The second day of training had been grueling.
After hours of moving between stations—knot-tying, shelter-building, edible plants, and carefully restrained weapons practice—my muscles ached with the pleasant fatigue of productive work. But it was my mind that couldn't rest as I paced the luxurious confines of my Capitol bedroom late into the night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of the other tributes—the predatory confidence of the Careers, the quiet desperation of the weaker districts, Rue's watchful intelligence, and Madge's determined focus as she absorbed survival skills. Twenty-four of us would enter the arena. If the timeline proceeded as I knew it could, only one would emerge victorious.
Unless I implemented the star-crossed lovers troupe.
The mayor's elegant daughter and the blacksmith's protective son. Different worlds united by District 12.
What if we could use that narrative—expand it, shape it, make it so compelling that the Capitol audience couldn't bear to see it end?
Katniss and Peeta had survived together because of the "star-crossed lovers" story that had captivated the Capitol. It had been Peeta's genuine love and Haymitch's strategic manipulation that created the circumstances for the unprecedented rule change.
Could Madge and I replicate that? Create a love story so captivating that the Gamemakers would again change the rules to allow two victors from the same district?
The idea was manipulative, calculated—using emotion as strategy. But in a game designed to make children kill each other for entertainment, did moral qualms about emotional manipulation even matter?
I stopped pacing and made my decision. If there was even a chance it could save both our lives, I had to try.
I slipped out of my room and padded silently down the hallway. It was well past midnight, but a sliver of light showed beneath Haymitch's door. Our mentor kept erratic hours, fueled by alcohol and old nightmares.
I knocked softly.
"What?" came the irritated response.
"It's Jake. I need to talk to you."
A pause, then the sound of movement. The door opened to reveal Haymitch, surprisingly alert despite the glass in his hand. He assessed my expression and stepped aside.
"This better be something interesting," he muttered.
His room was cluttered with empty bottles and discarded clothing, but a small table near the window was covered with papers—notes about other tributes, strategy outlines, sponsor lists. Despite his perpetual inebriation, Haymitch was clearly working hard for us. Maybe because of his old attachment from his deceased teammate, Maylisee, Madge's aunt. Regrets probably—no, it was certain—that it still haunted him.
"Well?" he prompted, dropping into a chair and lazily gesturing for me to take the other. "What's so important it couldn't wait until morning?"
I sat, organizing my thoughts. "I have an idea for a strategy. Something that might help both Madge and me survive longer. Maybe even..." I hesitated, then committed. "Maybe even both make it out alive."
Haymitch's eyebrows rose. "Bold statement. The Games only have one victor, kid."
"Usually," I agreed. "But there are always exceptions to rules. If the audience wants something badly enough—if they're invested enough in a particular outcome—the Gamemakers might bend."
He studied me with new interest. "Go on."
"The star-crossed lovers angle," I said directly. "Madge and me. The mayor's daughter and the blacksmith's son, from different worlds within the same district, finding love in the shadow of almost certain death."
Haymitch's expression shifted from skepticism to consideration. "That's... actually not bad. The Capitol loves a tragic romance." He leaned forward. "But it would have to be convincing. The audience needs to believe it completely."
"I think we could make it work," I said. "They're already creating a narrative around us—you saw how they edited the Reaping footage. And during the chariot ride, when we held hands, the crowd went wild."
"True," he acknowledged. "But pretending to be in love is no small thing, especially when your life depends on its believability. It's not just about holding hands and making eyes at each other. The Capitol audience is sophisticated when it comes to entertainment—they can smell fakery."
"Then we won't fake it," I said. "Not entirely. Madge and I get along well. We trust each other, as much as anyone can in these circumstances. That's a foundation to build from."
Haymitch swirled the liquid in his glass, contemplating. "And you think Madge would agree to this? The mayor's daughter isn't known for public displays of emotion."
"I think she's practical enough to see the strategic value," I replied. "And brave enough to do what's necessary to survive."
"And you?" Haymitch's gaze sharpened. "Would this be entirely strategic for you, hammer boy?"
The question caught me off guard. I thought of Madge—her quiet strength, her unexpected insights, the way her blue eyes flashed with intelligence when she solved a problem. The genuine smile she sometimes allowed to break through her careful composure.
"I admire her," I said honestly. "That's not fake. The rest... does it matter, as long as it keeps us alive?"
Haymitch studied me for a long moment, then chuckled. "You're more calculating than you look. I like that." He set down his glass. "Let's say I agree this is worth trying. How do you propose to go about it?"
"Gradually," I said. "It can't seem sudden or calculated. Small gestures at first—sitting closer at meals, partnering during training, looking out for each other in ways that seem natural but noticeable. Build toward the interviews, where one of us—probably me—could make a more explicit statement."
