic hum of the defeated hologram died, flickering out like a candle snuffed in mid-flame.
Red didn’t pause to gloat. Finnick’s hologram had been the most dangerous precisely because she knew him. She had to be faster, smarter, sharper than anything the Capitol—or even the simulation—could anticipate. Her eyes darted to Johanna’s projection, slicing through its defenses with uncanny awareness, then angled toward Katniss Everdeen’s hologram, the girl of fire and arrows, who was now circling, cautious but deliberate. Her teeth clenched the dagger, hands slippery with simulated sweat, heart hammering as if she were truly back in the arena. She spun, twisting her body to deflect another arrow projected by Katniss’ hologram, rolling to her side in a low, animalistic motion that made her look like a shadow leaping over the floor. One dagger caught the arrow midair, flicking it harmlessly aside, while her other dagger stabbed downward in a fluid motion toward the hologram’s midsection, forcing it to backstep.
The room above was stunned. A few murmurs trickled through the gallery as Red’s performance—calculated, lethal, utterly devoid of hesitation—left every spectator in disbelief. Even the seasoned mentors shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They had seen tributes train, seen them practice, but this—this was predatory. This was a tribute turning their knowledge, their instinct, and their bond with a living, breathing competitor into a weapon.
And she wasn’t done.
Red flicked her wrist, spinning her dagger between her fingers, each movement a blur. She ducked another lunge from Johanna’s hologram, slid underneath its axe in a low sweep, grabbed the simulation’s weapon mid-spin, and sent it clattering across the floor. The hologram toppled, and she didn’t pause—her attention snapped back to Finnick’s defeated projection. She crouched slightly, eyes cold, calculating, and with a twist of her body, propelled herself upward. One dagger aimed at the hologram’s chest, the other pointing toward its knees, effectively immobilizing it. Her breath came in controlled bursts, and she allowed herself a brief glance toward the gallery. The Capitol elite’s faces were tight with surprise, some even pale, though none dared to move or speak. They had expected choreography, not the raw, lethal instinct that Red displayed. She was a wolf, a predator, a girl shaped by forest shadows and sharpened by violence, and she had just turned that instinct into art—a terrifying, beautiful art that left even her own allies catching their breath.
Red didn’t gloat. She let the holograms flicker and collapse in succession, each movement precise, confident, and cruelly efficient. The simulated Finnick lay at her feet—symbolically defeated, yes, but more importantly, it was a message: she and the Capitol’s golden boy were untouchable when it came to each other. Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, not in vulnerability, but in recognition of trust, of shared history, of a bond that no Capitol game could replicate.
When all the holograms finally fell at her hand, turning into orange dust before flickering away, she turned to the people above her and bowed. "But may the odds be ever in your favor, elites." She smiled, before walking out of the training room.