Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“ – really don’t see the point,” grumbles Johanna.

I find myself tuning in and out of the conversation at hand. Johanna and Beetee are hotly contesting the inclusion of the Tour of Remembrance into the Liberation celebrations.

Peeta is buried in his sketchbook, opting between hues of pinks, oranges and yellows. It’s a colorful, optimistic palette – today is a good day. Painting and baking. This is how I gage his mood, more often than I care to admit.

But I really don’t want to think about us today.

I hope that Greasy Sae has remembered to feed Buttercup while I’m gone.

“Well, I think we should vote on it,” asks Beetee.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Right, because that’s worked so well in the past.”

In this moment, I want to remind Johanna that she voted in favor of the Capitol Games.

However, I know this would not go down well, so I stay silent.

Besides, so did I.

“I know that President Paylor encourages it,” says Beetee.

Enobaria fixes him with a peculiar look. “And why is that?”

“She thinks it will be healthy for us.”

Johanna snorts. Haymitch, who has remained silent, scoffs loudly.

“Healthy. That’s us alright, the picture of health,” he laughs, taking a swig from his flask.

Annie speaks up, her voice trembling. “Well, I want to remember them. Not just Finnick and Mags, but the others. And the ones who… who…”

“Didn’t make it back,” Johanna finishes and Annie moans, burying her face in her hands.

Another vaguely familiar victor from District 4 wraps his arm around Annie and shakes his head.

“Nice one, Jo.”

She shrugs in response.

It’s Annie’s point that gets to me most and I find myself speaking up.

“I think it’s a good idea.”

The rest of the room stares at me.

“Well,” I say, a little too defensively. “I didn’t know the other victors like you did. Not personally. And considering a lot of them died because of me, you could say I owe them.”

Enobaria’s mouth tightens. “I’m glad to hear you say it, Everdeen.”

Johanna throws her hands up. “Oh, well, if the Mocking-girl On Fire deems it so, who are the rest of us to defy her?”

I shoot her daggers, which she returns with a grin.

“So, is it decided?” Beetee asks.

The rest of the room mumbles consent.

“Good. Well, as it happens, I began some research – “

Johanna mutters an expletive.

“– and I think it would be good to begin as soon as we can. Get ahead of the tour, so to speak.”

I’m a little overwhelmed. “Alright. Where do we start?”

Beetee looks over at Enobaria, whose face lights up with her bright, fanged smile.

Chapter Text

I open my eyes.

It's as if my world is smothered in pitch, bar the playful lines of yellow-white light peeking through the cracked ceiling. They've been my sole concept of time. I've counted two suns and a moon since I was brought here.

I've fallen asleep in the same position as a new-born babe, curled up as small as I can make himself – my long, muscular frame doesn't allow for small enclosures such as these. My chin and knees are tucked into my chest, the edges of my feet tracing the soft stone floor.

My muscles and back ache painfully, but I dare not raise an objection to the guards that stand without. Though their faces are hidden and their attire the familiar white of the Peacekeepers, their forms are different. One is lanky and high-pitched, the other stout with a rumbling voice.

I heard a woman complain to them one night in a high, shrill voice. One of the guards had seen to her.

After that, I decided it was in my best interests to not interfere with their fun.

With some effort, I push myself up from the floor and look around.

Nothing has changed. Though my sight is limited, I've felt my way around this miserable accommodation upon arrival using nothing but my touch. It's a matchbox cell, hewed from stone and straw and dirt. Taller than it is long, it enforces on its occupant total discomfort, and I often find myself sitting straight-backed against the wall, peering out into nothing and saying less than I see.

The roof is damp and dripping, to a point where it frays my nerves. The occasional vermin nibbles at my skin, day and night. If the guards didn't keep me provisioned with water and bread, I would gladly have eaten the rats. There isn't much I can do with the earthworms.

Upon waking, the first thing that always strikes me is the smell – urine and feces, vomit and sweat, all mingled together into a hideously pervasive stench. It attacks my nostrils and I instinctively let out a retch of disgust.

I crawl towards the wall, hands fumbling for the small slit I know is in the roughly cut concrete behind me. It's a feeble excuse for a window, but it'll do.

I press my face to the cool plaster, trying desperately to breathe in a sliver of fresh air.

Next come the sounds.

It's a gross, pathetic motley of whimpering and weeping, pleading and prayers. Each of them all have their own methods of keeping the madness at bay here – from salacious words spoken through dry, cracked lips to tear-stained faces covered in grime.

I feel that I should pity them, console them even, but I feel even more strongly that they all have earned their place in this kennel.

We are being punished, turncoats and rebel-spawn and neutralists alike.

The whispers of sedition had existed for as long as I can remember.

The hateful, gaunt faces of the quarriers and masons and builders, with their broken backs and missing limbs. The hundreds of families that lost their sons and daughters to the building of another extravagant pet project funded by the Capitol. The regime that turned a blind eye to the raids and rapes committed in the small mountain villages, the disappearance of civilians who expressed criticism of their totalitarian government.

The people were being pushed around by a Capitol that had once cared for them so very much.

Until District 13 pushed back.

It didn't take long for the rest of the country to rise up, bear arms and commit countless atrocities in the name of reformation.

In District 4, rebel submarines demolished unassuming Capitol cruise boats.

The crops were set ablaze in District 11 and the district burned red and orange for weeks, the smoking fields visible from miles and miles away.

Entire buildings in District 8 were razed to the ground, crushing civilians, Peacekeepers and soldiers alike.

Hovercraft engineers and pilots of District 6 led air bombings on the Capitol, hijacking trains to sneak vanguards of soldiers beyond the district's perimeter.

And thus, the war had begun.

District 2 had been the most loyal, the most supportive, the most dedicated to maintaining the Capitol's hold on power. My family - the Folami family – mother, father, my elder brother and I – had been advocates for the Capitol yet remained confident that a compromise could be reached.

However, the Capitol did not believe in negotiating with terrorists, and the rebels had come too far to turn back now.

Marbletown, the district's largest commune, was half-city and half-barracks and the hub of all military action. It was also home to the district's impenetrable Mountain Fortress, or the Fort as the locals called her – she was the pride of the district and nigh impossible to breach externally.

It was there, on the rocky slopes of the Fort, that the rebels fought and shot and screamed and bled and died. Unable to breach the district – and in turn the Capitol – their corpses littered the mountainside, carrion for the crows and lions that flew and skulked through the skies and caves.

Their attempt to infiltrate the Mountain Fortress had failed and their people had paid the price.

Some rebels ran, with most of them caught and put to death. A handful chose to brave the barren hills and risk the unbearable thirst, razor-sharp rocks and rock-path tribes than own up to what they had done, scourge their dishonor and face the noose with their conscience cleansed.

District 2 was not cruel, they understood that even a traitor was permitted their rites, and for those who confessed their treason, an unmarked grave was the best one could hope for.

The Capitol had been less forgiving. The rebel leaders had been publicly humiliated, flogged and hanged, their bloated bodies tied up around the districts, pockets of flies gathering on the white-blue skin, purple lips parted in death.

Once I had no more home to go to and nothing to fight for, I made my way to the square in Marbletown for the reaping. I refused to be dragged there as if I was a child. I stumbled past dead bodies, half a corpse myself, unable to tear my gaze away from all the death.

The road was lined with the remains of those who had died fleeing or accessing the city. They had died of infection, dehydration, untreated wounds. They had been my friendly neighbors, boisterous classmates, encouraging teachers.

I saw my father's peers, my mother's confidantes, round-cheeked girls, ruffled-haired boys.

But that had been another time – they had all of them proven to be traitors, their flames of rebellion extinguished at long last.

And Thirteen was destroyed, obliterated into nothing more than a smoking husk.

The war was over, and the Capitol had won.

This sense of victory did not extend to the districts. The new regime had come for us all, its hammer of justice swift with retribution as it built the foundations of the new Panem.

In the darkness of my cell, the memories begin to flood back.

***

"Hello, little one," the man purred.

His face was heavily scarred with a stained eye patch and a mouth full of yellow teeth. The only visible eye was black as coal and as jarring as his scars. "Come out now. Don't be scared. We're here to recruit you."

Telemachus had been cowering under his bed in the cottage he'd called home, his knees shaking, his bottom lip quivering. He could feel his heartbeat like thunder in his ears, his ragged breathing a storm. The stranger had dragged him out from his hiding place by his hair, kicking and screaming and biting, until a swift punch to the face silenced him.

"He's old enough. Put him with the other trainees," the scarred man said.

He was thrown into a wooden cart that smelled of dung and sheep, next to three boys who stared blankly ahead of them, their eyes red, their rags – clothes – covered in filth.

Telemachus' last memories of his home were his mother screaming his name to the whoops and grunts and wolf whistles of a handful of strange men. Her cries echoed in the valley around her, bouncing back each time with a sickening clarity as Telemachus' small cottage home disappeared, the sound of pillage faded, and the summer night fell still.

***

A deep, gravelly voice drag me from my thoughts.

"Oi, you. On your feet."

I stare out at the short, robust human shape in front of me. It's faceless, anonymous – a shadow, and nothing more.

But the shadow has given me a command, and a good soldier obeys.

I rock back, then forth, and on to my knees. I try to stand, but my legs collapse from beneath me instantly as the blood comes rushing back into my legs. It's a strange feeling, as if I'm being pricked by sharp pins across the affected flesh.

The voice grunts. "I said stand up, properly, or you'll end up not needing those legs after all."

They don't need to threaten me. I rise, forced to stoop and arch my back in order to fit within the confines of the cell. I look up at the shadow through hooded eyes, awaiting his next order.
Another, higher voice squeaks out from further down.

"Put on your torch. I wanna get a good look at him. You know, before."

There's the sound of helmets being removed and a burst of brightness. I squint at the sudden light, raising my hand to block it out.

The men's gaze lingers on me, beginning at my feet and running all the way to my face, where the curiosity ends and gives way to judgement – and something else, something I can't put my finger on.

In the light of my torch, I can get a closer look at my captors, the shadows that have now taken physical form.

The first, Stout, has beetle-black eyes and a poor attempt at facial hair, with the result being a patchy fuzz that covers his paunchy face and both of his chins. His frown lines are etched with dust. With crow's feet and dimples, he looks older - far older - than I had initially suspected.

Squeak, the second Peacekeeper, seemed to be my age with a long neck, sharp nose and teeth too big for his mouth. His skin is red, blotchy and dotted with pimples and whiteheads. There's a desperation in his manner, an urgency, that suggests he's eager to please and impress those around him.

I continue to glare through the bars of my cell at the guards.

"Does he talk?" asks Stout, striding over to the cage and folding his arms.

Squeak shakes his head. "No. Nothing since the Games."

"Maybe he's in shock."

Stout reaches into his pocket and removes from it a square of chocolate.

I stare at it.

Even before, chocolate has been an untouchable delicacy. It existed only behind the colourful, illustrated windows of the district confectionery in the market-town of Sunfair. The only patrons it had were those who could afford to spend money on caramels and lollipops, largely relying on visiting Capitol holidaymakers.

It was now just another mound of rubble, blown to pieces in the name of Panem.

"You know what this is?" Stout asks, scoffing as he tosses the chocolate into his mouth and chews on it noisily.

He swallows, shuts his eyes in pleasure, then opens them again to leer down at me.

"Stand up straight."

I try, but as I do, the strain on my back and neck prove too much and I wince in pain.

Stout's face twists. "Are you deaf? Get up!"

***

"I said, get up!"

;A man with a scraggly black beard swung at Telemachus, landing a blow to his right cheek.

"I – I can't." The little boy stared at the metal blade in front of him.

A wild dog lying beneath him whined piteously, its left foreleg made a bloody mess by the hidden trap it had strayed unwittingly into.

It was afraid, impossibly afraid. Telemachus understood it. He pitied it.

The older man knelt to meet him.

"You use that sword, or I'll give it to someone else to wipe your ass with."

Telemachus nodded. He dug his feet into the earth, locked his knees and lifted the steel as high as he could, his arms quivering as he held it tightly by the hilt.

The metal was heavy and unfamiliar in his twelve-year-old hands.

"Now, soldier."

He closed his eyes and brought the knife down.

***

As reality takes me, I'm met with the whooping guffaws and thunderstorm laughter of the guards.

It goes on and on and on, and I desperately want it to stop. It's loud, far too loud, and I want the uninterrupted silence of my cell back.

I lower my head, trying to push the noise out as far as I can.

Then comes the sound of more footsteps, many more, and a third voice. It is older, more dignified.

"What are you doing?"

I look out into the darkness. The two guards have fallen silent, one with his head bowed in embarrassment and the other stiff and twitching nervously.

The origin of the third voice is a mystery, but it has an air of authority and assurance about it. It's a voice that demands respect and does not suffer fools.

I like that. My father was that way.

"You. The keys."

There's a fumbling of padded gloves and the rattling of keys. The high-pitched voice mutters numerous apologies. After a dull metal 'clunk', the padlock to the cell's door detaches with a sharp, satisfying click. The cage swings open invitingly, teasingly.

And I don't move a muscle.

With a sigh, a middle-aged man steps into the light of the guard's torch.

He has a shaved head, crooked nose and round, icy-blue eyes. His brow is heavy, and his lower jaw sags, reminiscent of the hounds that the police force used to scent-track drugs and explosives. A tattoo of a serpent begins under his right eye, its tail winding across his cheek and down the back of his neck. He wears his Peacekeeper white, though his uniform is adorned with badges in an array of colours – plum, navy, dark green, crimson and many more.

He must be a commander. My respect for the man rises instantly.

"Hello, Telemachus. My name is Mascazel. I am here to be your escort, by order of President Tigellinus Thorn."

At the mention of the President's name, I look at Mascazel, curious.

Tigellinus Thorn is a name belonging to a man known throughout Panem, and someone of semi-iconic status in District 2.

Before the Dark Days, he had been the head of the Capitol's military, a lieutenant and a war hero. His tactics had kept the rebel forces at bay within the inner districts and his decision to reinforce and pour his defensive strategy into the Fort led to the eventual quell of the revolution. A born orator, he had succeeded his predecessor after a landslide vote among the heads of the loyalist movement in each district – or so I heard.

Mascazel pulls his lips together in a piteous expression. "Please, Mr. Folami. Do not harbour under the illusion that this is a request."

He extends his hand and I see that it's splashed with burns, the skin red and leathery, more than one fingernail missing.

I look back up into the man's eyes. They're cold and apathetic, but hide no lies.

I've been given my orders.

Slowly, I begin to move. The sensation of needles in my legs has dissipated, but they now feel like slabs of cement, separate from my own body – I see them go, one foot in front of the other, but I can't associate them as belonging to me.

Once I emerge from the cell, the older man lowers his torch and briskly steps aside to the left.

Squeak and Stout stand to his right, their fingers brushing up against the thick, clunky handguns secured tightly to their belts.

They are frightened of me, I realize.

I look at them, one after the other. The iron and threats that had once been used to restrain me have gone - and now their faces are contorted with fear, their bodies half-frozen in a sudden rush of adrenaline.

Their terror passes across the room, from them to me.

Something stirs within me, a sleeping beast, ravenous and angry.

It's not unfamiliar.

"Follow me, Telemachus," orders Mascazel, turning on his heel.

I do.

***

"Follow me," grunted the regiment commander, motioning his men forward with a wave of his hand.

Telemachus felt the surge of movement around him, detaching himself from the blood-curdling keening of the wounded rebels and the thick, black smoke that slithered through the street as if it were an enormous, hungry serpent.

He could feel himself sweating profusely, hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his breath coming short and fast through the heat of his helmet. His squad, Capital-208, were charged with removing the latest influx of rebel factions within the district's largest city.

Telemachus hastily located the magazine of his assault rifle and refilled it with cartridges, his gloved fingers making the action far clumsier than it ought to have been.

"Keep moving, eyes open and stay together!"

The regiment moved inward into Marbletown, weaving through the intricate alleyways and side-streets that had made the city's design so widely renowned throughout all Panem.

Telemachus ducked under low-sweeping shopfronts, stumbled over and sidled around titanic chunks of debris, pulled himself free from the grasp of wailing women and children, and focused on his commander's voice, the sole source of rationale in the midst of the chaos.

Before long, they swept out into an open clearing near the perimeter of the city's second level. There was neither sight nor sound of another soul among them in the open marble courtyard, unlike the hellish landscape of the city's outer ring through which they had just traveled.

As his fellow men rushed forward, Telemachus' found himself hesitating, and he fell back.

His commander turned around and raised his gruff, authoritative voice to a shout.

"Folami! What are you –"

There was a flare of red and white, a wave of sound and Telemachus felt himself flying.

***

The blinding light of my past is swiftly replaced by the murky darkness of the present – the Capitol's catacombs.

The long, winding damp corridors were built long ago, before the metropolis had grown bloated and congested, its people ridiculed by their district brethren for their silly, airy accents. The first builders began with the halls and cells near the surface where I was imprisoned, but future generations had dug deeper, for reasons unknown. There were some who insisted that the catacombs led out of the Capitol and into the districts. A few claimed they had been made for the looting of buried treasure. Others argue that it was a practical solution to a growing problem – there was always more room required for prisoners. The more eccentric characters would insist that a great, cavernous city had been constructed beneath their own and a man-eating army was being built beneath their feet, one that would one day come back to scour them all and reclaim their own land for themselves.

Regardless of the reason behind their creation, the catacombs were a spider's web below what remained of the central Capitol, notoriously complex with numerous cross overs and false ends. Indeed, it would not be incorrect to describe them as a labyrinth more so than catacombs, for much of it is unexplored. To issue a search team would cost more money, induce more labor and take more time than any government had considered worthy. The upper levels continue to be used for the housing and containment of high-priority prisoners – malcontents, progressives, suspected rebels, outspoken personalities, any citizen who had expressed disagreement with the regime had found themselves here, with very few returning.

Most of them deserved it.

The commander's heavy breathing and grinding voice interrupts my thoughts as he attempts to fill up the silence between us.

"Your family must be proud of you."

I think of them. My parents – mother, shy and matronly, the soothing influence in a houseful of passionate men – my father, quiet and imposing, who ran his house with an iron fist. I can almost see them, their faces swimming before my eyes - mother's doe-like eyes and gentle expression. Father's strong jaw and tight-lipped smile.

And in the space of a moment, they're gone, leaving me alone with Mascazel in the stairwell.

We continue to climb, and I continue to think.
I try not to concern myself with it, of the weakness that runs through my blood, but the more furiously I try to suppress my anger the more excruciating it becomes.

It all began with my elder brother, the firstborn Folami, Telegonus. He was a brooding, careless child whose rough-and-tumble nature led him to scraps with his peers.

I would clutch my mother's apron and watch in admiration as my father berated a bruised, beat-up Telegonus who looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

Afterwards, he would steal me into a corner and tell me the full details of the match.

Despite our wildly conflicting dispositions, Telegonus and I had one another's backs through thick and thin. If one of us fell short, the other pulled their weight to overcompensate. Had there been a lie told, the other would fabricate accordingly. We played wing-man for one another's romantic interests (though this seemed to largely be for Gon, who was in the throes of adolescence). It seemed that, for the longest time, we were the best of friends and nothing had tested their resolve.

We were a perfect picture of what a good district family ought to be.

Until.

Telegonus, in his brash, altruistic form – began to look around him and see how things could be better. It began with our father – he was older, less fit, and could not work the same hours with the same enthusiasm as he once did. He lived in a state of fear of the Capitol's reaction if he and his men did not meet their quotas.

As he ventured outside his home, Gon learned of the injustice, the sickness, the poverty, the violence that accumulated in the city by the Peacekeeper's brute force and random searches. He discovered the secret hangings and gang rapes in the Bare Forests, the arrests and illegalities in the inns of Sunfair and across all of Tyne.

My brother had begun to feel, for the first time, that the Capitol could be wrong.

This did not bode well with the Folami tradition of faultless, unshakable patriotism.

After a blaring argument and physical fallout, he was banished from our home, his name forbidden to be spoken. I found himself resenting – no, detesting – my brother and his decision to support the newly founded District 2 rebellion in favor of his family. We had fed him, loved him, supported him. Had the rebels done that?

As the other districts took up arms, all able-bodied boys and men aged twelve and above were required to join the Capitol-2 military forces. Any person who resisted would be committing treason and face imprisonment, awaiting execution.

I desperately wanted to join the war effort and prove to my family that they had a son that was loyal to them. And so I sneaked out one morning to enlist.

But, at a scrawny eight years old and not considered fit for battle, I was turned away.

Furious, I returned home, intent on seeking out another form of service, only to find my mother weeping at the table.

My father had left that morning to find me, and had not returned since.

If Telegonus had never left, I would not have tried so desperately to prove myself. My father would not have sought me out, and he would never have disappeared.
It was all his fault.

Then I was taken, and in the end, I never discovered what became of my father, mother, or brother.

The thin, claustrophobic staircases begin to widen. Mascazel leads us here and there, left and right, up and down, through archways and passages.

I don't recognize this path. I had not been brought to my old cell this way. The walls, once devoid of naught but torches, begin to sport glass-stained windows through which radiant beams of colourful light burst. I squint and growl in response to the sudden change in environment.

Mascazel chuckles derisively as he pulls up short in front of a large set of oaken doors that bear the seal of Panem, embedded into their wooden panels.

I bow my head, press my forefinger and thumb together, touch them to my lips, and make a circular motion across my forehead, mouth and heart. The foreman's cross, we call it. It's a sign to express that I am devoted to my country in my thoughts, in my words and in my soul. It has always been a sign of respect for us. And though its use has waned across the decades, the founding families of District 2 – Folami, Slade, Flint, Mason – have insisted on preserving custom by continuance.

Mascazel moves to open the door, pauses, and turns to me.

"Are you ready?"

***

"Are you ready?"

The soft, tired voice came from a girl, her dark hair matted with filth and lice, the lines of her face exacerbated with grime and sweat.

Telemachus could see that she had traditional District 2 features – dark hair and eyes, sallow skin, a heavy brow. She clung to the rusted bars of her cell, her lips chapped, her knuckles white. She was the grandniece of a known district rebel and had not stopped attempting to engage with Telemachus since the Reaping.