"Not bad," Haymitch nodded approvingly. "The boy confessing his feelings for the girl he has no hope of being with long-term, given the Games. Very tragic. Very Capitol."
"Exactly," I agreed. "And if the audience invests in our story—if sponsors support us because they want to see where our 'romance' leads—then maybe, when it comes down to it..."
"Maybe the Gamemakers would allow two victors from the same district," Haymitch finished. "It's a long shot. Never been done before."
"But possible," I insisted. "If the story is compelling enough."
He considered this, then nodded slowly. "Possible. Not probable, but possible." He leaned back in his chair.
"You'll need to convince Madge first. This only works if you're both fully committed to the performance."
"I know. I'll talk to her tomorrow."
"Sooner is better," Haymitch advised. "You need time to make it seem natural before the interviews."
I stood to leave, but Haymitch's voice stopped me at the door.
"Jake," he said, unusually serious. "Be careful with this. Playing with emotions—even for survival—can get complicated. Lines blur. What starts as strategy can become..." He trailed off, something like regret flickering across his face.
"I understand," I said, though I wasn't sure I did, not completely.
"No, you don't," he replied. "But you will."
With that cryptic warning, he turned back to his glass, leaving me to slip out and return to my room.
Sleep remained elusive as I planned how to approach Madge. This strategy wouldn't work if she felt manipulated or coerced. It needed to be a mutual decision, a partnership in the truest sense.
Morning came too quickly. I showered and dressed in the training clothes laid out for me, then headed to breakfast earlier than usual. If luck was with me, I might catch Madge alone before Effie and Haymitch joined us.
Fortune favored me. Madge was already at the table, hair still damp from her shower, absently stirring a cup of tea as she gazed out at the Capitol skyline.
"Morning," I said, loading a plate with eggs, meat, and bread. Building strength for the arena remained a priority, regardless of what came of my plan.
She looked up, offering a small smile. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep much," I admitted, taking the seat beside her rather than across. A small first step.
She raised an eyebrow at my choice but made no comment.
"Madge," I began carefully, "I've been thinking about strategy. For the Games."
"As have I," she replied. "Though I doubt my plans are as developed as yours. You seem to have a natural instinct for this."
Well, I had the advantage of knowing how the games were played.
I took a bite of food, considering my approach. Direct seemed best. "What if there was a way for both of us to survive?"
Her teacup paused halfway to her lips. "What are you talking about? The Games only have one victor."
"Usually," I echoed my conversation with Haymitch. "But the Capitol might change the rules for the right... motivation."
She set down her cup, giving me her full attention. "Explain."
"The Capitol thrives on stories—narratives that captivate their audience. What if we gave them the ultimate story? Something so compelling they couldn't bear to see it end?"
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're suggesting we pretend to be in love."
Her quickness reminded me why I'd come to respect her so much in our short time together. "Yes. The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve. The mayor's daughter and the blacksmith's son, finding each other in the shadow of the Games."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. "That's... manipulative."
"Yes," I agreed. "But so are the Games themselves. We'd be using their system against them."
"And you think it would work? That they'd actually change the rules to allow two victors?"
I hesitated. I couldn't tell her I knew it had worked in another timeline without sounding insane. "I think it's possible. If the audience becomes invested enough in our story—if they can't bear to see one of us kill the other, or to see one of us live without the other—the Gamemakers might make an exception."
"That's a lot of 'ifs,'" she pointed out.
"True. But even if it doesn't lead to a rule change, it would almost certainly increase our sponsor support. The Capitol loves romance, especially tragic romance. They'd send gifts to keep the story going as long as possible."
Madge turned to look out the window again, her profile thoughtful against the morning light. "Haymitch knows about this idea?"
"I spoke to him last night. He thinks it could work, if we're convincing enough."
"And would we be?" she asked, turning back to me with piercing directness. "Convincing?"
The question carried layers of meaning. Could we perform such intimate emotions convincingly? Could we make the Capitol believe in a love that didn't exist?
"I think so," I said. "We already have a foundation—mutual respect, a growing trust. The rest..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "The rest would be performance, yes, but not entirely fabricated. I do admire you, Madge. Your intelligence, your adaptability, your quiet strength. Building on that wouldn't be as difficult as creating something from nothing."
A blush colored her cheeks at my words, but her eyes remained analytical. "So we'd be amplifying genuine positive regard into the appearance of romantic love."
"Essentially, yes."
She considered this, fingers tapping lightly against her teacup. "What would it entail, exactly? This performance?"
"It would start small. Sitting closer together, lingering glances, casual touches that suggest growing attachment. Building gradually toward the interviews, where one of us—probably me—would make a more explicit declaration."
"And in the arena?" she pressed. "Physical demonstrations of affection?"
