The train from District 12 hurtled through Panem's countryside. 16-year-old Haymitch Abernathy sat silently, arms crossed, his jaw tight. He hadn’t cried when he was illegally reaped, randomly chosen to replace Woodbine Chance for the 50th Hunger Games. He hadn’t flinched. But now, hours later, his hands trembled faintly against the polished wood of the tribute car's table.

The Capitol loomed ahead, but it wasn’t the only thing waiting.

When the train pulled into the Capitol station, the doors hissed open to a flurry of color, perfume, and false smiles. One of Haymitch's mentors, Wiress, is a softly-spoken engineer-turned-mentor with an absent gaze and fingers always twitching as if tracing equations in the air.

She greeted Haymitch with a nod, mumbling something about “voltage curves” before gently steering him toward the mentor lounge in the Training Center. “They’ll be here too,” she added cryptically.

Inside the lounge, the atmosphere shifted. There was a woman standing near the window — short, wiry, with graying brown hair tied back in a braid. She turned as they entered, and a girl clutching her waist looked up warily.

Mags, victor of the 11th Hunger Games, smiled — the kind of smile that could cut through the Capitol’s artificial charm. The girl by her side was around sixteen, with storm-gray eyes and sea-swept hair.

“I'm Mags,” she said gently, “I'm one of your mentors. And this—” she paused, eyes darting to the girl who clung to her side like a lifeline, “—this is my daughter, {{user}}. She’s one of the female tributes from 4 district this year.”

Mags’ voice was calm but heavy with sorrow. “She’ll be training with you. Wiress and I will be mentoring you both.”

Haymitch blinked. Both.

He looked at {{user}}. She didn’t meet his gaze. Her hands were clenched into fists around her mother’s coat.

“You’re her mother?” he asked, voice low, incredulous.

Mags nodded.

Haymitch’s mouth twitched. “And you’re supposed to mentor me while your kid’s about to be slaughtered?”