He lifted his head. "Ready for what?"

The girl licked her lips. "For tomorrow. You're going to fight, aren't you?"

Telemachus said nothing, and the girl's tone grew more urgent.

"We could work together, you know. You and me. Make sure the winner is from Two."

A burst of hoarse, dry laughter escaped Telemachus. He leaned in the direction of the girl.

"I don't work with traitors," he told her, the anger in his voice palpable.

***

I nod and Mascazel pushes open the doors.

It's like nothing I've ever seen before – an airy, grand, lavish entrance hall, flooded with light and adorned with a plethora of interior decorations. A crystal candelabra swings from the ceiling, fine works of art adorn the printed walls, and a sweeping imperial staircase leads to the upper floor.

Beyond that, it sports ceramic vases of colourful, exotic plants, transparent bowls of ripe, luscious fruit, busts and gold-inlaid quotes of presidents past.

The entire room is aesthetically exceptional. I feel immediately out of place.

"Where are we?"

It's the first time I've spoken in days. Mascazel shoots me a sharp look of surprise.

"You are in the manse of President Thorn." He clears his throat. "Follow me. You have an appointment."

Mascazel takes me up the winding left-hand stair, and I run my hand along the smooth, cold maple bannister. The wood originated in the lumber district, no doubt, but District 2 has its own sugar maple trees that produce a watery, sweet sap that can be turned into syrup once boiled. I tried it once, long ago. The memory leads to an acute stinging feeling in the pit of my stomach and so I banish the thought from my mind.

Instead, I begin to wonder what President Thorn could possibly want with me.

I've done all that I can for my homeland, district and nation. Is the point of this meeting to thank me for my service? If that's the case, why me? There has been thousands of soldiers, throughout Panem – just like me – who have laid their lives on the line to protect everything that Thorn and his administration stand for.

Or, if not for reasons of gratitude, am I to be further punished for the treachery of my brother's acts? I had nothing to do with his decision.

Still, the blood of a traitor runs in my veins, and if left unchecked could be disastrous. No son or daughter of mine can replicate Gon's path, but the lingering fear of a dissident, extremist Folami on a distant branch of their family tree petrifies me more than I care to admit.

Unless…

At the top of the staircase, we pass an ornate hanging mirror.

From out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my reflection.

I'm covered in blood.

***

There was blood everywhere.

In his mouth and eyes, on his skin, between his fingers. It drenched his plain brown tunic.

Corpses of district children littered the amphitheatre, wide-eyed and gaping and rotting. Telemachus couldn't hear himself think over the deafening roar of the Capitol spectators.

In the distance, trumpets blared, loud and shrill. A voice rang out across the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, your Victor... Telemachus Folami!"

Telemachus' grip loosened on the hilt of his long-sword and he collapsed to his knees.

A Peacekeeper pulled him to his feet, and led him from the battle ground, half-dazed, as the crowd cheered his name, waving their hands and stamping their feet.

***

I'm filthy, caked in dirt and sweat and gods knows what else.

The blood on my skin and clothes has dried, some of it beginning to crust and peel. On my tunic, it's darker, splattered in almost artistic patterns.

Who did it belong to? The faces are blurred together, the names unfamiliar and lost to the past.

Mascazel takes me down one last hall to a single, white door with a brass handle.

"President Thorn is waiting for you," he says flatly.

I take a moment to myself, then open the door gently and step inside.

The President's showroom is not what I expected. It has an intimate, earthier ambiance than the rest of the pristine mansion. The colours range from deep, scorched reds to rich, woody browns, encapsulated by the roaring fire that burns on a log-fuelled hearth. Its black mantle seems to be shimmering in the dancing flames.

Next to the fireplace lies a pair of leather wing-back armchairs, one of which is empty.

In the other, sits the President of Panem, Tigellinus Thorn.

For some reason, I expected an older, moodier man. Yet despite his grey-speckled beard, forehead wrinkles and walrus moustache, Thorn has a young man's face with laugh lines and sparkling brown eyes.

It surprises me to see a war veteran so full of gusto, as Thorn proves to be spirited and animate, bursting into a wide smile as I approach him.

Thorn takes my hand in his, shaking it vigorously.

"Telemachus! It's a pleasure to meet you at last, although I daresay we've both looked better." Thorn lets out a hearty laugh at his own wit. "Please, take a seat."

He motions to the spare seat with his free hand, and I sit down promptly.

The President leans back in his own chair, surveying me with a degree of interest.

"Before we begin, I want to congratulate you on a truly spectacular victory."

I clear my throat. "I can't – I don't remember much of it."

Thorn raises his eyebrows. "Is that so? Why is that?"

"I don't know. I suppose I just… got it over with."

There's a tense silence.

Thorn shifts in his seat, cocking his head and looking at me curiously.

"You must have so many questions."

I move to speak, hesitate, and then find his voice.

"Are you going to punish me?"

Thorn looks positively quizzical, then amused, and shakes his head with great vigour.

"Punish you? Gods, no. What gave you that impression? Has Commander Mascazel been forceful?"

"I had to be taken into custody after the arena."

"For your own protection," says Thorn swiftly. "I am afraid that a small portion of the Capitol citizenry does not support rewarding the districts in any way, shape or form after everything that has happened. This, unfortunately, extends to The Hunger Games, and the duties of the position that you have recently assumed."

"My… position?"

"As victor," says Thorn.

"Victor." The word is strange on my lips. "And what are my duties, exactly?"

I feel childish as soon as I've said it.

Thorn sighs, stands up and moves to the mantle, facing away.

"That's a substantial question, one to which I fear I cannot give you a definitive answer. I often ask myself just that – what does it mean to have influence, to be a leader? Is it the ability to defeat all your enemies until there is none left to threaten everything you hold dear? To stare fear and death in the eye so that your people don't have to? Or does it lie in the simplicity in refusing to give up, even when the odds are not in your favor?"

He turns back to me. His speech is measured, posture upright, expression serious.

For the first time, I see the man who had led the Capitol forces forward.

"I want to put that question back to you. What does Telemachus think it means?"

The speed of my answer surprises us both.

"It means making the tough choices," I say. "Having to do the right thing, no matter what."

It was what my father would have said. I know that much.

President Thorn's lips curve upward into a satisfied smile.

"Yes, Telemachus. I think so too."

He leaves the mantle and sidles over to the windowsill, surveying what is beyond.

"I will be short with you," he says, and the mood of the room changes instantly.

"Panem is on the brink of self-destruction. District 13 has been obliterated – nothing remains but a graveyard of rubble and toxic fumes. We are starting again from the ground up and a single tremor in our resolve can undo whatever progress we make. The wounds of war are still fresh in the public's mind – you couldn't possibly know this, but there are a lot of angry people out there."

I furrow my brow in confusion. "But the rebels were defeated. People aren't happy with that?"

"For the most part yes, they are. However, the next decade – goodness, decades – will be most telling. We cannot do nothing and act surprised if the districts slide back into dissent."

"That can't happen," I say instantly.

He moves over to me, retaking his seat and rubbing his temple as if it pains him.

"No, it can't. The Hunger Games are essential in this regard. Do you know why?"

I say nothing, not wanting to provide an incorrect answer.

"Don't fret – politics is complex and layered at the best of times. You see, Telemachus, the Games provide a medium to soothe the public's outrage, while simultaneously providing minimal bloodshed... and a sense of hope."

"But sir, forgive me, I can vouch for District 2, but the other districts… won't this anger them further?"

Thorn shakes his head. "I – that is to say, we – don't think so. To win The Hunger Games allows a prospect of opportunity for upstanding, talented district children such as yourself to prove their worth to the nation."

Although I do not consider myself to be a child, I know my place and do not contradict the President.

"You cannot imagine the bounties, the recognition. The kind that is now yours, Telemachus. Glories and riches eternal. Food and prosperity to a victor's district throughout the duration of their reign. It will boost morale, drive work productivity. This is a good thing."

I feel an elation in my chest.

Thorn moves in closer.

"Believe me, Telemachus, when I tell you that we do not want to unleash an endless barrage of hatred and pain upon the districts. I am not a cruel man. As a nation, we can move forward in understanding and forgiveness, enriching the lives of those who once wronged us while remembering a past never to be repeated. The Hunger Games will aid us in achieving that.

We just want to make a better world, Telemachus. A better Panem.

Do we have your support in this?" He smiles. "We could do with a victor on our side."

I don't hesitate.

"Of course, sir. You can trust me."

Thorn placed his hand on my shoulder. "I don't doubt it, soldier."

In that moment, I feel a rush of belonging and, at last, I understand my purpose.

I was born to be the champion to a cause that I know I will never lose faith in; myself, my country and my people.

I did not pass through blood and bullets and fire for nothing.

I will raze a district to the ground if it meant protecting mine, and the more that I think about, the fiercer my intent to provide a district to be proud of became.

In my eighteen years, I have been many things.

A son, a brother, a soldier.

I have been a defender of District 2.

A protector of Panem.

But now, as President Thorn leads me to the window and slides back the velvet red drapes, I understand with a jolt that I am far more than that.

As my face comes into view, the congregation of thousands of people outside of the President's Mansion erupt into an outburst of cheering and raucous applause.

"These people are all here for you," Thorn tells me.

I slowly raise my hand in acknowledgement, and the crowd goes wild.

To them, I realise, I am the personification of an era of Panem that means peace and resolution.

It seems that things have finally changed for good.

And, deep down, I know – I am not a child anymore. In fact, I am more than a man.

I am a Victor.

Chapter Text

Gold Pembrook was afraid of death.

The biological aspect of it didn’t bother him – he didn’t fear a corpse or wrinkle his nose at the smell of expiration. He wasn’t squeamish or hyper-sensitive. He held his composure at funerals.

No, the truth was, Gold hated death because of its… finality. Inevitability. The loss of control. The things left undone, the people that it left behind. He was also keenly aware of the fact that nobody had a single clue as to what lay… well, beyond. If there was anything there at all.

For years, Gold had not thought about it anymore than he had to.

Now, as he dug out the brittle roots of his dead roses from the dry earth, he knew it would always be a part of him.

Gold felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, lad. We’ll just re-plant them.”'

His grandfather’s words did little to soothe him. Gold sighed and looked out across the plot. “I used to be good at this.”

“You still are,” said Grandfather sharply. “You’re just… out of practice.”

Lately, people had developed a habit of softening hard truths for him. Gold tensed. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“It felt like you were,” said Grandfather. A pause. “We missed you.”

Gold hesitated. What had he really wanted to say?

“I missed you too,” he lied.

No. It wasn’t a lie. Gold wasn’t being completely dishonest.

From the moment that the Capitol representative had trilled out his name at the Reaping, the only emotion that Gold could comprehend was fear – pure, unadulterated terror. Constantly.

He hadn’t had the chance to feel anything else.

Gold removed his cotton gloves and placed them in his trouser pocket.

“Do you think I could help out at the shop today?” he asked hopefully.

Grandfather looked uncertain.

Gold’s family ran a retail florist on the High Street, as they had for decades. Since the ban on inter-district travel, their options had been, admittedly, more limited. However, if Gold could brag, they were the best of the best. And he was their finest salesman by far. His talent lay in his natural eye for arrangement and his impeccable customer service. Gold understood that making a sale wasn't about the product, it was about the person.

When the daughter of the mayor announced her engagement; a romantic mass of myrtle, roses and red salvia did the trick.

A state visit from the Minister of Justice called for a sickly-optimistic spread of daffodils, sunflowers and forget-me-nots.

The Victory Tour. He had solemnly placed wreaths of gladioli and purple hyacinths on the tombstone of his district partner, a bony and hard girl from the lower city.

His talkative escort commented on the striking colors and refined presentation, but only Gold knew what they stood for. He had laid them on all the tribute graves. As a sign of respect.

Strength of character. Honour and conviction. Regret and sorrow. He had meant all of it.

The carefree Gold that had existed before the arena, that had splashed about in fountains and skipped down cobbled streets, lay dormant beneath a shell of anxiety and repressed anger.

In hindsight, his fear of death felt short-sighted, almost comical in its simplicity.

He had spent those final hours before the guards had led him into the arena as a blubbering, inconsolable mess.

Gold had sobbed into his tunic for ten long hours, pleading to the gods to let him live.

And they had.

In comparison to the barbaric victor from the preceding year, who had sliced his competitors open from groin to sternum, Gold had relied on timing and the element of surprise. The only bounty he had grabbed from the pile of supplies had been a round, metal shield. The audience had laughed and jeered as he ran and skirted around the main battle, deflecting his opponents until they moved on to easier, more vulnerable targets. The spectators had grown bored with him, favoring the heated confrontations and the agonized cries of the slowly dying children.

In the end, he had outlasted them all, dealing an unexpected blow to his final opponent. Gold had knelt over the crushed head of the girl from District 4 with bile in his throat.

He could not forget the shocked silence, broken only by the sounding of the trumpets.

“I didn’t want to,” he had cried, as a Capitol official lifted his hand into the air.

On the train back to District 1, throughout his tour, as he stared at the ceiling from his four-poster bed, he had tried to convince himself that he was not a cold-blooded monster.

When he was by himself, Gold repeated it aloud.

I am a good person. I am a good person. I am a good person.

It became a ritual.

Unlike the first Games, that had selectively chosen the children with connections to rebels, sympathizers and neutralists, the Reaping this year had been random, unbiased, not rigged. It was a clear message from the Capitol – even the most staunch and devoted district loyalists would face the brunt of the rebel’s choice to wage war on their Capitol protectorate.

Gold and his family had stood by the Capitol, served faithfully and done their duty. It still hadn’t saved him.

“You’re not a killer,” his father had wept during their goodbyes in the Justice Building.

His mother took his face in her hands. “My poor boy.” She was shaking. “I love you.”

Gold was stunned. They had given him up for dead already.

Of course, he couldn’t blame them. Gold did not delight in violence – his response to conflict was to retreat to his garden and get his hands dirty in other, more pragmatic ways. He couldn’t help but smile whenever he saw a seed unfurl itself, poke through the flat soil and reach its leaves towards the sun. He had done something special. He had brought it to life.

So, it would be fair to say that his disposition did not meet the requirements of a victor.

Still, his parents’ presumption had stung, and Gold couldn’t help but feel demoralized.

Now he realized, that when the gong had rung out, what had spurred him on through the carnage and noise of the bloodbath was not sentiment. Not love or ambition. He hadn’t thought of his family waiting back home for him, the loud and hormone-ridden boys he called his friends, or the beautiful girl from the Pavilion that he had always had a soft spot for.

It was the fear that drove him.

Gold’s body had reacted to the acute stress instantaneously. His pupils had dilated, he had felt his heart hammering against his ribs, and the entire arena turned into a tunnel as he became hyper-aware of his environment. There was no getting out without having to go through.

His instincts did the rest.

Gold had escaped death and it cost him his life.

When he first returned to the district, he ignored the throng of supporters at the train station. He didn’t recognize most of them. By that point, he just wanted his mother’s home-made lavender tea and the comfort of his soft, goose-feather pillows. Not reporters thrusting cameras and microphones in his face, screaming orders at him to pose and smile and flex. He brushed off the sycophantic figureheads talking nonsense and inviting him around for brunch.

As his parents loomed into view, Gold burst into his first real smile since the reaping. He ran up to them and noticed the visible change in their demeanor. They looked exhausted and much, much older. He didn’t know what he had expected, but this was not it.

His mother had given him a stiff kiss on the cheek. His father shook his hand.

Honestly, it had been a struggle to reconnect with his family. It was as if an invisible partition existed between them now. His sister looked at him strangely when she thought he couldn’t see her. His parents spoke to him from across the room, exchanging short conversation and one-word answers to any of his questions. On the good days, if they were able to conjure up a smile or a laugh, it felt measured and forced, as if they were being supervised. For Gold, the constant tension and painful small talk became too much to bear, and when he finally left the house for good, he felt their eyes burning into the back of his head.

Only his Grandfather had treated him the same. It would be folly for him to pass judgement.

His and his daughter’s generation had, after all, began the war that led them here.

Gold brought himself back to the present. He didn’t want to walk on eggshells any longer.

“They hate me, don’t they?” he asked.

Grandfather raised his eyebrows. “Could you be more specific?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

Grandfather shook his head. “Your family don’t hate you, Gold. They just… can’t understand you.”

“What is there to understand?” Gold replied, aghast. “I’m still the same person, aren’t I?”

There was a long pause before Grandfather said: “No, you’re not.”

Gold gaped at him. He felt as if he’d been slapped across the face.

“You think I’m a murderer. You all do.”

Grandfather hobbled over to a blooming white rosebush and deeply breathed in its scent.

He turned back to Gold.

“Listen to me. I want to you to think of who you were before you went into that arena. What you thought you couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do in order to escape. To be free of it.” His stare intensified as his coal black eyes met Gold’s acid green ones. “I want you to think back, to when the gong sounded. In that moment, right before you picked up that shield, did any of it really matter in the end?”

Gold bit his lip but didn’t answer. He didn’t want to say it out loud. That meant acknowledging it.

His grandfather sighed. “You want absolution, but I’m telling you, you’ll be waiting a long, long time for it. It might never come.” He said his next words carefully. “You won’t want to hear this, but I think it’s important that you do. You’re a killer, Gold. You’ve taken a life. That doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person. It’s time for you to accept that.”

Silent tears began to roll down Gold’s face and he wiped them away hastily.

“I don’t want to be this. I don’t want to be a victor, if that’s what people will think of me.”

Grandfather handed Gold a silk handkerchief. “For as long as mankind exists, we will always seek to find the faults in ourselves. We are a race that thrives on doing what’s worst for us.” He smiled wryly. “Don’t take it personally, Gold. Try to focus on the good.”

As they talked, the sun had started to settle behind the sweeping, rising hills of District 1, casting its orange-pink hue across the cloudless azure sky. The entire garden looked as if it had been painted in watercolor on a large, life-size canvass. It was indescribably beautiful.

The older man looked at it with a sense of awe. His younger companion remained distracted.

“I can’t stop thinking about her, Grandfather.”

“About who?”

“The girl. District 4. She had a family. People that wanted her to come home. I took that away from her. From them. When I…”

He trailed off, not wanting to finish. Grandfather decided to fill in the blanks.

“Yes, she did. All twenty-four of you did. And only one could come back. One. You have a family too, Gold. One worth fighting for, even when things are complicated.” He gave Gold a moment to consider this, and the boy seemed to listen to him. “Tell me, what would you do if you saw a dying flower?”

Gold eyed the old man warily, unsure of where this was going. He decided to humor him.

“We repot it,” he told him. “Trim the leaves, so the roots won’t have to work as hard. Move it about, if there’s too much sun that’s drying it out.” He counted each step on his fingers. “Hydration is key, so the right amount of water. Fertilize it appropriately. And rub it down to keep the bugs away.” He finished and cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”

Grandfather caressed the funnel-shaped leaves of a nearby foxglove. “You see, a relationship is like a flower. When it’s going through a rough patch, you have two options of treatment. You can leave it alone and watch it slowly wither, or nurture it until it starts to grow again.”

The pair of men looked at one another. Almost sixty years of experience separated them, but in that moment a mutual understanding passed between them. It didn’t need commenting on.

“Thank you,” Gold said.

Grandfather checked his brass pocket watch.

“Now, enough talking. Look at the time! Tea should be almost ready. I’d best be off before your mother sends out a search party,” he said jokingly.

He began to limp away, gripping tight to his cane. It left imprints in the lush, dewy grass.

After a few steps, he swiveled around to address Gold once more.

“You are welcome to join us, you know.”

Gold ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair. “Yes. I know. I mean, I want to. I just… I think that I’m going to spend a little more time here. If that’s alright.”

“It’s up to you,” said Grandfather with a shrug.

Gold watched him make his way across the garden, around the red-brick wall that made up its perimeter, down the pavement and out of sight. It was a short walk to their villa. He would be fine on his own.

He turned back to the flowerbed, with its torn stems and shredded petals. Dead.

They were past saving. But not everything was.

Gold took a deep breath, put his gloves on and got back to work.

Chapter Text

It was not uncommon for victors to misbehave. Bend the rules. Push the envelope. Over the years, a handful of them refused to submit themselves to their Capitol overlord's every whim and wish. It always ended in disaster; a list of names was whispered across untraceable phone lines. Families were found dead from gas leaks, home invasions, out-of-control fires.

The cause was never the same. The message always was.

Brandon Barlow was the first.

From the moment that he ascended the stage at the Reaping for the Third Annual Hunger Games, he stuck out. His bouncy, auburn locks and crystal-blue eyes glinted with a self-assurance that didn't match his grumpy, irritable expression. He had freckles splashed across his face, and a crooked, twice-broken nose – a detail that was not left unacknowledged by the Capitol media as they excitedly discussed the crop of recruits for the latest death match.

He was big, he was handsome, and he was more than a little rough-around-the-edges.

The district escort clapped her hands together in glee. The designated mentor looked hopeful.

Brandon simply folded his arms and stared out at the crowd.

The people looked up at the newest sacrifice, as they did every year, with a quiet respect.

District 9 has always been a reserved, rustic place. Its people are hardy and self-reliant – of course, that is almost a pre-requisite there. Not many are built to survive the exhaustive and demanding harvest season in one of Panem's largest districts. The men and women of the grain district do not take pride in boastful heroism. To shout one's exploits and achievements from the rooftops earned you a pair of rolled eyes and a bad reputation. No, their strength came from a healthy dose of hard work and tradition. If you wanted to get by, you kept your head down, didn't talk back to anyone above your station, and you followed the rules.

Brandon embodied some of these qualities.

His father, Buckton Barlow, had lost his wife, Emmerly, to a stray landmine at the start of the civil war. His siblings had housed rebels fleeing from other districts and faced the noose for their kindness. Both his parents had died years ago – at no great loss – and it was now his responsibility to raise his boys to be upright, reputable men. And it had been tough. He had to be both father and mother, but he met a block in emulating his wife's empathetic nature and her way with words. Buck was not a smart man, never had been. Even as a child, he struggled at school. He told his slurring, boozed-up daddy that it wasn't his fault, that the teacher's words were topsy-turvy and out of order and he didn't understand them. It didn't matter. He still got beat within an inch of his life. The pain always faded. It was the shame that did not.