Now it was my turn to feel heat rise to my face. "Only what we're both comfortable with. Hand-holding, perhaps embraces if the moment calls for it. Beyond that..." I shrugged. "We'd have to see how things developed. But nothing would happen without mutual agreement."
Madge was silent again, weighing the proposal. I could almost see her analytical mind processing the strategic advantages against the personal discomfort of such intimate performance.
"If it helps both of us survive longer," she said finally, "I'm willing to try." She fixed me with a serious gaze. "But we need clear boundaries. And honest communication throughout. I won't have this... strategy... become a source of additional stress between us."
Relief flooded through me. "Agreed. Complete transparency between us at all times."
"And we start small," she insisted. "Nothing dramatic until we've established a believable progression."
"Of course," I nodded. "Subtlety is key to making it convincing."
She extended her hand formally, as if sealing a business arrangement. "Then we have an agreement. Allies and... something more, as far as the Capitol is concerned."
I took her hand, but rather than shaking it, I turned it and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles—our first performance, though there was no audience yet.
"Practice," I explained with a small smile as her eyes widened.
To my surprise, she didn't pull away immediately. "I suppose we should," she agreed, a hint of humor in her voice that I hadn't heard before.
The elevator chimed, announcing Haymitch's arrival.
Madge gently withdrew her hand as our mentor entered, but he'd already seen the gesture and nodded approvingly.
"I see you two are getting along well this morning," he commented, making his way to the coffee pot. "Good. The partnership angle will serve you well in training today."
"We've decided to work together as much as possible today," Madge told him, her voice casual but with an underlying current only Haymitch and I would understand. "Show a united front from District Twelve."
"Smart," Haymitch approved, joining us at the table. "The other tributes will be watching for weaknesses, alliances, rivalries. Showing solidarity sets you apart immediately." He glanced between us. "Just remember what we discussed yesterday about keeping some skills private until your individual sessions with the Gamemakers."
"We will," I assured him.
Effie bustled in, resplendent in a bright orange ensemble that hurt my eyes at this early hour. "Good morning, tributes! Today is a big, big day! Second training day means the Gamemakers will be paying even closer attention, so be sure to make an impression!"
If only she knew what kind of impression we were planning to make.
As we rode the elevator down to the Training Center, I found myself standing closer to Madge than strictly necessary, my hand occasionally brushing against hers. She didn't pull away, though I noticed a slight tension in her shoulders—not uncomfortable, but aware. Conscious of this new dynamic between us.
The doors opened, revealing a training floor already busy with activity. Several tributes had arrived before us and were at various stations around the room. The Careers, predictably, had claimed the most lethal weapons and were demonstrating their skills with theatrical aggression.
"Where should we start?" Madge asked, her voice pitched to carry just far enough that nearby tributes could hear her deferring to me.
"Let's do Fire-starting again," I suggested. "It's fundamental, and I could use your steady hands."
The slight emphasis on admiration in my tone was subtle but deliberate. Madge caught it and responded with a small smile that could be interpreted as pleasure at the compliment.
Our performance started.
Throughout the morning, we worked side by side at various survival stations, gradually introducing elements of our strategy. When I showed Madge how to strike flint properly, I positioned myself slightly behind her, my arms encircling her as I guided her hands. At the knot-tying station, she leaned closer than necessary to examine a snare I'd constructed, her hair brushing my shoulder.
Small moments, nothing overt, but enough to create an impression of growing closeness.
I noticed other tributes watching us with varying degrees of interest. The Careers exchanged knowing smirks, clearly dismissing our partnership as a weakness. Rue observed us curiously from the climbing station, her perceptive eyes missing nothing. The boy from District 10, Dale, gave me an appraising nod when he caught me looking protectively toward Madge as she worked at the edible plants station.
By lunchtime, our subtle performance had established a foundation. When we took our trays to a table in the corner, I deliberately sat closer to Madge than I had the previous day, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we ate.
"Is it working?" she asked quietly, offering me a piece of bread in a gesture that seemed attentive to outside observers.
"I think so," I replied, accepting it with fingertip contact that lingered just a moment too long. "The District One girl hasn't stopped watching us since we sat down."
Madge's eyes flicked briefly toward Glimmer, then back to me. "Good. Better she speculate about our relationship than plan how to kill us."
"Exactly." I lowered my voice further. "You're doing well with this. Very natural."
"Theatre was part of my education," she revealed with a small shrug. "The mayor's daughter is expected to be accomplished in many areas."
"Another hidden talent," I noted with genuine admiration. "You're full of surprises, Madge Undersee."
Her smile this time felt less calculated, more genuine. "As are you, Jake Thompson. This whole strategy... it wasn't what I expected from you."
"Too manipulative?" I asked, suddenly concerned she was having second thoughts.
