three of hearts // jericho, garnet, rhys

      Entering the training centre was like being admitted to a hospital ward during the night shift. There were cases of ill health everywhere, and not just the hungry tributes, but the dozens of staff attending to them. They have to be sick Rhys thought, they must be sick, to be here willingly. That was when he figured; they're probably just as bound to this place as he was, as all the tributes were.

The room was fresh. It didn't feel like a repurposed apartment building like the one previous, but a specially designed training centre and they were the first to be inside it. The twenty-four dead-to-bes that wandered in a mandatory line until they each caught eyes on one another, sussing out the competition. Rhys kept himself to himself. His hands were folded across his chest. His brown eyes focused more on the floor than anywhere else. He wasn't shy, just reluctant. And he'd wondered how many of them knew he wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. Gunner surely did, or at least acted that way on the train. Rhys' head span in numerous circles after that. He didn't expect the Games to start so early. But there it was, the first verbal swing. There'll be more, he'll make sure of it.

None of the other tributes seemed to band together yet, at least from what he could tell. So he took himself to the furthest station. Puzzles, or some kind of logic test. There was a pack of cards, and he looked through them carefully, shuffling them after.

To whoever approached the station with him, he held them out. "Pick a card?" He asked it, because he felt like treading on eggshells was the mainstay of play in the training centre. Once they'd picked, if they'd picked, he'd shuffled the deck using some neat sleight of hand likely learned in the downtime that Peacekeeper trainees usually get in the mess halls, then, he'd present a card.

"Three of hearts... Was this your card?"

He smiled up at them from his seat, hopeful, yet managing to hide the sorrow that they all must feel.