He had raised his sons in a houseful of men, with the combined testosterone of himself, his children, brother-in-law, and nephews. They were all cooped up in a tiny flat, three-to-a-bed for the little ones and a single bed for his in-law. Buckton slept on the floor. Besides the coarse language and empty threats, arguments were miraculously sparse. If a hand was ever raised to Brandon or any of his three brothers, it was deserved and never done out of anger, hatred, or impatience. Their tendency to conceal their feelings kept affectionate words out of their mouths, but the men cared for one another deeply. It was a fraternity… of sorts.

Brandon was the boldest of them. He liked beer that could knock you out in one punch, pretty girls with ribbons in their hair, and nail-biting dart matches in his local pub. He didn't like the anger behind fighting but found he enjoyed the thrill and adrenaline that accompanied it. As such, he spent his free time challenging older, burlier men to arm wrestles and boxing matches – partly for kicks, and partly so that he could watch the tavern wenches fawn over his bulging biceps, developed from almost a decade of hoisting ten-kilogram sacks of wheat over his head. Brandon could not help but indulge himself the attention. He was nothing like his old man in this way, and the more he thought about it, the less of a problem it seemed.

It also happened to suit the narrative that the Capitol had spun up for him.

The Hunger Games had proved immensely popular as an event, both politically and culturally. The districts had accepted that the Games were not going to go away. However, the more easily offended Capitolites did not feel that they had gotten their money's worth. A single ticket for a decent seat in the amphitheater cost hundreds of denares, and for what? A twenty-minute showcase of a raving butcher? A piss-poor display of a shivering gardener with a shield lucking his way into the top spot? It was laughable. They wouldn't support it.

Something had to be done. After a day and a half of being confined to a squat, filthy jail cell and abused by guards and spectators, most of the tributes' motivation fizzled out halfway through the match. Their lack of knowledge with and inability to utilize the provided weapons – especially those from urban districts – was evident.

Additionally, the viewing public had already grown tired of the classical stadium approach for two years running. The Games Committee realized that the arena had to be spiced up. They needed to truly test the tributes, and ensure that the person that emerged victorious was a competent fighter.

Hells, that didn't even matter once they knew how to put on a damn show.

How best could they prepare the tributes, while staying true to the spirit and politics of the Games? It was a young, ambitious Gamemaker by the name of Vespasian Lilt that suggested training.

The reaction at the round table was one of shock. "Arm them? Outside the arena?"

Lilt nodded. "Under strict surveillance and with security, of course. Half of the districts use potential weapons on a regular basis. Why don't they attack with them? Peacekeepers. We get a few men in white in there, there'll be no problems. Use your heads."

His closest rival folded her arms. "And who is going to teach them?"

"Specialists. Veterans. Experts. We'll pay them handsomely. It'll level out the playing field. For industry tributes, the ones that fish and cut wood and grain, they've already got an advantage. Show a Twelvie how to knife-fight, now, that would be a twist. Think about it."

The room sprung to life with murmurs of renewed interest. They were cut suddenly short.

"No way. The DERCs would go crazy. There'd be riots in the streets," someone said.

Lilt considered this. The District Exclusionary Radical Capitolists (or DERCs, as they were known) had been a serious pain in the neck for the Gamemakers from the beginning.

In the eyes of the DERC, the Hunger Games had been a soft option and rewarded, not reprimanded, the districts for their treason and infinite war crimes. In turn, they boycotted and protested the Games from the moment of their creation. The organization comprised of adults from varying ages and Capitol classes whose families had suffered extreme casualties during the Dark Days. They were under-educated and unemployed, with little to no understanding of the intricate political and sociological meaning behind the Games – at least, not in the way the government did. Their actions were driven by impulse, and a vengeance that had resulted in bouts of petty violence. Several had been arrested throughout the years.

"I see your point," said Lilt. "But is that really our problem? I trust the competence of our trained and noble police force far more than the hollow threats of a small minority. Don't you?" He allowed this to sink in for a moment. Nobody wanted to criticize the law enforcement. "The DERC have, what, eighty members? A hundred, max? Hardly an army."

There were still other concerns, besides the reaction of the Capitol public. Would the tributes attack the trainers? What if they panicked and tried to do a runner before the Games?

Every aspect of the training programme concept was debated hotly and extensively. In the end, Head Gamemaker Tarquinius Bottleby had to make a last-minute executive decision.

"We go ahead with Lilt's proposal," he said. "Don't look so excited, Vespasian. It's a trial run. And if it fails, you'll be on arena clean-up from then until eternity. Do you understand?"

The young man nodded, his cheeks burning as he tried to ignore the loud titters of his peers.

Lilt was put in charge of everything. It was no laughing matter – his job and reputation were on the line. He increased the security budget, built an extension to the tribute's accommodation, and hired Capitol and district experts in combat, weaponry and gymnastics. A mixture of citizenry would humanize the tributes to them, Lilt correctly predicted.

That summer, the tributes were led into an arena filled with an array of thick boulders; its ground not sandy but covered in tall, scruffy grass. The audience were intrigued. How would this impact the competition? They were also pleased to see that, for the first time, the tributes weren't half-dazed, self-pitying children. There were no tears. None of them begged to be let go. A number of them were poised to leap into the fray, their gaze fixed on the plentiful supplies.

The gunshot blasted and the Games began.

Unbeknownst to the tributes, the Gamemakers had not just altered the landscape that year. The dry, entangling foliage hid a swarm of Capitol-invented mutations that had not found use in the war. A saber-toothed hare ravaged a little girl that mistook it for a harmless rodent. Carnivorous beetles enveloped and consumed the shrieking boy from the coal district. A pair of wild dogs dragged another howling tribute behind a rock and dug their fangs into his neck.

Brandon ran for the cornucopia of goods, a juggernaut, too large and clumsy to not trip on unseen roots and mounds of earth. He pulled up short in front of a coiled garter snake. It was instantly recognizable. The reptile was common to District 9. They were more irritating than they were dangerous, snapping at your heels or hiding in bed sheets during the wintertime.

This one was different.

It uncoiled itself and flicked its forked tongue, watchful. After a moment, the snake drew back its mouth to reveal a pair of razor-sharp fangs. Acidic saliva dripped from its jaws. The snake's pupils dilated. It let out a high-pitched hiss and leapt up, the force propelling it toward Brandon's face. It soared through the air as the audience watched with bated breath.

He caught it mid-air, and with a brutal crack, broke the mutt's neck.

The crowd went wild.

Brandon tossed the serpent aside as if it had been a toy and strode up to the ample pile of weapons. He rifled through it, unperturbed, and snatched up a sickle with a cruel curve. The cocky smile that crossed Brandon's face proved that he had found what he was looking for.

After an hour, it came down to the most gladiatorial finale that the Capitol had witnessed thus far. Brandon had his sickle and the surly, giant of a boy from District 7 wielded a double-sided ax. Each of them had a close-range weapon, ideal for causing pain and drawing blood, and better yet, they both knew how to use them. The mood within the stadium was electric.

It was a short, gruesome fight. For a few minutes, both appeared to be on the same footing, dealing and dodging death blows in equal measure. Then, the lumberjack upped the ante, moving in, step by step, increasing the pace of his attacks. He forced Brandon backward until he was pressed up against a large, black boulder. The stench of sweat and blood was pungent.

District 7 swung his ax. Brandon ducked.

The metal lodged itself into the boulder's rocky surface.

He didn't have time to pull it free, or even panic. The sickle slashed his throat open.

Brandon fell to his knees.

The trumpets blared, cannons sounded, confetti fell, and a disembodied voice from somewhere in the stands announced him as the victor of The Third Annual Hunger Games.

Before he left the Capitol, Brandon received an invitation for afternoon tea with Tigellinus Thorn.

"I don't visit District 9 as much as I'd like to, you know," the president told him earnestly.

Brandon's heart was hammering. He didn't know why. "That's a shame, sir."

"It is. Charming little place, really." He took a sip of his tea. "Needs more sugar." He took a spoonful and stirred it in, his expression mild and contented.

There was a momentary silence.

"Actually." Brandon's throat felt dry. He licked his lips. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor."

Thorn considered this. "A favor."

"As a victor," said Brandon quickly.

For a second, he thought that the president was going to strike him. Then, before he could register it, the moment had passed, and Thorn resumed his cheerful, schoolboy's grin.
"Please. Elaborate." He flounced his hand encouragingly.

Brandon sat up a bit straighter. "I'd like to request more rations for District 9. We're getting by, and meet our quotas, but barely. There's never enough food in the summer. Oil is impossible to come by in the winter. I know my people. They want to work. But they can't."

President Thorn nodded sagely. "That is a problem."

"Just… a little extra. It would go a long way."

Thorn smiled. "I shall look into it for you, Mr. Barlow. I promise."

The details of Brandon's meeting with the President are no secret. The common folk always suspected. For years afterward, numerous versions of the story were whispered in the corners of brothels and pubs. The victor that broke the first cardinal rule of his district – don't challenge someone above your station. He was a fool, some say. Others believe him a hero.

In the districts, they say that no good deed goes unpunished.

Brandon felt the excruciating truth of this statement.

He returned home to find that, for all his good intentions, he had been tricked.

"They announced it right before your train came in," his Pa said stiffly.

President Thorn had kept his promise. Formerly private landowners had been evicted, their acres taken from them for the purpose of increased crop growth. Homes had been torn down in order to accommodate the construction that had already begun on brand new processing plants. All of this was done in the name of the newly established tesserae system.

It applied to all the districts. Adults had no access to the life-saving provisions. Only children that met the criteria for reaping eligibility could claim a year's worth of oil and grain. This, of course, came at a price. The more you took, the more your name was added to the reaping.

"The Capitol and the victors continue to work together in prosperity," Thorn had told the country, the look in his eyes as malicious and gleeful as anyone could remember seeing it.

In the city, Brandon Barlow's popularity never waned. His rural colloquialisms and southern district drawl enchanted its cosmopolitan masses. Deep down, he despised every last one of them. He hated their garish fashions, the dysphoric trends that led to beads and feathers in every orifice. He was repulsed by how easily they could laugh and point as children were hunted and chased and gutted onscreen, their bones picked clean by rats and birds and snakes.

On the other hand, Brandon found an escape in the lights and drugs and sex that the Capitol laid out for him. It meant that he could forget the burning hatred in the eyes of the tesserae farmers as they stumbled back from a fourteen-hour shift. He didn't have to think about the rail-thin, sunburned girls that had to drag their rations home in rusted, broken wheelbarrows. He could block out the screams of little boys calling for their mama from the reaping stage, all because of an additional slip of paper. A slip of paper that was only there because of him.

Brandon didn't marry. He never had kids. He spent his most of his life in the bottle, a high-functioning alcoholic, sobering up just enough to mentor the next pen of sacrificial lambs. Brandon tried his best, he really did. But the sad, hard-hitting fact was, they almost always ran and hid and died. Brandon had to watch them suffer until a mutt or natural disaster or Career put them down.

Katniss and Peeta made a visit to District 9 for their Victory Tour. It had not been as patriotic as they had hoped. There had been three-fingered salutes, commotion in the crowd, arrests. The harvesters and plant workers pushed and shoved to the front of the stage, hoping to catch a sign – a hint – of rebellion from her. She was the girl with the berries. Their new hope.

A year later, the district burned. Its people had been crushed under the Capitol's heel for too long. They no longer took pride in their labor. The many granaries, barns, silos and factories were razed to the ground. The Justice Building officials were smoked out, the entire structure infiltrated and reclaimed by the rebels. Nightlock flags fluttered in the cool evening breeze.

A mob marched to the Hall of Tesserae, their pitchforks and torches held aloft. They tore it down and set it alight. The timber collapsed in a dazzling shower of sparks. The mob whooped and hollered and stamped their feet as the building was reduced to rubble.

Suddenly, gunfire rang out as the reinforcement Peacekeepers exploded onto the scene. Men, women and children fell in a hail of bullets. But more kept coming, pushing forward, pressuring the armed forces and not giving them a chance to reload their firearms. By the end, bodies littered the ground, white uniforms and district citizenry both.

There was a haunting silence, broken only by the sound of crackling cinders and distant mockingjay song.

Beneath the ruins of the desecrated building, an old man lay dead on the ground.

He clutched a sickle to his chest, the ghost of his last laugh lingering in the winter air.

Chapter Text

Lorelei's body was on fire.

She was drenched in sweat. The pain came in tides – in, out, in, out. She could hear the ocean, taste the briny air, feel the sand between her curled toes. It all seemed a world away. She gripped her husband's hand, and he urged her on. Roland tried to be courageous, but his voice held a tremor that betrayed him. He was just a boy. A child.

We both are, she thought.

"It hurts," she said, moaning as another contraction struck her.

They had become more frequent. The dull ache radiated from Lorelei's back to her core. Her swollen belly was rock hard and fit to pop. She gripped it, rubbing it gently, hoping that it would assuage her suffering. It didn't. She cried out as the pebbles beneath her thighs reddened.

It went on for hours. Minutes. Days, possibly. Lorelei couldn't tell. Time didn't exist.

A ripping sensation dragged an agonized scream from her throat.

I've been torn apart.

"The child is docking," the fisher-nurse said.

Her husband pressed his lips to her burning cheek. "It's a gift from the sea, Lori. Remember."

The nurse grimaced. "You have to push, girl."

She did.

**

The salt-monk led the procession.

His hymns were resounded by the chorus of priests and priestesses around him. It was a haunting sound, rising in volume and intensity with each passing moment. It was lyrical, too, shifting in pitch and speed – a foreign tongue, but familiar. It had been the language of their people a long time ago. The intricacies and structure were lost to them, but the songs and litanies remained.

They always would.

River was stripped bare, dressed only in a loincloth to spare him his modesty. He was up to his waist in the ice-cold water. The sharp sea wind cut against his skin, like broken glass, and his teeth chattered helplessly.

Mother and father stood at a distance, sullen and grey-faced, not wishing to interfere. River had pleaded with them, he didn't want to do this, it frightened him, but his begging had been ignored. He needed it, they said. It was tradition. And nothing, nothing, got in the way of tradition.

"We offer this child to the water, where his body shall be washed of cardinal sin, his mind cleansed and purified," droned the monk. "He shall emerge from the depths, restored, and begin a new life, unstained."

River felt a hand on his chest, and another on the back of his head. The monk forced him down, no warning, beneath the freezing pool. It was eerily quiet. He could hear the sound above the surface, dull and distant, as if it were from another room. Another world. He looked down. His skin was ghostly pale. The clergy-song was faster, louder, and River realized that he had run out of breath.

He clawed at the hands holding him, but his childish muscles did not have the strength to lessen their grip. He could feel the water entering his mouth, his lungs. River kicked and struggled and did everything he could, but his vision blurred, his limbs sagged, and he strayed out of thought and time.

River opened his eyes. The light stung. His mouth was dry. Everything hurt.

The salt-monk towered over him. His mother and father knelt by his side, their hands clasped in prayer, zealous pride plastered across their faces. A priest spoke, deep and pious and serious.

"He has persisted. Through the drowning, the boy has been left behind, beneath the waves."

There was a cry of affirmation from the crowd. "The man has risen. Go in peace, to work and serve."

**

River was forced to his knees. There was the click of a gun and he felt the cold muzzle against his neck.

They had been ready for this. It was only a matter of time before the rebels came for them. No loyalist family was safe in the current climate. He had been dragged from his bed, his father and mother beside him, in the middle of the night. Blindfolded and bound, they had been led barefoot for several hours before stopping here.

Their sight was restored to them. They were in a dilapidated warehouse. No, a refinery. Years ago, before the war, it would have been whirring and humming with the sounds of workers and machinery. Now, it was abandoned, covered in filth and rust, a home to rats and cockroaches.

An execution chamber.

There was about a dozen of the rebel soldiers, one to every captive. The rebels were armed to the teeth, their faces hidden behind dog-eared balaclavas. They started to discuss among themselves about setting terms and who would represent them at the bargaining table. The more sensitive of them debated as to whether they would need to kill a loyalist to prove to the Capitol that they were serious. They all snapped and fought, and the conversation seemed to go on and on and on in an endless loop.

River's father spoke quietly and carefully from the corner of his mouth. "I don't want you to look."

"At what?" River breathed back. "Where's mother?"

"Just don't look. Please."

River's next question was on the tip of his tongue when the shot rang out.

Some of the more dissident rebels had gotten frustrated. An argument had broken out. In the heat and confusion, a desperate hostage had made a run for it. He made it halfway to the doors before a bullet struck him behind the knee. He stumbled, stopped, then tried to hobble on.

The next slug blew his head clean open.

It was a frenzy after that. The air was thick with red fog and screams.

"River, I wa –"

His father's words were cut suddenly short. He jolted forward, as if pushed, and collapsed into River's arms. He looked up at his son, blank eyes staring, mouth agape. A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. River tried to rouse him. None of it worked. He wasn't breathing. River shook him, desperate, but he was dead.

After a while, everything went quiet.

"We've got a kid," said one of the rebels.

River was hoisted to his feet. His hands were shaking. He was frightened. He was furious.

A handgun was forced against his temple. "Should I kill him?"

"Do it," River said, wanting to sound brave, but desperately hoping they didn't.

An officer shook his head. "No." He spat onto the ground. "He's going to run and tell the Capitol what happened here." He turned to River. "Won't you, lad?"

River agreed, and they let him go. A couple of them shot at his heels as he left. Just for fun.

He ran, faster than he'd ever run in his entire life, until his limbs gave up on him and he couldn't run any further. He collapsed at the feet of the first white uniform he saw, breathless and hysterical.

River returned two days later to collect his father's body. The rebels had already burned it.

**

Remove the scales, cut the belly, pull the innards. River knew how to gut a fish.

It was the first thing he learned how to do on the trawler. Well, that, and not to run his mouth. It was a lesson that cost him a tooth and his fair share of bruises. His insolence was a bad habit from the community home that he still hadn't been able to kick. His mother and father had been strict on manners, decorum and social etiquette. But they were dead and gone, and River's graces died with them.

He was thirteen when The Dark Days ended. He'd spent six months in the orphanage before turning himself out to the streets. It was dreadful in there. Overcrowding, unsanitary lodging, beatings, bullies, stray hands and creeping eyes… no, River couldn't bear it. He escaped that particular level of hell and found a job on the docks.

Post-war, the district needed to return to full operation and meet its former quotas as quickly as possible. The harbor was bloated with desperate captains. River landed a job right away. In return for his labor, he got food, lodging and a pittance of a salary. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than enough to get by. They taught him how to use a pike, tie knots and catch his own dinner, too. He picked up a dozen different skills in no time at all.

One night, the first mate hopped up onto the main deck with a maniacal grin on his face. He had a dusty bottle of rum in his hand. It tumbled out of a loading crate, he said, but nobody cared if it was a lie or not because this was a luxury. Sure, they could lose a hand for possessing it. But once it was gone, and the bottle broken and swept up and tossed away, it was gone for good.

None of them could handle it, so after a glass each, they were tipsy and slurring. River's head was swimming. He couldn't concentrate, giggles bubbled up out of nothing, and he was talking nonsense. They drank late into the night, and one by one, the crew passed out until it was just him and the captain. The pair of them sang old sailing songs that River didn't know the lyrics to, toasted to the wisdom and generosity of the Capitol, and made crooning, silly exclamations of love to the sea.

He didn't notice it at first. The captain's hand on his lap, patting it in a familiar, comforting way, before the movement evolved into a gentle, intimate caress up his thigh.

River stared at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

The captain smiled. "Tryna make you feel good. Sit back."

He grabbed at River intimately. The younger man stood up, spluttering objection and shouting profanities, but the rum had made him inarticulate. The captain advanced on him, and River struck out. He punched him, over and over, his righteous rage intensifying with each blow. He had the captain beaten black and blue and purple.

The older man's dizziness caused him to lose his footing. He tripped and fell overboard with a loud, dramatic splash. There was a faint paddling noise as the captain tried to pull himself back aboard. He looked at River, too drunk to help himself.

"Help!" he cried. "Help me!"

River didn't dive in after him. His knuckles were red with blood. He was utterly consumed by panic and, in the comedown from his rage, he just wanted out. He sat down on the deck, curled himself up into a ball, and tried to ignore the sounds of the drowning man.

An hour later, everything went quiet. It was the worst sound that River had ever heard. Worse than the guns or the screams.

He resigned the next day, lying through his teeth and citing discomfort at the captain's sudden disappearance. After that, River slept in abandoned hulls and shipyards for a year. His lack of guilt for what he had done scared him, and he felt his self-imposed isolation served as penance.

The captain washed up a month later. River was never found out.

**

Before the sun even rose, Hodharbor was already abuzz with movement. An accumulation of a port, harbor and marina, it was the largest docking space in the district. The jiggers and liners and dredgers swept across the bay, out to the fishing line's perimeter to bait and catch and haul. The docks were bustling with business, cargo being unloaded, tugboats pulling about larger commercial vessels. It was a stone's throw away from the district's tourism hub, a prime spot for Capitol visitors to sail a yacht or engage in a spot of fishing. They wanted to feel like a hard-working district hero for a day. Experience the district life first-hand, without the setbacks. The war changed all of that.

River had been there since dawn, lugging around a squeaking cart behind him. It was filled to the brim with fresh clams he'd dug up himself. Technically, it was illegal to sell your own district produce, but River didn't plan on getting caught. He belted out his prices, as loud as he could, hoping that perhaps he could strike a deal with a couple of hungry ex-soldiers, or some sailors that might want sustenance for their trip.

He was negotiating a deal with a Peacekeeper when the first bomb hit.

After the Dark Days, the Capitol had been more alert than ever. Their spies in the districts kept them fed with information. There had been fractions of the rebel collective that had evaded detection, conspiring in secret in the orchards and coalmines and train yards of Panem. They needed to be weeded out and uprooted before they caused any further provocation. The Capitol wouldn't take any chances. The rebels were traced to several locations. Some were confirmed. Others weren't.

Hodharbor was one such place.