"No," she said thoughtfully. "More... cunning. Strategic. It's not a bad thing," she added, seeing my expression. "Just unexpected. There's more to you than the protective blacksmith's son."
Before I could respond, a small figure appeared beside our table. Rue stood there, tray in hand, watching us with cautious interest.
"Can I sit with you again?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.
I glanced at Madge, who nodded without hesitation. "Of course," I said, making room.
Rue settled beside us, her watchful eyes moving between Madge and me. After a moment, she said matter-of-factly, "You two are different today."
Madge nearly choked on her water, and I had to suppress a smile at her reaction. Rue missed nothing.
"How so?" I asked, curious about her perception.
Rue tilted her head, considering. "Yesterday you were allies. Today you're..." She searched for the word. "Closer."
Madge recovered her composure. "We've realized we work well together," she said, neither confirming nor denying Rue's observation.
Rue nodded, accepting this. "That's good. It's better not to be alone in the arena." A shadow passed over her young face. "Thresh says I should find allies, but not trust anyone completely."
"Thresh is smart," I said. "Trust has to be earned, especially in the Games."
"Have you earned each other's trust?" Rue asked directly, looking between us.
Madge and I exchanged glances. What had started as a calculated strategy suddenly felt more significant under Rue's innocent but penetrating question.
"We're working on it," Madge said softly.
The afternoon training continued our careful performance. At the camouflage station, I helped Madge blend paint on her arm, my fingers lingering on her skin. At the obstacle course, I offered her a hand over a challenging section, using it as an excuse to pull her slightly closer than necessary when she landed.
By the end of the day, I could tell our strategy was taking root—not just in the perceptions of other tributes, but in the subtle shift in our own interactions. The lines between performance and genuine connection were already beginning to blur, just as Haymitch had warned.
Back in our quarters that evening, Haymitch pulled us aside before dinner.
"Well played today," he said, his approval evident. "Subtle but noticeable. The Gamemakers were watching—I could tell from their reactions."
"Is that good or bad?" Madge asked.
"Good," Haymitch confirmed. "They're already looking for compelling narratives for the Games. You two have given them one to consider."
"What next?" I asked.
"Keep building gradually," he advised. "Tomorrow's your last training day before the private sessions. Use it to reinforce what you've started, but save any major developments for after the scores are announced. We want peak interest during the interviews."
After he left, Madge and I found ourselves alone in the sitting room. In private, we could drop the pretense, but I noticed neither of us moved to increase the distance between us where we sat on the couch.
"It's strange," she said after a moment of comfortable silence. "Performing like this."
"Strange how?" I asked.
She considered her answer carefully. "It's like... stepping into a role, but the boundaries of that role aren't clearly defined. Parts feel like pure performance, and other parts..." She trailed off, seemingly unsure how to continue.
"Feel more natural?" I suggested.
She nodded, looking relieved that I understood. "Yes. I didn't expect that."
"Haymitch warned me about it last night," I admitted. "He said the lines blur when you're playing with emotions, even for strategic reasons."
"Is that a problem?" she asked, her blue eyes searching mine. "For the strategy, I mean?"
I thought about it honestly. "I don't think so. If anything, it might make the performance more convincing. The best lies contain elements of truth, after all."
"Truth," she repeated softly, testing the word. "I'm not sure what's true anymore. These last few days have been so surreal—the Reaping, the Capitol, training for a fight to the death. Adding this pretend romance on top of everything else..." She shook her head. "It's hard to keep track of what's real and what's performance."
"Maybe we don't need to," I suggested. "Maybe, for now, we just focus on survival—on convincing the Capitol audience that our story is worth investing in. We can sort out the rest... after."
If there was an after for both of us. The unspoken qualification hung between us.
Madge nodded slowly. "That's practical. Focus on the immediate goal." She stood, smoothing her training clothes. "I should shower before dinner. All that camouflage paint..."
"Madge," I called as she reached the doorway. She turned back, questioning. "Thank you. For trusting me with this strategy. I know it's not easy."
"No," she agreed with a small smile. "But few worthwhile things are."
After she left, I remained on the couch, contemplating the day's developments. Our "romance" strategy was proceeding as planned—creating interest, establishing a narrative that might eventually save both our lives.
What I hadn't planned for was how natural some moments had felt. The warmth of Madge's hand in mine. The way she fit against me when I guided her through survival techniques. The genuine smiles that occasionally broke through our calculated performance.
Haymitch was right. The lines were already blurring between strategy and genuine connection. And that created both opportunities and complications I hadn't fully anticipated.
As I prepared for dinner, I touched the two symbols on my chest—the hammer and the mockingjay. Symbols of protection and rebellion, now being incorporated into a new narrative: the star-crossed lovers of District 12.
I just hoped the story we were creating would be compelling enough to change the rules of a game designed to have only one survivor.