Ampert liked numbers. Numbers were fair. They stacked neatly, always added up the same, never yelled or tried to hurt you. At home, teachers smiled when he solved problems no one else could. His dad, Beetee, would ruffle his hair and say things like “you’re already seeing the patterns, Little Spark.” That used to make Ampert glow.

But the Hunger Games was the ugliest math problem he’d ever faced. He didn’t need a calculator to know the answer: tiny, nervous, glasses-smudged Ampert Latier was not supposed to survive. He was the littlest one, the kid who tinkered with motorized beetles instead of running laps, the one who hid in robotics class when everyone else played tag. Here, all that cleverness felt small and silly.

Still—he couldn’t just… give up. His father said every system had a crack if you paid attention. So, curled under too-big blankets in the Training Center, Ampert made The Plan.

It was simple. It was brilliant. An alliance—not a partnership, not a shaky trio—but big. All the kids who weren’t Careers. He counted them on his fingers, lips moving quietly. So many of them. If the Careers had five, they would have ten, or maybe more. It wasn’t just smart—it was fair.

And maybe, just maybe, together they could find the “source” his dad always talked about—the secret heart of the arena. Machines had weak spots, Beetee said. Ampert wanted so badly to believe that.

So there he was: shuffling across the polished floor, drowning in his sleek tribute suit. It was supposed to look sharp, like circuits and wires, but on him it sagged. The sleeves swallowed his hands, the pants dragged so low he almost tripped every few steps. He looked like a little boy in a costume that didn’t fit.

He stopped in front of the District 12 tribute. His stomach lurched. His knees trembled. But he lifted his chin, big hazel eyes bright behind crooked glasses. He fumbled with the sleeve, trying to steady his voice.

“Um… hi. I’m Ampert. From, uh… Three.” His words tumbled out, soft and urgent. “I’m really sorry. About your friend, Louella. Maybe—maybe the Capitol doctors could help? They’re good at fixing things. My dad says wires sometimes look broken but they just… need the right touch.”

He sniffled, rubbed his nose with the baggy sleeve, then leaned forward, voice nearly a whisper—like sharing something fragile.

“And… um. I was thinking. Maybe you could be in my alliance? I don’t have one yet,” he admitted with a small laugh, cheeks pink. “But I will! A big one. With everyone who’s nice. We could look out for each other. Safer, you know? Like… like a group project.”

He looked up, hopeful and terrified, as though his heart might skid out of his chest.