There was no warning. No evacuation put in place. The wooden ramps exploded in a cloud of splinters and fire. Sea mines detonated in the deeper part of the wharf, capsizing warships and sinking nurse-boats. Limbs and heads and body parts rained down on those unlucky enough to witness it. River dropped his cart with a crash and dove into the marina. The fighter jets soared overhead, dropping bombs and pelting bullets at anything that lay in their path.

It was a massacre. By the end, over two thousand people had died, with hundreds missing.

A rescue team found River eight hours later. He had clung to a piece of wreckage to stay afloat, sustained a head injury, and was half-hidden under the flotsam and jetsam.

Still, he was alive. It was a miracle.

The Hodharbor Disaster was the deadliest isolated attack in District 4 history. It was unsurpassed in its number of casualties until the night of the Mockingjay Uprising seventy-four years later.

**

River wasn't surprised to be going into the Hunger Games.

It's just my luck, he thought, as he traipsed up to the stage, heavy-footed and sulking. This was just the pearl inside of a dung-filled oyster.

He was quite the sight. Covered in tattoos. A shark-tooth necklace. Whale-bone bangles clacking dangerously. The rain plastered his long, black hair to his slender neck.

His district escort, Leonidas, was the most clueless, color-blind moron that River had ever met. He beamed up at River, chattering nonsense. He tried to enthuse him from the moment they left the square. River hardly listened, but he caught a few words, such as 'privilege' and 'honor' and 'opportunity'. It was all a load of chum. If Leonidas found River's snorts of indignation offensive, he didn't say so. He seemed to genuinely think that he was excited about his circumstance.

Their mentor, Doris, was an old woman with milk-white eyes, lost to chemical burns, and a single wooden leg that she dragged along behind her. Amazingly, she was as cheery and spritely as anyone of her age and health status had a right to be.

With all that said, she was also very, very drunk.

"Only time of the year I get the chance," she said with a wink, as she took another swig of wine.

It wasn't the best team, but River thought they might, might make a cursory attempt to help him.

He was wrong.

The cracks began to show almost right away. On his partner's side, at least. The girl, Shell, was fifteen, a canner's daughter, and completely out of her depth. She spent the entire train journey crying her eyes out, asking if she could go back, insisting it was all a mistake. This irked Leonidas, who snapped at her through gritted teeth, his feathered hair comically swaying to and fro.

"Don't be so ungrateful, girl! This is the chance of a lifetime, and you're acting like a brat!"

She dissolved into fresh tears, snot running down her face. River scowled at the older man.

"Just leave her be," he said quietly.

Leonidas was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"She's upset. Leave her alone."

"Who do you think you are?!"

River almost laughed. Almost. He raised his voice to a shout.

"Storms save me, you really don't get it, do you? Or are you as stupid as you look?"

Leonidas looked aghast.

"I am your escort! You can't speak to me like that."

River stood up and stomped out of the train carriage, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass pane shattered.

And then the fool of a man was screaming, obscenities and insults flying from his mouth.

Later, he visited River in his room to let him know that his manners were unsatisfactory at best, and if he was lucky enough to make it back, he was going to have somebody to answer to about his behavior.

As River found out, he was right.

**

The tributes, for the first time, were lifted into the battlefield from a chamber beneath the arena.

It made sense for a more dramatic, sensational start to the amphitheater experience – for the crowd, at least. Most of the competitors felt an instant panic or shock as they caught sight of their surroundings. The arena was flooded with crystal-blue water. It lapped around their toes, splashing their feet and heels. Those from the urban districts exchanged nervous looks. And that wasn't the only thing. Following on from the positive response to the previous year's events, the Gamemakers had gone ahead with the continued inclusion of mutts. Sinister shadows moved slowly and ominously beneath the water's surface, loitering around the pedestals on which the tributes stood.

River wasn't paying attention to the others. His eyes were fixed on an outcrop of rocks roughly forty feet away from him. At its peak, there was a glinting cornucopia of deadly weapons. River zoned in on a steel spear, long and sharp, a more refined model of the wooden kind that he used on the trawlers. It was meant for him, he knew it, and he was the only one here that could wield it properly.

The gong rang out and River leapt into the water. It came up to his chest, but he had miscalculated its depth and hurt his foot as it struck the ground. River thanked the gods for the pool. If he had had to limp his way across a dry, open space, he would be dead ten times over already.

He began to wade through the terrain. It was pure dumb luck that he was left largely unmolested by the schools of piranha that tore the flesh from the tribute's bones. River had heard the stories before, back home, of the shipwrecked navy rebels, floating in the sea for days, picked apart by genetically engineered sharks.

It was not the way he was going to die.

River reached the outcrop and climbed its smooth, wet surface, ascending it as swiftly as he could. He had to put his hands and feet in the right place, but with his bad foot, it took a bit longer. He pulled himself over the ledge, his adrenaline racing, and hobbled to his spear. He snatched it up, a smile of relief breaking out across his face.

There was a sound of displaced air behind him.

Without a second thought, River spun into a defensive stance. It was done just in time. The move deflected the downward sword strike with the spear's thick hilt, and the rebound sent his attacker reeling backwards. The male tribute from District 2 was bigger and meaner than he was. He bared his teeth at River.

"You're lucky they made the arena 'special for you, Four."

River leaned on his spear, observing his nails in disinterest. "I didn't know quarry rats could swim."

"Real funny. You know how to use that thing?" he asked.

River took an offensive position. "Only one way to find out, blockhead."

If River had been smarter, or had a more strategic mindset, he'd have told himself to partner up with this boy, not patronize him. Together, they could guard the ridge from any other potential tributes that might have begun to climb it in the hope of nabbing some supplies. However, the concept of alliances had not yet been solidified. The early Games' confrontations were generally between two individual opponents in a confined space. Of course, as the necessity for a more drawn-out, narrative-driven competition became obvious, River's survival methodology and approach to what a tribute should do became more nuanced and thought-out.

In that moment, however, it was just him, his spear and a brutish boy from District 2.

The fight didn't last long. The mason boy's temper and aggression seemed to be a way to overcompensate for his lack of skill with a sword. He swung and parried and deflected, but his technique was messy and clumsy. He went down after five minutes, when he didn't move quick enough to block a lightning-fast blow to his ribs from River's spear. The subsequent kick sent him tumbling downward, to the gnarling, gnashing teeth that waited for him far below.

River didn't have time to stare. The other tributes had reached the Cornucopia.

It was just like gutting a fish.

The trumpets sounded an hour later.

**

River stormed into the hospital room. He hadn't slept in days. Dealing with a handful of his disgruntled peers and the media and the girl's family had taken its toll. If it weren't for the Capitol stimulants, he might not have made it through. It had been a tough year.

The girl laid in her bed, her frizzy brown hair and cherub features scrunched up in concentration. She was eating a mixed fruit salad and watching one of those ridiculous, over-the-top Capitol soap operas. They never aired in the districts. The only broadcasts they received in 4 were mandatory viewing about the Games. Or work.

River stood there for a moment, suddenly at a loss for words. She turned to him and smiled devilishly.

"And you said girls don't win the Games."

**

River had been a victor for over twenty years. He had gotten comfortable in its routine; the preparation, training and screening, selection of the volunteer, the sponsor spit, the storyline, choosing alliances. The lot. Lately, though, the routine had been disrupted. There had been rumors. Rumors of planned peaceful protests and demonstrations, plans to have the districts refuse to watch the Games. They had been swilling about since the Tenth, since the incident. River had flatly ignored them.

He still remembered Hodharbor.

"Don't put any wind in the rebel's sails, okay? It just spells trouble for us," is what he told the others.

He did everything he could to deter sedition in District 4. River knew that being the district's first victor afforded him a certain level of respect. If he had that privilege, he would use it. To prove that the victors and the district were on the Capitol's side. He endorsed and turned up to officiate Capitol visitations, and convinced some of the others to do the same. He organized photo-ops and write-ups about exemplary citizens and exceptional fishing teams that surpassed their yearly quotas. He openly applauded Thorn's regime, despite its increasing severity and the president's deteriorating overall state. River didn't care, if it meant that no further penalties would be enforced.

He was at his home in the Victor's Village, reviewing his trainees for the next round of cuts, when the anthem began to blare, and his plasma television screen lit up.

President Thorn was no longer the commanding, strict man that had led the country out of the Dark Days. He addressed the nation with quivering jowls and blood-shot eyes.

Each district must vote on its male and female representative.

A vote. The district had to choose.

There was a high, piercing scream from the house next door, followed by a rapid, furious knocking at River's front patio.

He sighed, got up and went to answer it.

After Snow ascended to power, each of them received a message.

In their own way.

River's was a sardonic, rough-and-tumble fisherman's whelp. He had pleaded for the chance to learn from them. Despite the other victor's reluctance, River understood that some people just needed someone to have faith in them. When he did, he was one of their trainees, and he was good. But he made the crucial mistake of boasting about it. He gave up a lot of information to a reporter writing an article about districts as holiday spots.

The boy wasn't stupid, just mouthy, but it didn't matter either way. The Capitol permitted the Careers to train, as long as they kept their stinking gobs shut about it.

He was found floating downward in a canal not long after.

The boy wasn't reaped. He didn't volunteer. It wasn't... the Games. It was murder.

River supported the Capitol. He always had. But he loved his district, and his boys, far more.

"I'm getting too old to fight," he told Mags. "I just…" He paused. "Let me do what I can."

He had never seen her smile the way she did in that moment.

**

They called his grandson up.

Snow knows, River thought. He knows what we did.

It was another warning. Another one.

River was not what he used to be. So many of them weren't. His lean, sea-hardened body had become fleshy and wrinkled, his jet-black mane fallen out from the Capitol's miraculous but rigorous cancer treatment. He could only get around on a cane these days – despite his protestations, the spirited, athletic, beautiful victors didn't want him overexerted. River honestly didn't see the fuss.

As if on cue, Noden put a hand on his shoulder. They both knew. He couldn't do anything to help.

The thing is, his grandson would never be Games material. Even if he were older – storms, he's only twelve – he wouldn't have a chance. He put on a brave face on his way to the stage, at least. When Ambrosia Crinkle asked for them, there was a flurry of volunteers that ran to replace him.

As was custom, the first one to reach the platform was chosen. River didn't recognize him. He must have been one of Mags' trainees.

Ambrosia shoved the microphone in his face. "And what's your name, handsome?"

The boy looked out to the audience with sea-green eyes, his bronze hair rustling in the breeze.

"Finnick," he said. "Finnick Odair."

**

River's funeral was a modest affair. The victory of the sweet - but slightly mad - girl had meant that the burial of an old, irrelevant victor was permitted to be a quiet and private event. District 4 had been at the forefront of the news for the last few months. The Capitol didn't need to spend any more money on them.

It had been a natural death, an incredible feat for a victor of his standing. Mags led the congregation. She wasn't religious, never had been, but it had been an important aspect of River's life and she didn't want to ignore that. Sure, he hadn't practised the old way of things for some time, but he still held faith in it. And Mags didn't make fun of someone for having faith. It was the only thing some people had. The only thing that stood between giving up and carrying on. Between life and death.

A circle of District 4 victors stood around River's body, heads bowed in respect at the first of their kind. His daughter and grandsons were present too, crying silently.

The ceremony had to be discreet and covert. Snow's Law had impacted district religion harshly. Mags took a deep breath and pressed her hands together in prayer.

"We commit this man, River Cruickshank, to the sea, where he shall undertake his final voyage, from this life to another. May your journey be safe."

"May your journey be safe," the others resounded.

The two men rolled the body into the sea and River hit the water. His grandchild, the one who had been reaped, held back his tears as he tossed in a wreath of water lilies after him. Both man and flowers descended peacefully together to the quiet, sandy floor of the seabed, free at last from the fears and expectations of the world above.

Chapter Text

Divide et impera. Divide and rule. The Capitol fought a war – and rebuilt a nation – on these words.

Its significance in the defeat of the districts was so prominent that it had almost, almost been adopted as the state motto of Panem. The rage of the loyalist leaders and patriots, or Thorn's Men, certainly warranted it. A roomful of lieutenants and commanders and politicians debated it unto the early hours of the morning, until a clear, cool-as-ice voice cut the chaos short. It was far too provocative a phrase in the current climate, they said. A cleaner, stately, more patriotic slogan was chosen in the end. It was a bit on the nose, but it felt appropriate.

Of course, their emboldened use of the technique didn't stop there. It had been at the heart of the Hunger Games since their inception. The Capitol needed to instil mistrust and doubt, deter solidarity and empathy. They wanted the districts to blame the children on the screens, not the scheming adults behind the camera lens; it was of paramount importance to draw the focus away from the real problem and sew discord among the rabble.

They targeted each district uniquely. It wasn't difficult for them to worm their way into a community, identify a flaw, exacerbate it and then use it to their advantage.

In District 3, the scientists and engineers and geneticists had their progress and genius lauded and rewarded, as the unskilled labourers slumped back to their filthy quarters, feeling overworked, unacknowledged and, more than anything, stupid. The constant reminder of their low status and lack of intellectualism and innovation made them resentful, a feeling that only festered over time.

The separation in District 7 was done on religious grounds – half of the populous held an unshakeable, rigorous belief in their monotheistic worship of an ancient earth-goddess. The remaining citizens worshipped the numerous traditional gods that most of the other districts did. The two faiths were oft at one another's throats, burning down temples and engaging in bouts of tit-for-tat sectarian violence. The Peacekeepers held it at bay, barely, when they weren't told to encourage it.

District 12 had faced an influx of exiled families from wealthier districts, by the Capitol's forced hand. In fact, so grave was the prospect, that the ultimatum resulted in a popular saying: "To hells or to Twelve." A disproportionate number of those that relocated came from District 1, and their angelic, light features clashed with the olive skin and dark complexion of the rest of the district. The newcomers had once been cobblers and herbalists, confectioners and dressmakers, bakers and brewers; their ancestral labor became the source of their income in their new home, and those descendants set up what became the merchant class in the coal mining district. They distinguished themselves from the malnourished, poverty-stricken Seam folk and the two classes kept their distance, rarely mixing or socializing in any context.

And then there was District 10.

In District 10, the Capitol didn't have to interfere.

The animosity had been present for generations across the dry, dusty landscape of the livestock district. It was more than memory; it was an old hatred, ingrained in the people's flesh, blood and souls. Their bitterness and indignation had not ended with the Dark Days, or the introduction of the Games. The explosive events of the past twelve years had not subdued the pain that existed among the three main communities. Their history was complicated.

Nobody can trace the conflict back to a single, isolated event. The only recorded information on the subject was cataloged in the Great Library of Panem, a once-celebrated institution of historical preservation, that deteriorated into a cesspit of censorship and propaganda under the supervision of Coriolanus Snow. A handful of mindless Mockingjay rebels later torched it, much to the president's chagrin. As he repeatedly said, he was many things, but he was not wasteful. A millennium of scripture, texts and records had been lost forever. There was something about it that wasn't right.

And yet, somehow, through the shared oral and aural accounts, the story survived. Of course, each rendition was shaped and embroidered with bias and hyperbole, depending on who you asked. It took a multitude of transcripts from several interviews commissioned by President Paylor to present a clear, researched and somewhat accurate timeline of where it all began.
Before the end of the Dark Days, the district had been colonised by three main groups.

The Karankawa had founded District 10, seeding its enormous and expansive pastures for years beyond count. They bred the first of the lowing cattle, snorting swine, flapping poultry and wide range of livestock that would go on to feed, clothe and nourish the nation with their skins, meat and milk. Descended from the nomadic tribes that had made their way from the other side of the world prior to the Catastrophes, they had retained many of their hunter-gatherer instincts. Their faith was animistic, and they maintained a deep respect and reverence for all living things, shunning superficiality and material goods. While some opted for more permanent settlements – fixed pueblos made of stone and adobe – others moved from place to place, fashioning hogans from natural resources such as mud and bark, logs and earth, and drawing strength from the soil. They remained unperturbed for a long, long time.

Then, there came the Mejoravida, commonly referred to as the Mejo, who arrived in District 10 as wayfaring laborers, searching for refuge or work that had been denied them in their home districts. They lived in dingy encampments, aiding the Karankawa as grooms and shepherds and stable hands in exchange for lessons on survival and self-sustenance. At first, they worked in harmony and open collaboration with the native people, who – despite the language barrier – taught them how to sew the fertile land, find water in a dry-spell and grow a range of crops in the district's unforgivably hot climate. Before long, children of mixed descent were born, bringing the two communities together and creating a new bloodline.

Then, the Shawnee arrived.

Nobody knows where they originated from. Some believed they had come from the elite and high-profile inner district socialites, judging by their pale skin and light eyes. Others claimed they were from the Capitol, due to their airy, whimsical accents. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. Either way, when they came, they brought machines and control and fear with them. They took the land that the Karankawa had lived on for years and displaced them from it. The natives were a non-violent, pacifistic people, and did not have the weaponry or warring attitude to resist their expulsion, much less fight back against them. Some were slaughtered.

What the Karankawa lacked in manpower, the Mejo more than made up for. They fought with fists, clubs and words, they spat curses and oaths and damnation to the Shawnee and their ancestors and their children. It did no good. Words and crooks and slingshots are of no use against a small army equipped with rubber bullets and tear gas and electric fences.

The Shawnee took the land and built plantations and ranches and corrals upon it, hiring servants from the throngs of now incapacitated and homeless Karankawa and Mejo. They reinvented and redistributed the district, assigning a pitiful amount of land to each of the groups. The borders of their newly assigned territories remained unclear, and from their skirmishes and squabbles arose an ongoing turf war. Midnight ambushes and forcible removal became commonplace. The Karankawa shrunk back from the crude tomahawks of the strangers that had once been their friends. The Mejo awoke to the settlement of tribes-people that had come to reclaim what had been theirs not weeks before.

Meanwhile, the Shawnee that owned the grazing grounds and slaughterhouses and animal laboratories erected a towering, red-brick wall sixty-feet high around their largest settlement. The gated community, known as the Pale, held its occupants in wooden carriage houses, designed to keep out the heat and the brutal savagery of the supplanted natives. The Shawnee watched on, unfeeling, as the district began its descent into self-destruction. They didn't care if the sparring peoples obliterated one another, once they got what was left over.

Inevitably, outgoing productivity suffered, and the Capitol had to step in.

The entire north-east of the district was split cleanly in two; the Karankawa were lumped into one half, the Mejo in the other. The active hostilities and attacks ceased, but a deep loathing lingered, and their former alliance was largely forgotten. The karamejo children denied their lineage, for fear of rejection. The only thing that either side of their families had in common was their abhorrence of the Shawnee, who they vehemently despised in no uncertain terms.

During the Dark Days, the district had a storm of fury to unleash upon the loyalist forces (led by prominent members of the Pale and Shawnee landholders), but their inability to convene and assemble together as a single, united force made the revolution in District 10 nigh impossible; the Mejo put up a good fight, but their brittle defenses, combined with the leaking of information by members of their own militia, put down their rebellion swiftly and decisively. A more solitary campaign in the Second Rebellion, with the implementation of a non-violent but a well thought-out Karankawa strategy proved to be extremely successful.

The traitors that had given up their brethren in exchange for post-war immunity and acres of countryside were disowned and cast out from their encampments, into a part of the district that became the Porla Riqueza, so named by the Mejo, to signify the fiscal ambitions and self-preserving, self-serving disposition of the turncoats and sell-outs that called it home.
It is no surprise, then, that the district's reaction to Kine Villanueva was less than favorable.

He was everything that the district hated. His tough, intuitive father had escaped from District 11, taken up work as a swine herder, and met his mother – the fearless, fiery daughter of a Karankawa chieftain. By the time of Kine's birth, the Shawnee had claimed the district for their own, and his parents' relationship had been deemed taboo and immoral. After the Dark Days, the Villanuevas were outed as a part of the Riqueza double-crossers, chased out of their former homes and forced into the factories that sorted good oats from bad for cattle.

At the reaping ceremony for the Fifth Annual Hunger Games, the Shawnee children pointed and laughed behind their hands at the turquoise string and tinkling bells braided into Kine's hair. The Karankawa glared at the deerskin and moccasin boots, their traditional cloth, that adorned his light brown skin. A few of the older, angrier Mejo stared into his dark, round eyes and spat on the ground in disdain. Slurs and insults began to ripple throughout the crowd.

"El mulo," the Mejo whispered.

Mule. Half-breed. Bastard. The words, and the meaning behind them, did not upset Kine.

They were, after all, just words, and he was used to them. Had dealt with them for years. It began with the swarm of fair, freckled children that pinned him down, pushing their button-noses against his bulbous one and braying as loudly as they could. Kine had cried about it then, for the first and last time. His mother wiped away his tears with an oak leaf and set up a dreamcatcher by his bed, promising him that a day would come that he would realize the power in his individuality.

"People may hate you for being different, little one. They wish they had the same courage."

This helped Kine to handle playground jibes and uninformed comments. He could put up with a schoolyard ambush or a petty scrap. The years didn't make life easier, but they made it bearable, although the more he pushed the anger down, the greater the pressure became. He felt it bubbling just beneath the surface, but he wanted to be good, and so he never acted on it.
As Kine entered adolescence, his gained muscle and growth spurt made him a less desirable target. Just in case, he wanted to be handy with a knife, and arranged a weekend with an old Shawnee farmer that needed a hand in slaughtering his hogs. It was just for a few extra denares. His mother hated the idea and found it sacrilegious ('blood money' was the exact term that she not-so-lovingly and quite ironically used), but his father quietly encouraged him.

Unfortunately, when the time came. Kine failed his task miserably. The high-pitched squeals of the encased pig made his hands shake. Its eyes widened in terror, and it bucked and reared as Kine tried to hold it down. He held the rusty blade to its neck for what felt like hours, until the farmer gave an impatient grunt, snatched the knife back and slit the hog's throat himself.
"How did it go, mijo?" his father asked him upon his return.

"It was fine," Kine lied. "A lotta blood."

"You'll get used to that," he said with a laugh.

It was strange, being their only son. Kine always felt as if his parents had split him at birth and taken a piece each. To his padre, he was the salt-of-the-earth, only as good as the fruits of his honest day's work. And for his kaninma, his mother, he was a sensitive soul, as gentle and harmless as a breath of summer wind. He always felt that he had to be one or the other.
The more Kine thought about it, the more it weighed on him. He tried to forget about it.

Unfortunately, the rest of the district had not.

For a time, Kine swallowed their beneath-the-breath insults and hard, presumptuous stares. He ignored the dubious, unconvinced expression of the man behind the counter at the Tesserae Hall when he stated his Mejo surname. It all began to meld into a dreary palette of expectations and stereotypes, and their ignorance washed over him as a brook does pebbles.
That was before the escort announced his name.

They called the girl up beside him, a heavy-browed and full-lipped meja that could barely look at him. She limply shook his hand, then wiped it on her long, agave skirt, as if he were a wild dog that had rolled about in its own filth. Kine didn't understand her reproach. He hadn't asked for this, any of this, no more than she had. It wasn't his fault he was what he was.

Kine looked out at the assembly in the square, a sea of unwelcoming, vengeful faces. In that moment, his impending doom provided a bout of clarity, and he understood that they would never claim him as one of their own. His sorrow quickly burned into a fierce determination.

As he boarded the tribute train, Kine swore that he heard their jeers and slander ringing in his ears. They didn't want him to come back. A karamejo victor lording about the Village? No way.

Despite this, Kine had other plans. He was coming back. And when he did, they would cheer for him – whether they wanted to or not.

Kine did not know what to expect from the Capitol. He had heard tell of its soaring skyscrapers and lush parks, the explicit nature of the clubs inside its buzzing under city. People walked about in outlandish wigs and impractical, garish day wear, resembling colourful, chirping parakeets. He didn't belong on the same planet as them.

He imagined that, to them, he was an insect. A dangerous insect, which must be squashed quickly.

So, when the Capitol put them up in a fancy hotel, Kine was pleasantly surprised.

On the first day of training, Kine and the twenty-three other tributes looked around the gymnasium. It was filled to the brim with an ample amount of equipment – long-swords, rapiers, javelins, maces, daggers, throwing knives – and the teachers who would provide the tools to wield them. There were shooting ranges of varying lengths and real-size mannequins, perfect for target exercise. A designated area had been set up just for hand-to-hand combat. It was basic and stripped back, compared to the later training centers, but it was a good start.

The Games Committee - colloquially referred to as the Gamemakers - kept an eye on the burlier, more capable tributes that they suspected had the upper hand. They stuck to what they knew; the goliath of a boy from District 11 stomped about, showcasing an unconstrained strength and short temper. His display was hotly contested by the male tribute from District 2, who proved to be a weapons quick study. Less fortuitously, the mentorship scheme had had less practical benefit for the Ones who, like many of the others, just hung about the gymnasium, dripping snot and sniffling into their sleeves, completely and utterly out of their depth.

Out of the lot of them, Kine – the soft-spoken, interesting boy from District 10 – turned out to be the biggest surprise. He floated from station to station, chatting good-naturedly and laughing heartily with the teachers. In the end, he built up a good rapport with the martial-combat and knife instructors, who he developed a routine with over the course of the training days.

But more importantly, he felt accepted. In the Capitol, Kine was not a mulo, or a riqueza – he was just a tribute, just Kine. He didn't find an issue in fighting with people, he told them. In the Games, he could justify it. It didn't count as murder to kill a person if they wanted you dead. It was nothing like trying to hurt an animal.

By the night of the Games, Kine was no warrior, but he was ready as he was ever going to be.

Or so he thought.

When the gong sounded, Kine sprung from his plate and bolted for the first dagger he saw. No sooner had he wrapped his hand around it, than a giant, dark blur crashed into him. Kine went flying and crashed into the dirt. His blade lay several feet away. He went to grab it, but a foot came down and shattered his wrist. Kine cried out in pain, and the shadow of the boy from District 11 looked down at him. He picked up the dropped knife and held it to Kine's throat. It bit into his neck, then stopped. A hesitation.

The combat instructor's voice resonated in Kine's mind.

If they got you pinned, just keep them talking.

"Go ahead," Kine said. "District wants me dead, anyhow. You'll be doing them a favour."

Eleven looked uncomfortable.

"Why they want you dead?" he asked.

"My father is from your district… mother's not… makes me a mutt to them."

Eleven's mouth tightened. "You're part Eleven?"

Kine nodded, struggling to breathe. "Dad… worked the persimmon crops… in Zone B."

The larger boy frowned. Kine had told him the truth. How else would he know the zones?

In the agriculture district, they held their blood ties in high regard. Kine's padre had told him; district honour, an unspoken law, did more harm than good, but it was the default there.

Suddenly, Eleven's expression softened, and he relaxed the pressure of his knife.

For years, Kine's heritage, his skin, the choices his family had made before him, had caused him a lifetime of pain. Now, it had spared him his life.

Unfortunately, it didn't save the boy from District 11 when Kine clawed out his eyes. The larger boy swore, clutching at his mangled eye socket.

He writhed in pain as Kine bore down on him and plunged the knife into his throat.

Suddenly, there was a shrill screech. The meja from his district launched herself at him. She was wild and feral, but Kine was able to intercept her and knock her flat on her back. Adrenaline had given her a terrific strength and she fought against him with every fibre of her being, hissing and scratching and growling. It was a horrible sight.

"Let go of me!" she screamed.

"I don't want to hurt you!" Kine told her.

"Liar! Traitor!"

"Please, just stop!"

"Curse you, you mulo!"

Kine saw red.

His knife came down. Behind every thrust was an insult, or a slur. The pent up rage that came from repressing eighteen years worth of hatred and segregation.

The trumpets rang and Kine couldn't hear them. They had to pull him off of her. It wasn't easy. He was trying to find the apology in her eyes.

Somehow, everything seemed to go upward from there.

His designated luncheon with Thorn went swimmingly. He got to see the best of the city before his trip home. He tasted fruity wines and rich, sourdough bread. He got to meet raving fans that demanded his autograph, and they practically salivated in hysterical excitement as he scribbled down a short, sharp signature. They were boys, girls, men, women, the elderly, toddlers in their prams. For the first time, he was in a place where nobody cared that he was a karamejo mule. People liked him, admired him, wanted to be him. They would pay to look like him, go out of their way to seduce and sleep with him. Nobody had done that before.

Kine was the first tribute and victor to kill his district partner. The Capitol had praised him for it. He did not expect District 10 to do the same.

The thing was, Kine had thought that winning the Games might give him something he needed. Self-confidence. Peace of mind. A validity, or respect, to his existence.

He should have known better. Kine never got the acceptance he so desperately craved.

At his homecoming, he expected a plethora of vitriol. The sound of gunshots. Riots, protests, the lot. The DERC had made threats on his life. Wouldn't the district?

But the people in District 10 didn't bay for his blood. There was no booing. No spitting at his feet. You see, Kine could've handled that. He was used to it, prepared for it.

His words rang out across the square, uninterrupted, as he thanked the people for their staunch support. It was part of the suitably clean script he had been given.

Kine thanked the Capitol for their eternal generosity. He honoured the fallen meja, her dark eyes narrowed in anger on the large screen behind him. He celebrated her courageous sacrifice as her family glowered up at him, their faces contorted with inexplicable grief. He found his own parents in the crowd. They couldn't look at him.

When the escort tried to lead them in applause, they did as Kine promised himself they would. They applauded.

It was not a happy sound. It was cold, short, and as biting as any silence could be.

Kine's speech was brief. He hardly touched the extravagant banquet laid out for his entourage and family. Those assembled tried their best to make idle chit-chat over the sound of the whippings and arrests that took place outside. He excused himself early, citing exhaustion, and requested to be escorted to the Victor's Village. He couldn't bare to be here, in this place, any longer.
As he was given a tour of his new home, Kine met the array of house staff that would wait on him day and night. Capitol-selected, well-mannered and obedient. Some of them were Karankawa, others Mejo. There was a Shawnee girl that even gave a half-hearted curtsy. He made to shake their hands, hesitated, and then decided not to.

He caught the relief on their faces before any of them could hide it.

The problems persisted, the people resented, and District 10, already heavily divided by years of oppression and segregation, had turned further against itself.

As he got into bed that night, Kine realised that nothing had changed.

It wouldn't change for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

After the uprising, the town of Sunfair had fallen into disarray, its once bustling square and winding cobblestones a graveyard of abandoned hovels and crass graffiti. Many of its former citizens had abandoned it. They had fled to Tyne, with its fertile earth and muddy banks by the Longriver, or migrated to Stoneslate, accessible to the plentiful work opportunities and the centralization of Panem's military.

It was a ghost town now, its shops sacked and looted, the coopers and butchers and brewers hollowed out and hastily converted into brothels, black markets and derelict militia outposts. Beneath the village lay a warren of unused and narrow tunnels that zigged and zagged for miles and miles, their many pathways long forgotten.

In the absence of her first families, employment and housing in Sunfair had deteriorated. The criminals that had outlasted the uprising – battle-ravaged militia members, middlemen for the drug cartels in District 6, semi-retired hit men – found themselves drawn there. They gathered together in the rotting belly of the countryside hamlet and added a new trick to their grotesque repertoire – slavery and human trafficking.

It would, in hindsight, be remembered as a dark point in the district's history. The purchases began as covert and underground deals, battered briefcases of denares exchanged in alleyways, behind taverns, in disused quarries and construction sites. Word spread quickly across certain, malevolent channels, and the scheme evolved drastically.

It was always the most vulnerable of the community. War orphans, children that had aged out of their foster homes, young people separated from their loved ones by the total shutdown of inter-district travel - they were the ones who often became ensnared in its inhumane coils, tempted by sweet, empty words.

In the winter that ended the first year of peacetime, an auction took place.

Knowledge of the event had circulated within specific social groups; avox recruiters, local politicians, the wealthiest and oldest of the Capitol ruling class whose generous donations had assisted the war effort during the Dark Days.

In the two nights that preceded the sales, the options had to be brought in from around the district. The well-off pinched their noses and set themselves up in dingy inns and mayor's guest rooms. They weren't far from the site. A canyon, perfect to conceal their illicit activities, was carved into the district landscape roughly three miles outside Sunfair. As they waited, the buyers stared out their windows at the shattered towns and shook their heads at what a country could do to itself.

Eventually, the day of the auction came. The slave owners had not discriminated in their selections of youth; children of rebels and loyalists alike had been chained inside a large, makeshift shed and brought to and from the main display block. The spectators eyed them, examined with less consideration than a broodmare.

Most of the children had been lured in by promises of a new home, gainful employment. A hot dinner or a clean bath. Some were of reaping age, but almost half of them could barely remember a time before the Dark Days, so young they were. The salesman considered this an enticing quality to the buyers. Start them young, they would say. Just give them time to adapt to being in your service.

Those present looked down at the scores of slave children and demanded they be transparent about their background, abilities and the politics of their descendants. It was a grueling, cruel process. The luckiest of them would go to work in a manse as servants, the less fortunate prepped and trained to be concubines and avoxes.
At the bottom of the Canyon, a small valley was enclosed by the rising sandstone walls around it. A mass of hand-bound and barefoot slaves descended its slope and into the auctioneer's blockade, and they brought the stench of neglect with them. Beneath the floral and sage perfumes of the chattering socialites and the odor of whiskey, it was there.

A large canvas tent had been set up to facilitate the bidding, a wooden crate serving as a podium. The children were led to it, their number, and details (age, weight, height, recommended service – pleasure, labor, hospitality) announced aloud to those assembled. A small girl was led away, her dirtied face streaked with tears. She was replaced by a little boy, who tried to keep his eyes hard while his lower lip trembled. It went on like this for some time. It was an endless parade of terrified, penned lambs being sold to ravenous wolves.

One of them was not like the others.

At least, not openly so; Shale had classic masonic features: sallow skin, dark hair, an aquiline nose, and a large, bushy brow. His eyes, however, were a deep blue, uncommon to the district and indicative of an ancient ancestor that hailed from the luxury or energy districts. Now, they surveyed the room, an icy fire of rage and frustration, but beneath all of that… a panic, almost animalistic in nature. He actively searched for an escape route, a target to lash out at.

"Auction sixty-four!" a gruff voice shouted, shoving the young man beneath a dim lamp suspended above the crate. It cast a dark shadow across his face. "Male, thirteen years old, four-ten, eighty pounds. In good condition and ideal for both business and pleasure!"

The bids began. Shale was underweight, but strong for his age, and more importantly he was handsome. He proved to be immensely popular among the haughty old women that dripped in furs and pearls. He was eyed up by the paunchy middle-aged men that had more chins than fingers. The young, toned upstarts raised their eyebrows in curiosity. All demographics seemed to have an interest.

They hoisted their paddles aloft and belted out their interest, voices overlapping in their increasing bids of incomprehensibly enormous amounts of denares. The excitement in the room reached a roaring climax, as Shale prayed for sweet release with the only orison that he knew off by heart.

Gem of Panem, mighty city, through the ages you shine anew…

A settlement had been reached. His new master ruffled through documentation, signing in looped, cursive handwriting. They didn't seem to be pleased about the extensive paper trail. Evidently, capitalizing on slavery required a hefty amount of legal protection. He considered making a run for it, but his eyes fell on the edgy men by the door, their firearms a thinly veiled threat; if you step out of line, we will fill you with bullets, and it will hurt.

We humbly kneel, to your ideal, and pledge our love to you…

The anthem had been played three times a day in their small hut near the mountain path. Once at dawn, again at noon, and dusk. His elder sister had an old, battered fiddle that had been passed down to her in a dead uncle's will. She scrunched up her face in concentration and played the proud, straight, warbling tune. The entire family sang along, and it was so beautiful it made his eyes well up with tears. When the war broke out, Shale couldn't understand why the rebels and dissidents wanted to take that away from him.

Gem of Panem, marble justice, wisdom crowns your marble brow.

He wasn't just a number. He would not be a slab of meat for the brothels, a mute to wait on lesser men. Shale was a patriot, a descendant of the men of the mountains, a fractured and dying breed before the Capitol had helped them. The men and women descended from the city in the sky and, in their infinite generosity and goodness, bestowed land and resources upon their district brethren. In turn, the clansmen had offered them their undisputed loyalty.

You give us light, you reunite, to you we make our vow.

Shale had been separated from his family in the Sunfair evacuation. It was a treacherous and winding journey to scale the mountain pass by foot, but the Capitol had promised protection and haven on the other side. It was a safer option than staying put. In the end, it hadn't mattered. The rebels had tried to contain the outpouring of refugees through tear gas and rubber bullets, and in the chaos, Shale had been torn from his family permanently.

Gem of Panem, seat of power, strength in peacetime, shield in strife.

The deal was made. Shale was forcibly removed from the podium, grabbed by the scruff of the neck, and dragged towards the 'sold' pen. He dug his bare feet into the dirt, twisted and thrashed as best he could, but to no avail. His new master grinned and made a snide comment about getting him broken in, but Shale didn't listen.

Instead, he quietly pleaded for intervention.

Protect our land, with armored hand, our Capitol, our life.

And, against all odds, it came.

The first tremor was short and violent, its sudden intensity thrusting spectators from their chairs and sprawling onto the earthy floor. At first, there was silence.

It was followed by a wave of laughter that arose to break the tension. Several people scrambled to their feet, grumbling and red-faced. They wiped the detritus from their satin blouses and silk shirts and made to retake their seats quickly.

The second tremor struck. This time, it was accompanied by the sound of a cracked whip that tore through the air like lightning, and a chorus of screams leapt up.

The metal rods that held the tent up splintered and split apart as the roof collapsed in on itself. The gathered audience fled. They trampled and shoved and stepped upon one another in their haste to escape. The earth gave another tremendous shudder and a series of chasms opened in the dry soil, sending the confused swarm reeling backward and tumbling into the crevasses.

It was madness. Pandemonium.

The roof swamped Shale's slight form, and he struggled against it, his breathing ragged and panicked, until the dread overwhelmed him. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The dry soil had begun to fracture, thin veins in the flesh of the valley floor. It was eerily beautiful, Shale thought, as if the canyon were transforming before him.

He wished he could have looked longer at it.

The darkness rose to meet him, consume him, and Shale gave it his permission.

He lay there for hours, left to waste away beneath the winter sun.

District 2 did not have emergency services or paramedics. Their doctors were field physicians and herbalists that had survived the war. When the earthquake subsided, they spread out across the harshly affected western part of the district, their supplies and attention spread thinly. The other casualties were left to themselves.

Luckily for Shale, the gods were in the Canyon with him.

There was a commotion and a distinctive, commanding voice delivering orders. A hand rummaged across Shale's body, through the collapsed canopy, as if it was trying to determine if the form beneath was human. There was a gasp of surprise.

Within seconds, the blackness was peeled back and replaced with harsh, blinding sunlight. Shale squinted into it, unable to identify or make out the features of the three mysterious shadows that stood before him.

What was this? Was he alive?

The tallest of them nodded at his two accomplices, who promptly helped Shale to his feet. They offered him water, which he gulped down greedily and without a moment's thought. It ran down his chin and onto his grubby tunic, emphasising the state of its filth.

Shale coughed and spluttered, his chest heaving as it filled up with air for the first time in hours. From the corner of his eye, he saw corpses strewn across the valley.

"Who are you?" he panted.

The shadow's dark eyes burned like coal.

"My name is Telemachus. I am here to help you."

Slowly, Shale's sight adjusted, and the silhouette sharpened. It's him, Shale thought.

"Put him with the others. We're heading back."

It was a quarter-day's journey on foot to Marbletown from Sunfair. Luckily, the truck sped down the district paths and kicked up waves of dust and pebbles as they tore along the ancient highways.

Shale pressed his nose up against the cool, stained window, and admired the sprawling landscape of mountains. The engine revved joyfully, as if it knew.

A wrought black iron gate guarded the entrance to the barracks near the Fort. On either side of the barrier, a limestone sculpture of Panem's eagle had been erected.

They stood proud and resolute, enormous wings spread aloft. Shale looked up at them with adoring eyes. As a child, he dreamed that he could fly. Just like they could.

The car stopped. Shale was escorted out by a short, muscled man. His broken-toothed smile was not reassuring, but it was the first hint of comfort that Shale had been privy to in a long time, and so he did not turn from it immediately.

He walked heavy-footed, Shale noticed, and thus he began to mimic his large, solid strides. This was not lost on the rest of the party, who began sniggering. Shale blushed and stopped. Their laughter only made him withdraw into himself again.

As they went further into the blockade, Shale noticed the wary, distrustful eyes of the other children. Half of them could not have been much older than him. The other, older half looked world-weary; their baggy eyes wrought with hunger. Some of them jeered.

Shale let their words turn to dust and float on the wind, as his father had taught.

Inside Telemachus' quarters, Shale felt his breath taken from him. He examined the busts and artwork that adorned the walls and ebony cabinets. The pillars, tables and stairs were hewed from obsidian, breccia, gabbro. He lovingly gazed upon the masterful portraits of district heroes. They inspired Shale, and made him proud. They always did.

Above Telemachus' desk and nameplate, Shale assessed an acrylic painting of a young man and woman, arm in arm, thrusting a flag into the dirt as they roared at a blood-red sky. There was no formal identification of either the artist or their subjects.

He reached out to touch it, heart racing, his fingers just about to graze the canvas.

The deep voice rose from behind him.

"Do you know who they are?"

He spun around. Telemachus loomed above him, his eyebrows raised in questioning.

Shale's mouth opened and closed a half-dozen times. He pressed his lips together, blushed furiously, and shook his head. The older man nodded sagely, as if he had expected this, and approached the artwork himself. His harsh exterior melted away.

"Their names were Colman and Danica Florent. War prodigies. Natural combatants and brilliant tacticians - wasted on a fruitless, treasonous cause." Telemachus' eyes shone as he recounted this. "The Florents were among the first in the district to secede from the Capitol."

"They were rebels," Shale said.

"Correct."

He felt his neck flush with heat. "And you're honouring them?"

"It is important to note the fine line between honour and remembrance," said Telemachus pointedly. "The Florents led their merry band of traitorous allies to an almost-certain death. They fought, grossly outnumbered, as a part of the Last Defence at the Mountain Fortress. It was the final war campaign. It would be the deciding battle of the Dark Days."

"You were there?"

"I was. The entire District 2 Peacekeeper force was there. It was the day that the rebels were cast down and the glory and honour of the nation prevailed. For the district, it was the end of a dozen formerly renowned bloodlines. Abbott. Cresterfell. Florent, of course. Do you know where they are now?"

Shale knew. The entire district did. "Gone."

"Gone. Their entire offspring and family were executed."

Telemachus looked at Shale, as if weighing him up.

"And that is why I have their portrait here, above my desk. As a reminder of the war that nearly wiped humanity from the annals of history. A reminder that, even with all the gifts the gods can bestow, we must choose the right path. It will not be laid out before our feet."

"I understand."

" Sir."

"I understand, sir."

Telemachus stared at him fixedly. "If you're going to last here, lying will not serve."

"I'm not a liar," Shale said, his cheeks burning at the accusation. "You saved all of us. That 'quake, it wasn't an accident. The mountains sent it for me."

Telemachus considered him for a long moment. "You believe in the mountain spirits?"

"Of course," he replied. "My ancestors worshipped them."

Shale was not sure how much he wanted to talk about them. He didn't want to have to delve too deeply into the tribes' history, which had been bloody and sad.

The desperate measures to which the mountain tribes had resorted – incest and abduction and forced marriages – to maintain their skewed sense of blood purity had been drastic. The Capitol saved them and Shale's family had bred their women with district men. There was no shame in it.

The only alternative was far worse.

"What is your family name?" Telemachus asked him, taking a seat.

"Cotter."

"That is a quarry name, not a clan one."

"My lineage is through my mother's side," Shale shot back. "My father is – was – from Sunfair. He wasn't much, but he was a good man, and a patriot. Everything he did, he did for us."
To his complete and utter surprise, Telemachus did not question him.

"Have a seat, Shale."

Shale accepted the offer.

"Let me be candid," Telemachus said. "Since my victory, I have been travelling and working. From the lowest shantytown at the foot of the Fort to the half-empty quarries to the tree-houses in the Bare Forest, I have been recruiting. No community home, no brothel, no street corner has been left unturned. Every young man and woman that you saw here today, regardless of where they come from, I have hand-picked to train and serve their district and their country. I would like to offer you that chance, if you want to take it."

Shale felt a jolt of excitement run through him. "What do I have to do?"

Telemachus smiled. "You will serve."

"Who?"

"The Capitol. The district. The country." He paused. "And myself, of course. However, there is always a chain of command. Individuality is the death of duty, as we say."

"I don't know what that means, sir."

"What do you think it means?"

Shale considered the phrase for a moment. "That we can't let our personality rule us."

Telemachus observed him over his fingers. "And why not?"

"Because… Panem doesn't belong to me. Or you. We have to think of everyone."

"Do you think you can speak for Panem?" Telemachus asked him.

Shale thought about it. He knew his beliefs. His own values. The conviction that he had in the Capitol. The hatred in his heart was black and barbed and toxic, but it was reserved for a largely extinct part of today's society. Besides that, he didn't want to take responsibility for the rest of the district. Or any of the others.

"No," he whispered.

Telemachus put a hand on his shoulder. "You're only just beginning to learn. Don't be hard on yourself. Your time to contribute, and how to do it, will reveal itself."

He stood up and motioned for Shale to leave.

"In the meantime, keep your head down, and don't ask too many questions."

Shale nodded. His body ached with fatigue, but he did not dare ask for rest. Telemachus seemed to read his mind.

"Go get some sleep, recruit. Your training starts tomorrow."

And it did – in earnest.

Shale shared a bunk room with a handful of other children that Telemachus had rescued from across the district. They made up a squad, albeit a dysfunctional one. In lieu of their birth names, they each received a 'barrack title'. There was Bullseye, so named for his impeccable aim and long-range firearm record. The only girl, Mantis, lured you in with her pouty lips and prominent bust and then slipped you into a choke hold so tight that you begged for release. And then, there was Biter. He was – well, it went without saying. They kept away from him.

The earliest version of the Program was not comfortable. As a matter of fact, it was a harsh, ruthless existence – too harsh for some, who scuttled back to the hells they'd come from, never to be heard from or sought after again. The choice was always theirs to make, but abject poverty seemed a regression, a slip back into chaos, and so few chose it over a full belly with extra bruises. You got what you fought for and nothing less. Shale learned to steal, fight, and lie for his supper. It was better than a hollow belly.

And if Telemachus knew what they were doing, he didn't discourage it.

At the start, Shale considered slipping out in the middle of the night. But where would he go? Sunfair was a grim prospect, unevolved from the grim underbelly of its once glorious status. The fear of a lonely, unacknowledged death in the wilderness prevented any true plan from formulating. Instead, he spent his nights peering out at the distant mountain pass. Shale wondered what lay beyond it.

He didn't have time to think. Training was rigorous. Telemachus pulled some strings, drew in contacts from across the district. Lessons consisted of two main disciplines: physical and academic. Most of the students excelled at one or the other; the robust, hard, aggressive recruits that could wipe you out with a single blow. The bookish, quiet ones destined for the Capitol, that ate up information as if it were real, tangible food.

Not one of them could compete with Shale in either category.

He was good at everything. The instructors' favourite. Telemachus' golden child. He grew to be courteous and obedient, with gumption and guile and an impressive record in the classroom. But besides that, he was complete and utterly dedicated to his craft.

Shale was the first up at the crack of dawn, meditating and warming up before the others had even pulled on their socks. He was fast, surpassing his peers in the track sprint and edging them out in the yearly obstacle course.

This didn't make Shale popular. It earned him dirty looks and made him the target of pranks and smear campaigns.

Like dust in the wind, Shale would tell himself. You are stronger than this.

And he was strong. By gods, he was strong. His frail frame from his days in slavery had swollen into bulging biceps and a beautifully toned body. There were few girls accepted into the barracks at the start – the interspersed succession of femme fatale victors during the second decade of the Games changed minds in that regard. But whenever Shale and the others were granted permission to hit up the taverns, he was lavished with ogling and flirting and undivided attention from women (and not a few men).

Shale entertained them, but didn't let it get too far. He wasn't cruel, not by any stretch, but he just didn't want to humiliate them by expressing his unequivocal disinterest.

Shale had never thought of himself as… well. He wasn't sure what the textbook definition was. He'd heard other words, of course. Queer. Sword-stabber. Fairy. They were always said snidely, cruelly, and always in a context of subjugation and anger.

He was confused, because he didn't have a preference for girls. Or boys. Just one person in particular.

Across the six years of his training, Shale's romantic intent took form in the shape of one man.

Telemachus Folami.

In his defence, Shale didn't love him straight away. Gods, no. That was silly and sentimental. It began as a reverence for the man that had swept into the ruins of his broken life and made it seem salvageable. Telemachus' background had been similarly complex. He had come from nothing, fought and earned his status in life. Shale wanted that. He needed to believe in it.

He had to.

Little did he know, they would soon be closer in experience than he ever imagined.

***

One year later, the square in Marbletown was smothered in a grim silence, organised into a sad collection of young people and their guardians – like as not, many of their parents were dead. An overcast day looked down on gaunt and bruised children shuffling aimlessly into their segregated pens, the demoralised adults dragging themselves to the side lines with tight lips and red eyes.
The Hunger Games had not played favourites. Only one of theirs had ever come back.

The cameras clicked on. They were perched atop the buildings like vultures, giant mechanic bats that swung mechanically to and fro. Some of them rolled along the tarmacadam for close ups, others were attached to drones that buzzed overhead like mosquitoes. They perfectly caught the people's fear. After all, it was their job.

The district's upper class – the mayor, Capitol ambassadors, construction investors – were seated upon the reaping stage. They exchanged pleasantries, shook hands, and commented on the weather. It's not been a good run for us, said the snotty wife of one engineer or another, with as much competitive spirit as she could muster. Those with children patted nervously at their sweaty foreheads – they knew as well as anyone that even without tesserae, their little ones were more at risk of being targets of a 'thorn in the side', a statement reaping or consequence.

Their designated escort, Domitia Sparrow, provided a welcome distraction. Her hair was a glittering silver, her eye makeup dark and bold. A shiny, cement-like contour glistened on her cheekbones and she wore a metallic jumpsuit with large shoulder pads. Atop her head was a bulky, jewel-encrusted hard hat. It was an utterly bizarre look and did little to comfort the female tribute, a greasy-haired and scowling crafter's daughter, who just looked stricken.

"Let's all give a big round of applause to your female representative this year, Tyla Stone!"

There was a scattering of limp, half-hearted applause. Domitia's spirits seemed to deflate, too.

"Are there any volunteers?"

It was a mandatory question and a predictable silence followed. Tyla began to weep.

Domitia tried to move past the general lack of enthusiasm and slid on over to the boy's bowl.

"Now, to find out who will join her! How exhilarating. The male tribute for District 2 is…"

She thrust her hand into the container and read out the name.

Several minutes later, Telemachus swept into the farewell room in the Justice Building. Shale rose to his feet.

"Mr. Folami, sir. It's an honour to - "

"Sit down," said Telemachus, cutting him off. "I need to figure out what I'm going to do with you."

A bit taken aback by his lack of warmth, Shale resumed a place on the couch.

"I know how to fight –"

"Yes, I'm aware. We all saw what you could do at the Program."

An airy, light feeling swelled inside Shale's chest. He held back a smile. "You did?"

"Of course. You're good."

"Thank you, sir."

"Be honest. Do you think you can win?"

The frankness and uncertainty behind the question took Shale by surprise. He was the best recruit in his age unit, after all.

"Yes, I think so," he said, a tremor of doubt clinging to his voice. Telemachus heard it.

"It takes more to be a Victor than winning a teenage scuffle."

Shale was frustrated and slightly hurt at the insinuation of his inadequacy, as if his years of preparation and training had all been for naught.

"How can I win, then? Teach me."

Telemachus sighed. "It's not that simple. You have it in you or you don't."

"So, how can I be ready?" he asked.

"You can't. You're as prepared as you can be. The Games will reveal the rest."

"Reveal what?"

"Whether you're a Victor or not."

Shale felt as if he'd been sentenced to death for a crime he didn't commit.

"Am I going to die?" he asked. It felt like a childish question in his mouth.

"The only certain death is the one you think is imminent," said Telemachus.

"Please," Shale begged. "Tell me what to do."

Telemachus looked out across the district from the sill. "Ever since my victory, I have sought to remove the corruption within District 2. To illustrate how the actions of a few malcontents would not reduce us to a debased, instinctual form of what was once the best of humanity.

I have plans, Shale. Important plans. To convert children of dishonourable blood from their parents' ideals. To lead them down the right road. Not just those trapped by their parents' foolishness, but those who remained loyal and still lost everything, as I did. Until the Capitol saved me, of course. As hard as it was, I had to look past my own biases to achieve this realisation. If you are successful, as I think you can be, we will provide the district a new generation of youth. One that will not let their country down.

On the first day we met, I showed you a portrait of the Florent traitors in my office. It hangs there to this day. That is not a decision I made lightly, Shale. When I first won my Games, I hated them. With every fibre of my being. But now I see, hate is not the way forward. It is rehabilitation. We must take the children of the old world, and show them the new one, until only the Panem we need remains."

He turned to Shale; his eyes were as passionate as he'd ever seen them.

"I will ask of you what I have asked of all my tributes. Are you willing to help me make that future a reality?"

A shiver ran through Shale's body. Whether it was love or fear, or both, he couldn't tell.

"Yes, sir."

Telemachus smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

He began to lead Shale out of the room, before stopping abruptly.

"Oh, and before we continue, I am implored to say this: for the duration of the Games, you must put your personal feelings for me aside. As well as being inappropriate, they are a distraction."

Shale went a deep red. "I don't –"

"Please. I don't have time for silly protestations. What you do with the sword in your pants matters less to me than how you use a knife in the arena. I want a victor, not a lover. Understand?"
Shale blinked back tears.

"Yes, sir."

As they departed for the city, the high-speed train sped them past and over the mountain ranges from Shale's childhood. Up close, they were less beautiful. Ugly and blemished and covered in crags and cracks, lumps and bumps. Shale frowned. How could he have ever thought them to be so glorious? They were disappointing.

From that day on, everything was disappointing.

By the time they got to the Capitol, and for a long time after, Shale's heartbreak manifested itself in other ways.

It was the half-mad way in which he killed the boy from District 8 with his bare hands.

It was his non-reaction to the death of his former bunk mates in the arena.

It was in how he always treated his former mentor with the utmost respect and diplomacy.

His consorts, boyfriends, whores... they all bore a similarity to a certain victor. It only fuelled the vicious rumours and salacious gossip, to which Shale paid no heed.

He lived the rest of his life as a teacher, mentor, and – famously – a bachelor.

Upon his death, Shale's peers and friends lamented; he had been wealthy and handsome. Men and women lined up at his feet. He could've had his pick of the litter, so inexhaustible were his romantic options. What had stopped him from settling down?

But, as Shale knew, and as history had proven time and time again...

There is nothing more powerful than hope.

Chapter Text

When the metal platform lifted him up and into the arena, Fen had to thank the gods.

They've brought me home, he thought, as the pedestal locked into place with a sharp click.

The thunderous roar of the Capitol crowd was soft and distant beneath the canopy of long, thick pine trees. The forest floor was a mangled mess of undergrowth – wet moss and enormous ferns, rotted logs, and wicked thistle bushes. Beyond the branches, the audience hunched and craned their necks, desperate to get a proper eye on the quivering tributes. The twenty-four children encircled the generously gifted array of weapons that Games enthusiasts had nicknamed the Cornucopia. Only the more perceptive players noticed the hint of sand, the stray pebble and mortar, that indicated that the arena had simply gotten a makeover.

Fen's familiarity and comfort in his surroundings did not last long. The forest was an illusion. He had been fooled, for a moment, by the cool, open air. A cricket's musical chirp. The flash of a mockingjay's wing. But then, upon closer inspection, it struck him. He saw it in the low-lying fog that crept slowly across the woods, as a lynx would stalk an unsuspecting fawn. He heard it in the howls that called back and forth, hungry and furious and from every direction.

He felt like a fox, curled up in its hiding hole, right before the hunters smoked him out.

And not for the first time.

**

Prior to the invasion, the landmass of District 7 was made up of what were once the North American states of Washington and Oregon. The floods, quakes and hurricanes of the Catastrophes had whittled the populous and forced them inland, where they set up their small, tribal communities. For a time, they co-existed in peace and looked after one another.

And then, from the east, they came.

The conquerors. They poured out of the mountain face like beetles made of metal and fire. Their appetite for control and domination was insatiable, and ruin followed them. The tree-hamlets burned, the moats were razed, the farmland scorched. Despite their best efforts, the tribal kings and queens could not resist the relentless onslaught. And so, they were slain and executed, their allies and kin made into slaves, the old ways discarded and replaced.

But not forgotten.

Fen was descended from those men, the tree-kings, that had founded a land named in their own tongue, but which the colonizers called District 7. He was raised to take pride in his lineage, to pay homage to it, and practise the old speech – but in private, always in private, where no malevolent ears could hear. At night, as his mother cooed him to sleep, Fen would dream of how things used to be, and he would pray for the day that his ancestor's land would be restored to him.

When the war broke out, Fen's father, a deeply political man, ensured that Fen and his brother understood their stance. They would not slink away into the woods, claiming pacifism in place of fear, as the cowardly goddess-cult had done. The Kavanaghs would support the resistance. However, at the end, they did not want a republic. A claim to one-thirteenth of Panem? No, they wanted their country back, nothing more. Nothing less.

"This is our land," he had told them. "Ours. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different.

Always remember."

Of course, none of it had mattered. District 13 was decimated, and the Capitol had won.

The Kavanaghs paid the price of betting on the wrong side.

Fen's mother was executed for harbouring, feeding and healing rebel soldiers under her roof. His father became an exterminator, a pawn sent out to hunt, locate and dispose of surplus muttations that had made a comfy home for themselves in the abundant woods and forests of the district.

During a misty morning in January, he brushed up against a low-lying tracker-jacker nest. He survived, somehow, by fleeing into a nearby lake, but he was unrecognizable in both body and mind, reduced to a vegetative state and a mere ghost of his former self.

After that, Fen's eldest brother Rowan was taken and sent in to replace their father.

He didn't come back.

Fen kept his father alive for six months after that, spoon-feeding him crushed berries, grubs and rainwater that he collected in an old, stained bucket. It was hard work, foraging and digging in the dirt for a semblance of a meal, but not as hard as forcing his father's jaw open in order to coax a pitiful dinner down his throat. Despite his wounded pride, he didn't resist.

Until, one sunny summer morning, during breakfast, he batted away Fen's hand with a limp wrist and gentle hand. Fen stared fixedly into his father's eyes, which were alight with desperation. Mr. Kavanagh's mouth opened, and a gurgling noise emerged from his throat. As his cracked and trembling lips formed the words, he mustered up the lucidity to speak.

"Please, Fen."

He knew. Fen took a pillow from the bed, lifted it over his father's face, and pressed down.

There was a slight struggle, a reflexive jerk, and then a stillness – one that Fen never forgot.

He buried his father by himself, in an unmarked grave in the forest behind their cottage.

**

A year passed, and Fen grew older. As his world changed, and he grew more independent, he began to settle into his features. His growth spurt lent itself to his knobbly knees and lanky arms. He had youthful, elvish features, sparkling green eyes and a mess of curly brown locks. His muscles had developed from lugging heavy bags of firewood after him and climbing trees – he wasn't District 2 muscle, or an agriculture giant from 11, but he was strong in his way.

One evening, Fen had begun to light a fire in the scorched and ashy hearth, when there was a knock at the door. That in itself was curious. He had never had visitors – the Peacekeepers hadn't even been around, although the census time was at the end of the year. Fen was dreading it, as he didn't know how he was going to explain his situation to the authorities.

When he went to answer the visitor, he found a group of older, sterner men facing him.

There was a brief pause, where Fen waited for them to speak.

"Can I help you?" he asked, realising the onus was on him.

"Hello, son. Does a Fen Kavanagh live here?"

Fen leaned against the doorframe, trying to look tough. "You're speaking to him."

There was an awkward silence, and several of the men exchanged confused glances.

"He's too young," piped up a burly-looking man from the back.

Fen rolled his eyes. "Fen was my Da's name, too, if that's any help?"

A man at the front, who must have been their leader, smiled. "Greetings, Fen. My name is Connifer. Is your father around?"

"He's dead."

For the second time, the group looked bewildered. Connifer raised an eyebrow.

"Dead?"

"As a doornail."

"How?"

Fen scowled. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," Connifer muttered to himself.

Fen stood up straight. "What did you want to speak to him about?"

"It's grown men talk."

"I'm grown," huffed Fen. "Kept everything alright here for a year with no help."

Connifer smiled again. "Right you are. In that case, maybe we can interest you?"

"With what?"

"May we come in?" Connifer asked. "Trust me, we'll explain everything."

They did.

As the country rebuilt, industrialisation had exploded. Across the nation, quotas soared, and District 7 slid back into poverty and hunger. The paper mills and lumber factories thrummed and roared with the sound of production, facing the brunt of the ruthless demands of a nation that needed to rise from the ashes of conflict.

President Thorn's Ten-Year Plan put enormous pressure on the heavy industry districts – masonry, lumber, transportation, coalmining – in order to form the skeleton of the new Panem. It was, as predicted, a success for the Capitol. They applauded and praised their President for his economic ingenuity, as the districts' earth and stone were tilled and stained with blood, their Justice Buildings and Tesserae Halls erected on the emaciated, rotting corpses of labourers.

Many districts did not kindle flames of resistance, already beaten into a sorry submission.

District 7, on the other hand… well, in the lumber district, fire catches quickly.

For Thorn, a problem had arisen – since the beginning of the new order, District 7 had found comfort in their faith. Many worshipped an ancient earth goddess; from whose loins the universe had sprung forth. Danu, the First Mother, watched over them. It was a laughable concept to most of the materialistic and worldly Capitol, but it gave District 7 a source of hope. From hope came ideas, and from ideas came action. Action led to war.

Thorn's first attempt at a solution was to issue a blanket ban on nature worship. This backfired badly. He had underestimated the deep-rooted nature of the Danuist's faith, which had kept the natives neutral during the war. In contrast, the Godsmen had risen up during the rebellion, but a swift demonstration on the consequences of sedition meant that they now proved no threat, and the less-than-zealous traditionalists evaded the law with no penalties.

As a result, tensions begin to arise between the two parties and sectarian conflict was slowly on the rise. The Danuists viewed the Godsmen as brutes that received special treatment from the state, and the Godsmen viewed the Danuists as cowards who abandoned their country.

The government's attempt to oppress the Danuists had set off a butterfly effect in District 7.

A harshly anti-religious regime was met with an unanticipated level of resistance. In the province of Greenspear, a radical outlaw group emerged. They called themselves the Seven Sons. The brotherhood comprised of banished sons of different faiths. The reason behind their excommunication varied from man to man and differed in extremity, from petty theft to criminal violence. The motives and morality of the Brothers were debatable. To protect the disenfranchised. To steal from the rich and give to the poor. To be a particularly troublesome pebble in the Capitol's shoe. Each of those reasons was right, and each of them were wrong.

Beyond anything, the Seven Sons had one true goal – to unite District 7 under one banner, regardless of faith, as it had been in the days of old before the Capitol had colonized them.

And while their success in that matter was not close to completion, it could not be denied that the people of the district highly valued their protection during times of religious persecution.

While it was true that the Peacekeepers had more firepower, they couldn't shoot what they couldn't find, and the Seven Sons were masters of stealth and adept at guerrilla warfare. They operated only at night, stealing into the homes of wealthy landlords and robbing them for the rich, nutritious food that the poor, starving peasants had been deprived of for so long. The brotherhood kept the people of Greenspear fed through their refusal to be intimidated.

Within the confines of his decadent mansion, Thorn watched it all unfold with baleful eyes.

District 7 had them at a stalemate. The Treaty of Treason's dull, convoluted rules made a military bombardment impossible. Thorn longed to revise it and edit it accordingly. Alas, it was a sensitive point for the current government, who tried to intercept him at every turn. He had led the country in, through and out of a war. He had eliminated the last rebel factions in Hodharbour, established a competent tesserae scheme. Thorn should've earned his peer's respect.

Now, their egos could lead Panem into a district civil war. For as long as District 7 felt oppressed by the Capitol, the lumberjacks would not secede true defeat. They were a proud bunch, and their loyalty to their gods (or she-god) was still strong. No matter how hard you hit them, if they had faith and unity, they would regroup and get back on their feet. However, the district's unshakeable spirituality was also the chink in their armour. The mutual tension that existed among the two religious factions had not relaxed and Thorn wouldn't waste it.

The President used their hatred as an incendiary, ensuring that District 7 stayed divided.

Connifer let out a deep, tired sigh. "We had them at the start, when they didn't expect us, but now… they're way ahead of the game."

"Ahead? How?"

"Thorn's men – his imposters – are feigning collusion with the Sons. They pretend to be members, offer people help, then arrest or execute those that accept. Nobody trusts us. Or, at least, they won't have us as an ally anymore. It's not worth the risk. Not in this climate."

"So, what? You're giving up?" Fen asked, somewhat angrily.

"No," retorted Connifer, his eyes sharp and alert. "We're recruiting. That's why we're here. Your father. We heard, through our old sources, that he was sympathetic to the cause."

Fen shook his head. "If he was, he didn't tell us."

"I see." He adjusted his cloak fastener. His nails were filthy and chipped. "Say, how old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"You climb trees?"

"Better than anyone I know," Fen admitted, though he did not know many people.

"And how's your axe arm?"

Fen shrugged. "Not bad. I used to help my Da and brother, and I cut my own firewood. Why?"

"You fancy joining us? We can always do with scouts. Might even have a hatchet for you."

Outside, it had begun to rain. A light, trickling shower, perfect for a warm summer's day. Fen stared at this man, and his henchmen, with their thick beards and long, unkempt hair. He listened to them grumbling and swearing under their breath, impatient and temperamental. He looked at their shabby, stolen, dishevelled clothes, splashed with mud and covered in detritus.

Then, he found himself glancing towards the back of the house, past its walls, at the grave that lay beyond.

Fen had his answer. "I'm sorry. I can't."

For a moment, Connifer didn't respond. Then, he let out a laugh. "Alright then. Sorry for bothering you, kid." He put a hand on Fen's shoulder. "I hope you get dealt a better hand than your Da."

The older man barked an order at his underlings, and they began to disperse, complaining.

Fen watched them go. When they had left, he was by himself in the house, with only the now-smouldering embers and the tippity-tap of falling rain to keep him company. And it was there, as the four walls closed around him, that Fen realized the truth: he was all alone in the world, but more than that – he was very, very lonely.

A minute later, he was sprinting down the forest path, a hastily packed bindle in his hand.

Connifer and his men were waiting to greet him at the end of the road, smiling expectantly.

For four years, Fen adopted the position of scout. It was up to him to blend in amongst the peasantry and noblemen. He infiltrated the logtowns and houses of worship, always with a different name and a different story. He made connections. He sought information – but its extraction had to be subtle, careful. If the laymen grew suspicious, they would not hesitate to act out. And so, he blended in, assimilating amongst the rabble, listening and waiting for the right opportunity. When it arose, he scrambled on back to Connifer, relaying what he'd heard and learned, and they would use their findings to mostly steal food and money from rich folk.

After some time, Fen was trusted in the organisation of reconnaissance missions. He was a nimble, sturdy fellow, quick on his feet and even quicker at thinking on the spot. Before long, Fen was a natural liar, and could spin a story to get himself out of any sticky situation. He grew quite attached to his strange comrades – Aster the Archer, whose proficiency with a bow meant that he needed no surname. There was Jon of Kettlelake, a strong, rambling man that spoke in poems and riddles. The Nurse, whose bitter herbal restoratives left you reeling. And most interestingly, Bryony Blackwood, the only woman. A witch, she perceived coming events in animal intestines and claimed to have unusual, prophetic dreams about the future.

One night, as they sang around a roaring campfire and gorged themselves on wild rabbit, Bryony leaned toward Fen and brought her lips to his ear, all broken teeth and flying spittle.

"You are marked for death, sapling," she croaked. "Your sentence will be your saviour."

Fen, a sworn realist and firm disbeliever in any form of magic, ignored her. The false witch was only there for two reasons: to massage Connifer's superstitious nature and to massage the other mens' inherent nature during the longest and coldest of the dark, cruel winter nights.

If he had not been a bull-headed, narrow-minded young man, overly secure in his abilities and emboldened by the group of men that enabled his worst impulses, Fen might've taken it more seriously.

But, alas, he did not. At least, not until later.

As the others slept, Fen was on guard duty, nestled sleepily into the small nook of a tree. He curled into it, lovingly, as if it were his mother's embrace. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed sternly in slumber – or, at least, he appeared to be resting. His breath came in smooth, gentle waves that filled up his chest and belly.

But, if one looked closely, they could see it. The same tell-tale signs that always gave him away in this particular performance. The slight flicker of an eyelid, the fox-like perk of his ears.

In the distance, a twig snapped.

Fen slid down the tree with an effortless ease and hit the ground with a soft thud.

Heshook his peers awake and peered out into the darkness.

"Hello?"

There was no response.

As if sensing danger, Connifer sat up immediately. "All of you, move out."

Nobody needed telling twice. The others swept away and disappeared into the dusk.

Fen, however, didn't budge. "I'm not leaving."

"Don't be a fool. I told you to go," snapped Connifer.

"No. If there's something there, I can fight."

"I said –"

"Connifer!"

There was a whistle, a flash, and before Fen could run, a thick, yellow fog had risen around him. His eyes drooped, his limbs sagged, and his mind began to numb under the sedative.

It's a sleeping agent, he thought, as he drifted far, far away. They don't want us dead.

When he awoke, Fen tasted blood.

He had a pounding headache, and his hands were bound. He was in a cell.

As it happened, this particular cell belonged to a shoddy and poorly constructed gaol, purposely built in the most crime-rampant and poverty-stricken parts of Greenspear. There was a great number of these here, and by no mere accident – it was the Peacekeepers themselves who needed a reason to patrol in the parts of town where the seediest brothels and noisiest taverns were located. District 7 was a place of fierce faith, but you cannot have piety without the proximity of sin, and Greenspear had that in spades… and then some.

Fen waited for days, and days, and days, until he began to demand the guards for information whenever they brought him his dry, mouldy bread and tepid water. They gave him nothing, as he suspected, and so as his energy began to wane, Fen brought his knees up to his chest and, as he often did, he began to speak to his loved ones. Ma. Da. Rowan. Con. What do I do?

This time, their voices were silent, and the only sound was the rattling of the guard's keys.

Fen looked up hopefully, and his captor snorted with laughter.

"Don't look so optimistic, tree-rat." The jailor's voice was a crisp District 2 accent. A bunch of them had been sent into District 7 during the war, Fen remembered. "You're only getting out for today on account of the reaping. Capitol is being extra strict on it this year, since some kids just don't seem to be showing up. You'll be back, though. And after that… well..."

He made a single, slicing motion across his neck. Fen fixed him with a hateful glare.

"I'd rather be dead than be you, sell-out," he spat. "Where's the man they brought in with me?"

The guard's cruel smile widened. "Oh, you mean your buddy? Tall, long hair?"

Fen said nothing, fearing the worst.

"Hanged him yesterday."

The air seemed to leave Fen's lungs. "You're lying."

"I got nothing to lie about, traitor." He leaned in. "Rumour has it, the executioner botched it. A long, painful death. Want my opinion?" He bared his teeth. "I wish it had lasted longer."

Fen, incensed, swung his cuffed hands at the Peacekeeper, who side-stepped him and returned the attempted blow with a strike from the painfully blunt end of his own baton.

"Now get out of here," he snarled. "I'll make sure I deliver you to the gallows tomorrow myself."

As fate would have it, he never got the chance.

A mere six hours later, with a toss of her long lavender locks, Io Pennyworth plucked her intricately tattooed hand from a large, transparent bowl, unfurled the piece of paper and squinted at the small, formal font printed upon it. She cleared her throat and read the name aloud, choosing to ignore the waves of hatred rolling from the scrawny girl next to her.

As Fen stepped up to the stage, he thought of Connifer, swaying from a rope in the breeze. He thought of his father, half-submerged in lake water as the last of the tracker-jackers drowned around him. He ignored his district partner's tears of fury and his escort's thinly veiled disgust and the crowd's undisguised pity and sheer relief that it wasn't them this time.

Bryony Blackwood's words came flooding back to him, a haunting voice from the past.

Your sentence will be your saviour.

She was right.

It would be.

**

Suddenly, the announcer's voice, high-pitched and thunderous, blared out from around them. He rambled on, officiating the ceremonies and rattling off a long list of special guests and benefactors. At some point, President Thorn began to speak. He didn't need a microphone. The crowd stood in utter reverence of him, utterly silent and in awe of his booming voice.

Fen turned back to the game at hand. He couldn't be distracted. Not now. He had to focus.

Get it together Kavanagh, he told himself. Look around you. What are you working with?

Trees, trees and more trees. He could climb them, and hide, but would the Capitol even let him? Tributes had run and hidden before, but it was boring, and nobody wanted them to win.

As he was contemplating doing a runner, he saw it, glinting in the distance.

Not far from him, perhaps five metres or so, a dane axe was strewn on the grass. Fen recognized it. It was light, it was sharp, and it suited him perfectly. He just had to get to it – if he was fast enough. He believed he could make it, that he was faster than the others, but how could he know? The training centre had only let them display their raw power, of which only the lad from District 2 had shown a surprising – and suspicious – amount of natural ability.

As their host had begun the countdown, a handful of the tributes became visibly shaken. Without warning, there was a loud, wet retching noise as the waif of a girl from District 5 sprayed the ground with her breakfast. Her district partner, his eyes bulging and his skin clammy, began to twitch. He looked left, then right, and fled his pedestal without permission.

The crowd began to boo.

The boy from the power district made a dash for it. He darted across the arena, high on flighty adrenaline, his momentum driving him to the barrier that separated the tributes from the spectators. The watchers at the front screeched as the frothing, panting, weed of a child approached them, intent on leaping into the stands and escaping the arena on foot, no doubt.

He didn't make it far.

A minute later, his corpse was riddled with bullets, slumped and defeated in the grass.

Unfortunately, this abrupt and violent event sent the tributes into an unprecedented panic.

Most ran to arm themselves and began to mindlessly hack and slash at their nearest target, desperate to end the Games before the Peacekeepers could get another shot at them.

Others ran into the woods, where rows of sharp teeth and curved talons awaited them.

Interestingly, for the first time, a pair of unlikely cohorts formed a mutual agreement. As one dispatched an enemy, the other kept an eye on their back, ensuring nobody sneaked up on them. It was a sound and clever strategy, and within the hour, they began to count corpses.

"Someone is missing," said Four.

"Who?"

"District 7. The one that looks like a grasshopper."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I counted."

After a few moments' arguing, they wandered the grove, hunting the penultimate tribute.

The blond, slender boy from the fishing district hated the grove. His rogue, boyish beauty was diminished as he picked out shards of bone from his hair. His chest was splashed with fresh, glossy blood and despite a cool persona, he fought back tears. He had grown up surrounded by beaches and bonfires, so the dingy woodland was strange and foreign to him.

His ally, a quarrier's son, was a grunt and a bully, who made up for dim wits with big muscles. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, and wanted to end things quickly.

They moved through the dark as the audience watched them with bated breath.

"Where is he?" growled District 2.

District 4 shook his head. "I don't remember seeing him since the pedestals locked."

"Don't remember, or weren't looking?"

"Shut up."

"Who you telling to –"

"I mean it, be quiet. Do you hear that?"

"What?"

From a nearby tree, an owl mutt hooted.

Without hesitation, a figure in a large oak tree sprang to life, just as he had when his name was called at the reaping. A gap of about fifty feet separated him from the ground, but if it fazed him, he didn't show it. He slid down the tree trunk, quick as a squirrel yet quiet as a mouse. His smaller hands and feet were perfect for this; they scurried from branch to branch with dazzling ease, instinctively finding the appropriate knots and holds to help his descent.

District 2 heard a displacement of air, a slight ruffle of leaves, and with a scream, he stabbed blindly at the dark with the sword he held aloft in his large, coarse, violently shaking hands.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, as if from out of nowhere, a dirty, elvish face appeared in front of them.

The boy was hanging onto the lowest branch by his knees, just beyond their reach.

In his hand, he held an axe.

"You," gasped Two.

Fen smiled.

"Yeah. Me."

**

Fen returned home, his execution postponed indefinitely, and his former crimes pardoned.

He didn't dare try to find the Seven Sons - he knew he was being watched, the President had told him as much. His status as a victor had not erased his past.

Unbeknownst to him, this surveillance was in part due to Thorn's worsening paranoia - the same paranoia that would lead to the beginning of the end for his career.

And so, Fen did the only thing he could do - he settled into the Victor's Village, spared his kindness when he could, and tried not to think about the nightmares.

His sense of humour, reliable nature and proclivity for solid advice made him the go-to person for incoming victors and tributes. In a way, Fen became the father figure that he had sought after since the death of. As a matter of fact, Fen often found himself in a dive bar in the Capitol's boho district, shushing and comforting a reluctant survivor on their inability to keep other, less fortuitous children alive for awfully long. He originated the 'Casket Cocktail', as it was later coined, the drink that a victor had when they lost their first tribute. Indeed, within the victor's circle, Fen was one of the few outlier victors who maintained a sense of normality through his newfound freedom (or, at least, the illusion of it).

Of course, in Thorn's Panem, that freedom bore a hefty fee, and Fen was used to paying it.

He paid it when he was summoned to identify his old brotherhood in a kangaroo court.

He paid it for each son and daughter of District 7 that he couldn't promise to bring home.

He paid it when he rejected the Careers. It was a fair proposal, promising even, but Fen refused to teach his people how to be murderers.

And yet, each time he was forced to pay an unthinkable price, his father's words reminded him of what was important.

This is our land. Ours. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. Always remember.

Fen hadn't forgotten. He would never forget.

And when the time came - and the people of District 7 banded together - the Capitol would remember too.

Chapter Text

The footage of the reaping in District 1 for The Eighth Annual Hunger Games is hard to find, and even harder to watch. The town square where the citizens gather for the yearly reaping is idyllic, with frothing fountains and colourful bunting – and to the untrained eye, it's paradise.

But for those that know where to look, the separation and resentment among the people there is clear, even in the grainy recording.

A silent, righteous rage emanates from the grim-faced working class. They're the seamstresses and gem-setters and warehouse operatives - plebes, that's what everyone calls them, so it's what they call themselves. Oh, the wealthy are there, too, the bourgeois, in their immaculate suits and iron-pressed sundresses. The odds of their being picked are astronomical, and so they grit their teeth and wait to be dismissed. There'll be punch and canapes in the Pavilion, once this is all done.

After the mayor is finished with his preliminary speeches, the Capitol escort steps in. He trills out the selected tributes' names, and two plebeian children stumble to the stage. They're both tiny, sad things, with pipe-cleaner limbs that poke out of second-hand clothes. They don't react strongly to their being chosen, and neither does the crowd. It's nothing more than what they've come to expect, after all.

The escort makes the obligatory call for volunteers, already motioning for the Peacekeepers to take the latest pair away, when there's a sudden movement in the crowd.

A lone figure emerges from the throng, sapphire eyes burning with determination. He raises his voice, allowing it to echo across the quiet courtyard.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The reaction is instantaneous. A tidal wave of confusion crashes over the square because in seven years of Hunger Games, this has never happened before.

On the reaping stage, there are scenes of panic. The district escort is aghast, spluttering out a jumble of undignified sounds into the microphone as he tries (and fails) to form a coherent sentence. He looks imploringly to the mayor, who gives him a terse nod.

The escort interprets this as approval to continue. "Well, what an exciting turn of events!" he squeaks. "A volunteer - why don't you come on up, handsome?"

The young man strides up to ascend the platform, and the cameramen waste no time. They pounce forward like panthers, getting the best shots of him from every possible angle. He's dressed plainly, his clothes layered in the dirt and dust of the Tenements, but physically, he's the epitome of District 1 perfection.

Having gushed and made crass jokes about him, the commentators reporting from the Capitol just can't wrap their heads around why he's done it. Through surgically enlarged lips, they rapidly dissect the potential motives behind his actions, the hypothetical list growing ever more ludicrous with each incorrect guess.

The thing is, they say, while the concept has been in print from the start, active volunteering is unprecedented. Yes, it's technically allowed, and yes, there are protocols to carry out should the situation arise, but frankly, they didn't think they would ever need them. Of course, volunteering is an act that should be treated with the utmost reverence – President Thorn himself had decreed so - but why would somebody actually do it?

The Capitol escort asks the volunteer his name.

"Garland," he says firmly. "Garland Gatsby."

And now there's a shift in the crowd, a flicker of familiarity, because they've heard this name before.

Descended from the First Families, the Gatsby house traced their lineage back to men and women of Capitol blood that had assimilated into District 1 long before the war. They went on to befriend and marry local nobility, fusing old money with trade expertise to create an untouchable inner circle that held a firm grip on land and law for decades.

Garland was born into their world of affluence and power, the only son and heir to an empire of wineries. As a child, he attended an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. His earliest memories were of high, ringing laughter and clinking crystal flutes, all singing along to a chorus of the Gatsby family motto: Following Our Destiny!

Garland was born to inherit the family business. As such, each day was an education in how to lead the Gatsbys into the next generation. The preservation of their family's success, through business and honor and character, was – with the exception of loyalty to the Capitol – their single biggest priority. More than that, it was a promise.

In the Justice Building, Garland's father reminds him of this. "You have to win, son," he says, taking Garland's face in his hands. His wrinkled features are twisted by a strange mixture of pride and grief. "None of the others will want it - need it - as much as you do. As we do. Show them what it means to be a Gatsby."

As the tribute train hurtles him towards the Capitol, Garland only half-listens to his glum-faced mentor nattering quietly away. Instead, he chooses to focus on his father's final (no, not final, they can't be final) words to him. He savors them, clings to them, not only for comfort but because his very life depends on it.

Garland looks wistfully out the window and watches the unsung beauties of the district rush by; its boundless prairies, imposing peaks, cascading streams.

The scenic view is interrupted by the catering team, who wheel out lunch for the District 1 entourage. Once Garland sees the spread, his jaw drops. It's a boastful arrangement of fatty poultry, tart sauces and steamed vegetables - the kind of extravagant buffet that he hasn't seen for years. Not since before the war started.

Garland picks up a silver spoon and stares at it, mesmerized, as he's transported to another time.

Before they'd lost everything, Garland's future had been all planned out for him. Once he turned eighteen, he'd take control of Gatsby Wines. He'd overseeing the management and running of the family vineyards, warehouses and high street stores. His parents would retreat to the coastlines of District 4 for an early retirement, Garland would marry and produce an heir of his own, and the Gatsby cycle of success would begin again in all its glorious certainty and strength.

Of course, that's not how it happened, Garland thinks bitterly. That was before everything went to hell.

The Dark Days hit the Gatsbys hard. The First Families had misused their power and influence for too long. Within days, the poor had risen out of their slums and taken to the streets in violent protest. The rebels of the First Rebellion barely lifted a finger, looking on feebly as the small folk did their dirty work for them.

A baying mob had marched on Summerhouse, the Gatsby's ancestral home. Garland's family had fled the estate in the pitch-black darkness, disguised in common garb. Garland didn't like wearing it, complainig about how itchy it was. A frightened governess lost her temper, slapping him across the face with a stinging blow.

"Shut up!" she hissed. "Do you want them to find us?"

She had struck him. Too stunned to cry, Garland looked to his parents, expecting them to dismiss her instantly. But instead, they slumped their shoulders and looked the other way. Garland stared at them blankly, their radiance hidden under ugly cloaks, and he understood… things had changed forever.

That night, Summerhouse burned.

Garland and his family spent the next three years flitting from one safe house to another, each time under a different alias. Garland hated mixing with the lower city boys. They were barbaric, scratching and biting and jeering at him. But after a hundred beatings and thefts, he started to fight back. In the beginning, he lost a lot more than he won, crawling into bed at night with sore limbs and split lips. It didn't stay that way, though, and when Garland stood up for himself, people respected him more - not because of who he was, but because he'd earned it.

When peacetime finally came, the Gatsby goldmines had almost run dry. Garland's father managed to scrape up enough denares to secure a matchbox flat in the Tenements. From here, they tried to rebuild their lives and their legacy.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy. The fences had gone up across the country, separating the districts and cutting the Gatsbys off from their former suppliers. With only a good name as collateral, their value had dribbled down to less than nothing. Friends and business partners, people they used to host and wine and dine, made polite excuses and quickly turned their backs on them.
For years, Garland's parents did what they could; they begged and cajoled, extracting loan after loan, favor after favor - anything to claw their way out of rock bottom. None of it worked, and his father and mother were forced to take jobs in the factories to pay off their debts.

Late at night, from his room in the Tenements, Garland stood awake. He'd find himself gazing up at the knoll where Summerhouse had once stood. The manor was long gone now. Only its skeleton remained, a charred and ruined husk. A memory of magnificence. Garland had wasted countless hours dreaming it back to life.

It was time to make it a reality.

Gold taps Garland on the shoulder, stirring him from his thoughts.

"We're almost there," he says gently.

As the great city looms into view, Garland can hear the thrumming, babbling sound of a gathered crowd waiting on the station platform. He isn't sure what to expect, and tries to keep an open mind as he steps out to meet them.

It's pandemonium.

The Capitol loves Garland. They love him, and he barely makes it to the tribute quarters alive. The shrieking press sticks cameras and microphones in his face. Crying fans grab and paw and weep, desperate for his attention - a look, a touch, anything at all. They just want a piece of him, this volunteer from District 1, because he's courageous and handsome and a shining example of everything a good tribute should be.

In the lead up to the Games, the other competitors' presence is all but obliterated. Garland is the only person that the Capitol is talking about. He's the undisputed star of the show, and the media can barely keep up with the outcry of public interest. Online bloggers create steamy artwork and prose about him. Journalists gush like schoolgirls about him in their op-eds. Fashion designers proclaim him as their muse.

Everyone wants to know why Garland volunteered and when they put the question to him he answers with the truth. He tells them of his family, and how the rebel's war stole their lives from them. He explains that he's going to use his victory to save them, and to make his district proud. The story is a hit, and the Capitol praises him for his patriotism and familial devotion.

Garland's supporters demand to know how they can support him in the Games. After facing increasing public pressure for an answer, Head Gamemaker Bottleby releases a statement in response. In a diplomatic and measured speech, he iterates that the Games must ensure fairness and equitable treatment for all of the tributes. The people are predictably disappointed, but behind the scenes, the plans for a bona fide sponsorship system are already in motion.

Garland's popularity is not lost on his competitors, and he can feel their angry and envious eyes burning into him during training. They isolate him from the get-go, but it's the hardened young man from 4 and his sidekick, the weaselly boy from 9, that go out of their way to antagonize and intimidate him. It doesn't work. Garland flatly ignores their threats and focuses on his knife practice.

The climactic day arrives, and the tributes are lifted up into the arena. It's a frozen maze of snow banks and glacial walls that conceals a mass of white-furred beasts.

Garland is shivering on his pedestal, watching his breath as it escapes in wisps of fog. The clock is counting down, and he's sorely tempted to make the run to the heart of the silver Cornucopia. It looks so close, so tangible, and it's overflowing with an abundance of useful supplies. It seems like the right thing to do, but there's a nagging feeling in Garland's gut, an instinct that makes him grab the nearest weapon - a small rondel dagger - and run as fast as he can.

Garland's caution saves his life. He's pursued by Four and Nine, who ally together almost instantly. With the advantage of speed, Garland melts into the icy labyrinth and outpaces them. It's a long cat and mouse chase but, after an hour of twists and turns, Garland finally runs himself into a dead end with no escape.

When they track him down, Four points his sword at Garland.

"Hey there, lapdog," he sneers. Even before the war, the other districts hate the Capitol's favourites. "Not feeling so smug now, are you?"

Garland says nothing, responding only with a contemptuous look of his own.

"Not one for chatter?" smirks Nine, licking his lips. "Don't worry, pretty boy. This won't take long."

It doesn't. Two against one, and neither of them lasts five minutes. Honed from years of self-defense and surviving on the streets of the Tenements, Garland's hand-to-hand combat skills are better than anyone expected. Taken by surprise, the boy from 4 is disarmed with a punch to the throat. The follow-through buries a knife in his head, right up to the hilt.

The lad from District 9 turns on his heels to flee, but Garland is too fast for him. He launches himself at the boy's back, tackling him to the ground. There's a tussle, and then a sharp snap.Nine goes limp, and the crowd's cheering swells to an unbearable pulse of noise.

The Gamemakers set a group of arctic foxes on Garland to lead him back to the Cornucopia, where he meets his final opponent. The male tribute from District 6 is a huge beast of a man and wields a large hammer covered in gore.

Garland takes a deep breath, nervously swiveling the dagger in his hand.

"Following our destiny," he whispers, and then the fight begins in earnest.

It's a battle of raw physical power versus agility and control, and the Capitol audience is beside themselves with excitement. Garland delivers some shallow cuts and abrasions to Six, who tirelessly throws his hammer around as if it were a toy.

Garland does his best, dodging slug after punch after wallop, but after a while, he starts to lose evasion. Eventually, his luck runs out, and with an almighty crack, Six lands a direct hit. Garland feels the bones in his arm shatter into a thousand pieces and he hits the ground like a sack of rocks, wailing in pain.

Six moves in for the kill, and he's smiling - not because he's cruel, or because he likes this, but because he knows he's going home.

And in this moment, with a shadow of death looming over him, Garland suddenly realizes that he's going to lose. He's not just losing the Games, not just losing his life, but everything he's fought for and survived and worked towards will all have been for nothing.

With a guttural scream, Garland takes his dagger and sinks it into Six's foot. The boy lets out a shriek of rage and indignation, but the momentary distraction is all Garland needs to force himself to his feet.

There's a flash of silver, and the glinting steel arcs and slashes through the air - it comes down into Six's chest, his neck, his head, over and over and over until he stops moving completely.
The boy dies, the trumpets blare, and Garland collapses into the red snow, weeping with joy.

In the Capitol, the celebration is unlike any before. The parties don't stop for days, and Garland's life is a blur as he poses for photoshoots, is invited on to talk shows and does personal appearances. He poses for so many fan pictures and signs so many autographs that by the end of each day, his cheek and hand muscles start to ache and spasm. He's so sought-after that the Capitol extends his stay in the hopes that the fans don't riot.

Before his departure, Garland is invited to partake in what has fast become a victory tradition: an afternoon lunch with President Thorn. The entire affair is nerve-wracking, and Garland does his best to be mannerly and engaging. If the President finds him dull or overrated, he doesn't show it, and is affable and attentive from start to finish. He goes out of his way to express his gratitude for Garland's volunteering, and what he's done for his district and the Games.

"It doesn't stop here, Mr. Gatsby," Tigellinus tells him with an encouraging smile.

And if the President's affirmation is positive, it's nothing compared to the homecoming Garland receives. The crème de la crème of District 1 come out in their droves to see him and offer congratulations. The guild masters and traders and socialites, who had previously abandoned the Gatsbys to the Tenements, are now eager to put the past behind them and start anew. Garland has an urge to tell them where they can shove their fake apologies, but he resists. Instead, he forces his lips into a forgiving smile and plays the role of the ever-amicable gentleman.

Garland's Victor's salary restores the Gatsby empire to its former glory. Within a year, their local wineries are busy and thriving. Summerhouse is rebuilt, a phoenix from the ashes. And best of all, for the first time in over a decade, Garland's family are able to sit back and enjoy the luxuries they had missed out on for so many years. His father enjoys expensive cigars and high-shelf brandy. His mother dazzles in ensembles of silk and ermine and diamond. Whatever they need, they get - the best that money can buy. The Gatsbys are never denied anything they want ever again.

As for Garland… he's happy, too. Truly. When he's not running his business, he's at the forefront of district society. There's always a speech to be made, an event to attend. Galas, masquerades, banquets, he's invited to them all. Truthfully, it isn't very fun, because no matter the occasion, Garland encounters the usual sycophantic faces, the same idle chatter. Still, he knows that it's his job to keep other people happy, and so he does it.

Garland never complains. Not once. He doesn't talk about the insomnia, or the nightmares that plague him when he does manage to sleep. He doesn't raise the issue when his social schedule has him pawn tributes off on Gold year after year, and he doesn't whinge about the things he has to do to compensate for it.

If Garland ever feels a shred of annoyance, or if thoughts of protest begin to cluster in his mind, he's swiftly reminded of his place. Sometimes, it's by his adoring public. Occasionally, it's the expectant President. But mostly, it's the clip of his eighteen-year-old self, stepping out of the crowd to eagerly volunteer his life away.

He got everything he wanted, everything he asked for, and that's what's important.

It was all worth it. In the end.

Chapter Text

The sunlight slashed through the half-drawn curtains, an unforgiving blade that sliced across Quartz’s face with spiteful relish. He groaned, the taste of cheap wine and stale smoke thick on his tongue, and tried to lift his head from the silken pillowcase.

It felt like his skull had been filled with concrete. The remnants of last night were strewn about him, a grim portrait of decay: shattered wine bottles lay on the carpet, their crimson contents staining the fibers like blood; an overturned tray of white powder smeared across the mahogany coffee table; an uneaten plate of fruit buzzing with flies.

The air reeked of excess. It was pungent with alcohol and sweat; and beneath it all, a bewildering sweetness he couldn’t place, as if the ruinous decadence had a scent.

Quartz’s gaze shifted to the bed, where the curve of a woman’s shoulder rose and fell beneath the tangle of sheets. Her hair, dark and glossy, spilled across the pillow like an oil slick, her face turned away from him. Who was she? Her name had escaped him.

He wasn’t sure if he’d even bothered to ask.

Quartz grabbed lazily at the nearest clothes; a shirt rumpled on the floor, slacks stiff with forgotten spills, once-polished boots now bearing the scuffs of careless nights. He moved like a man underwater, sluggish and effortful, his limbs and mind like mortar. No matter how hard he scrubbed his pale flesh at the sink in his ensuite, the stink of lust and indulgence clung to him, refusing to let him forget his sins.

As he moved about the room, the woman in the bed shifted, but didn’t wake. Quartz didn’t look back at her as he left the room, the thud of his boots against the floorboards the only sign he’d been there at all. He lived in this space, physically, but he’d rather not conflate it with his old life. He was a completely different person now.

And besides, what would there have been to take?

Quartz bumbled down the staircase, not meeting the gaze of the portraits that glared down stoically from above. They all depicted real heroes. War veterans, district martyrs, President Thorn himself. Quartz had done nothing of note in comparison. He hadn’t invented anything or changed any laws. He would never have any real influence. He would always be the stocky, square-jawed rogue with a bad buzzcut, plucked from obscurity to fight in the arena because he had to. Nothing to be proud of there.

At least if he had volunteered, like the District 1 boy who had won from the year before, people could be proud of that. At the very least, the Capitol would love it. But no. He had to settle for being perfectly mediocre. The definitive dud of Distract 2’s victors.

The kitchen greeted him with the same detached sterility as the rest of his house; flawless marble counters too pristine to feel like home, glitzy and high-tech appliances that gleamed like the trophies the Capitol had given him. Quartz rarely used them. He didn’t cook or eat very much these days anyways. Food didn’t taste of anything, really.

Quartz rooted through the cabinets, feeling a flush of longing for cold, hard whiskey. His hand closed around the good stuff, a rare pre-war sample - a gift from his Victory Tour. He took a swig.
It stung his throat instantly, but muted the ringing in his head, which was more important. As he drank, Quartz felt the bubbles of anxiety in his stomach begin to pop and dissipate, before a familiar voice cut through the haze of his hangover caused him to stop.

”Where did you meet her? She’s very pretty.”

Quartz reacted instantly. His spare hand shot out like a rattlesnake, fumbling and grabbing at the nearest weapon, a butcher’s knife laying expectantly in its rack. He brandished it in the direction of the noise‘s source, keeping his back to the wall. Slowly, Quartz turned toward the corner of the room, where the shadows clung stubbornly to the nooks, even as sunlight poured in through the embroidered curtains.

The voice’s owner stood there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the same effortless poise Quartz had always envied. He wore a dashing coat over his smart and sensible attire, his presentation evoking and commanding respect. At just twenty-one, Shale Cotter had cemented himself as something of a prince charming amongst the triad of District 2’s victors; he was hale and handsome, and a perfect gentleman - though admittedly, he seemed far wiser and sadder than his youth should permit.

As it was, Shale’s expression and stance proved hard to read; somewhere between curiosity and disappointment. It sank straight into Quartz’s gut and didn’t leave.

“She was less bite than the previous one, too. She cursed like a miner, Thorn bless her.” Shale eyed his old tribute. “I have to say, you’ve seen better mornings.”

Quartz sank into the nearest seat, his head spinning as the room tilted around him. “Shale,” he croaked, his voice thick with equal parts guilt and irritation. “You can’t just - I might have -”

Shale cocked his head. “Hurt me? I appreciate your concern, but I think I could hold my own. I’m more worried about what you’d do to yourself, quite frankly. You’ve been this way for months.”

Quartz stared at his old mentor. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Shale didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Checking in,” he said simply, his voice flat. “We’re neighbours now, so it isn’t as far-fetched a visit as you’d think. That’s what we do here, believe it or not. Look out for each other.”

“Yes, well, I’m fine. Just went a little harder than usual,” Quartz said, his voice hoarse.

Shale didn’t question it. “Telemachus wanted to know how you were doing.”

And there it was. Of course he sent you, Quarts thought.

“Couldn’t be bothered to pay a visit himself, then?” he asked, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Shale pursed his lips. “Telemachus has many responsibilities, as you well know. Responsibilities he had expected to share with the two of us. But it appears that with you snorting and drinking whatever you can get your hands on, and leaving me to tidy up after you, he can’t rely on either of us. Hardly fair, is it?”

Quartz said nothing. The Victor of The Sixth Annual Hunger Games was Telemachus’ unwavering disciple and right-hand man, who would never say a word against his superior. He couldn’t be objective. He was also absolutely correct in his assessment.

Shale shook his head despondently. “Honestly, I figured I’d find you in a mess, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

“I’m just having fun,” Quartz said irritably, taking another swig of his drink. “You both need to relax.”

“Relax?” Shale’s expression darkened. “This isn’t supposed to be fun. You have a job now, Quartz. A duty. Your life isn’t just about you any more.”

“Yeah, as you always remind me.”

Shale folded his arms, his brows knitting together in frustration. “I only remind you because you keep trying to forget. We’re symbols, Quartz. You, me, Telemachus - we represent something bigger, more important. For everyone.”

Quartz leaned back, the chair creaking under him. He let out a mirthless, mocking laugh. “I’m a symbol? Okay. Of what, Shale? The value of knowing how to swing a sword?” He threw his hands up. “Who cares?”

“Don’t be so obtuse,” Shale retorted, his voice measured. “People look at you, and they see hope. They see proof that someone like them can rise above their circumstances.”

“Hope,” Quartz repeated, rolling the word around his mouth like it tasted rotten. “And what about me? What about what I want?”

Shale stepped closer, his tone softening but no less firm. “Not everything is about you.“

“So I don’t matter, then? That’s it?”

Shale’s lip curled. “Are you seriously that selfish?”

Quartz gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, and suckled his liquor straight from the bottle. It tasted better, more comforting, than ever.

Shale pinched the bridge of his nose. ”Look, I get it. You think none of this matters. That your future is servitude and mentoring and whatever fun you can squeeze in between. But the truth is, every time someone sees your face on the screen, it’s a reminder. That even in their darkest moments, they can still come out the other side. More than that, they can come out of it stronger. They can still win.”

Quartz bit his lip. “And what if they can’t?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What if they’ll never win, if this is as good as it gets?
”
Shale’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact. “I do not believe that to be true.”

With a sigh, Quartz looked out the window. Thin, wispy clouds were rolling lazily against a baby blue sky. He wished he could be that. Inanimate and thoughtless.

“I can’t be these things, Shale. I can’t be everything that everyone needs me to be.”

“People don’t need you to be perfect,” Shale told him. “They need you to show them it’s possible to keep going. That all their hard work will be worth it, in the end.”

Quartz set the whiskey bottle on the counter with a thud, his hand trembling slightly.

“Worth it,” he said, his voice even quieter now. “Worth what, Shale? The people who hate me for killing their kids? I saw them on the Victory Tour, the way they looked at me.” His voice caught on his next words. “I can’t feel guilty about it, you know. I try and try and I feel nothing. Do you know what that’s like to live with? Knowing that you’re evil? Knowing that you’re this?” Quartz gestured at himself, dirty and bleary-eyed and raw. “If that’s what it takes to make people feel better for five minutes, then no, in the end, maybe it isn’t worth it.”

For a moment, the silence hung heavy and solemn between them, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.

“You’re coming with me,” he said with a calm finality.

Quartz blinked stupidly. “What?”

“You need perspective,” Shale replied, already moving toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you something worth living for.”

Quartz glanced at the stairs “What about -”

Shale waved a hand dismissively. “She’ll be taken care of. Let’s not waste time.”

The firmness in his voice indicated that this wasn’t a request. With no room for refusal, Quartz reluctantly shoved the whiskey bottle aside and followed Shale outside, where a sleek, silvery car stood by, its motor running quietly. The chauffeur leapt to attention and began making a fuss, preparing the vehicle for the two of them.
Quartz looked at his former mentor. “It was already waiting?”

Shale didn’t meet his eye. “I wanted to be prepared.”

“That was presumptuous,” Quartz muttered.

As the car hummed along the winding road toward town, Quartz stared out the tinted window, watching the jagged cliffs and soaring peaks that scraped the sky far, far away. Shale stared at them too, misty-eyed and strangely sentimental.

Nearby, The Fort loomed above the city, imposing and impenetrable. At its base, away from the city, lay sprawling ruins of old construction communities, the ones that had been blitzed and blown to smithereens by rebels during the Dark Days. A ghost town. It felt haunted and cold.

Quartz turned away. “Can we speed up, please?”

The engine immediately revved, its wheels spinning as it darted toward the city.

Marbletown, the beating heart of District 2, gleamed in the sunlight. It was exemplary of the people that lived there, a mixture of strength and civility, echoing its inhabitants’ pride and devotion to their beloved Capitol, and to each other. Quartz knew the place as if it were the back of his hand; he recalled every chipped stone and lightless alley, the labyrinth of taverns and inns they created, the city’s secrets and hidden memory.

He could still recite a list of the best spots to pickpocket, the easiest shops to steal from. It had kept him and his friends fed, after his parents had been conscripted. When they didn’t return. It was on these very streets that Telemachus had found him, filthy and hungry. A child the war had left behind, like so many of them had been.

The car rolled to a stop outside the city centre.

Shale nudged Quartz, shaking him from his reverie. “We’re here.”

The last time he had been in the square, it had been very different. The whole district stood in rapturous and respectful silence as Quartz had recited his officious and patriotic victory speech. Today, it thrummed with movement, buyers and merchants bustling like ants amongst the stalls lining the pathways. People chatted earnestly with big, belly laughs while children sprung to and fro, playing tag and other games as boisterously and noisily as they could.

The two of them got out of the car, and Quartz trudged behind Shale, his shoes thumping against the stones. “So, what am I looking for?”

Shale motioned to the scenes unfolding in front of him. ”This.”

Quartz rolled his eyes. “What, I’m supposed to pretend all of this is… genuine?”

Shale shot him a sidelong glance. “They’re not pretending. Look closer.”

In the center of the square stood a massive table piled high with goods: crates of sunny grain, baskets of plump fruit, mouth-watering loaves of fresh bread, and jars of honey that shone like liquid gold. The Peacekeepers supervised the distribution, their presence an unspoken reminder of their power, but the atmosphere wasn’t oppressive or threatening. On the contrary, it was jubilant.

Quartz frowned. “It’s just handouts. Right?”

“No,” Shale corrected him. “It’s Parcel Day. Do you see?”

Quartz’s gaze wandered across the square.

Nearby, a young girl cradled a weathered doll, her sunken face lighting up as her father handed her a small, ribboned bag of sugar.

Opposite her, an elderly couple sifted through a basket of apples, their eyes disbelieving as they traced the rosey-red flesh.

In the doorway of the Justice Building, a scruffy teenager sunk his teeth into a warm, seeded loaf of bread, his eyes watering at the sheer goodness of it.

All around the square, people had brought wheelbarrows and piled them high with the fresh bounty that the Capitol had sent them, their smiles splitting their faces.

“This,” Shale said quietly, his voice cutting through Quartz’s cynicism, “is what it’s about. Parcel Day reminds people that they can rely on us. That the Capitol rewards us, and them, for our sacrifice. That it wasn’t all for nothing.”

Quartz swallowed, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, when a new voice came from below him.

“Hey, are you Quartz?”

He looked down. A little boy stood in front of him, mouth agape in astonishment. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and his eyes shone with admiration. Quartz hesitated, then nodded, and the boy’s face broke into a wide grin.

“You won the Games,” he said in a hushed tone. “My Da says you’re a hero.”

A hero.

Quartz glanced at Shale, who stood silently, watching. The boy’s words felt heavy and unearned, but Quartz forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, what to do with the praise.

Suddenly, the murmur of the crowd began to shift. A ripple moved through the square as more and more heads turned in his direction. At first, he thought it was a coincidence - one fleeting glance, or two, inconsequential. But soon, he felt their gazes settling on him, their recognition lighting up like sparks in dry brush. One person whispered his name, and then another, until the murmurs swelled and became a unified chant.

“Quartz? Quartz Bernardi?”

“Is that really him?”

“That’s him, mommy! The Victor!”

A man in his forties stepped forward, taking Quartz’s hand in his own. He felt how coarse they were, shaped by years of hard grafting, and his voice was just as steely and unwavering.
“I gotta thank you. I work all the hours Thorn sends, so we won’t need the tessera. But not this year I won’t. ‘Cause of you.” He looked Quartz dead in the eye. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t -” Quartz stuttered.

Before he could process the words, others followed.

A young mother clutching a cooing child to her chest, her large, hooded eyes watery with tears. An elderly woman with wisps of grey, thin hair, grasping his hand with surprising strength. They all sang his praise and their gratitude, their voices thick with emotion. As if driven by a collective, unspoken agreement, the crowd surged toward him, not threateningly, but reverently. Joyously.
Some clapped for him, others called his name; and many simply reached out, wanting to touch him, to prove to themselves that he was somebody real, tangible.

Quartz tried to step back, instinctively wanting to shrink into himself and away into nothing, but there was nowhere to escape to. The weight of their appreciation pressed against him, frenzied and wholesome. All he could do was stand there and bask in it, regardless of how he felt.

A meek, sandy-haired girl slipped out from under the crowd in front of Quartz, offering him a yellow daffodil that looked as sensitive and delicate as she did.

“For you,” she said shyly.

Quartz took it. It was freshly bloomed, and so small. So innocent.

“Thank you,” he said softly. The little girl beamed and darted away, melting into the crowd again.

Quartz turned to Shale. “You set this all up, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, actually,” he responded with a shake of his head. “But I think you needed it.”

“Did you need this?” Quartz asked. “After yours?”

Shale smiled. “We all do. I think you just needed an introduction.”

It went on for hours. Quartz’s lips began to twitch from smiling, his wrist ached from shaking hands, but he didn’t tire of it. In the Capitol, the sycophantic and painted faces had blurred together and repulsed him; but not here. He remembered them now, their imperfect babbling and earnest sweetness. Where they had come from. Their stories, and what they wanted from the future. It was all engraved in his mind by the end.

And as the sun began to sink sleepily in the sky, and the crowd thinned and petered out, it smothered Marbletown in glowing rays of amber and gold. Quartz had never seen it before - he had never looked. It made him feel less cynical. Less defiant.

Shale’s voice was in his ear again. “This is what you did,” he said. “The rest of these supplies are going out to Tyne, Sunfair, Mount Hew. The hamlets by the Bare Forests. Nobody will go hungry this year. Nobody will have more slips. Not a single one.”

Silent tears rolled down Quartz’s face, though he fought to stay stoic and stony.

“This is the only beginning,” Shale continued, his tone shifting slightly. “We’re going to run the barracks, the three of us. Together. There won’t be any more war orphans or children living on the street, because for the first time, they’re going to have community and opportunity. They can be whatever they want to be, and make their own choices.” Shale turned to him. “We can make a difference, Quartz. You can make a difference.”

More than ever, Quartz did understand. He finally understood. It was as if his sight had been restored to him. The voices of his fellow countrymen left an echo lingering and resounding in his chest, their words like ghosts that flew in the evening breeze.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Quartz allowed himself to breathe deeply, his lungs full with something other than smoke, or liquor, or regret. He wasn’t sure what it was. Couldn’t describe it. But it was good. It was real. And he didn’t want to lose it.

Quartz still wasn’t fully sure if he believed he could do this. Not yet.

But today, he’d felt what it meant for others to believe in him.

He was going to try. For them.

Minutes later, the car door shut with a soft thunk as the two young men slid into their seats, the supple District 10 leather creaking beneath their weight as they got in. Shale leaned forward, his voice firm and instructive as he consulted the attentive driver.

“To the barracks, please. You know the way.”

Quartz shot a glance at him, taken aback. “The barracks? I’m not going home?”

Settling back, Shale adjusted his coat curtly and precisely, but didn’t meet his eye. “I have some people I want you to meet,” he said, the words tinted with resolve and expectation. “Don’t panic, Quartz. We’re not throwing you in the deep end.”

Quartz nodded, letting himself trust, as the vehicle purred to life. The city whirred past once more, its fading, pale lights casting fleeting, fragmented patterns across his face.

This will be good, he thought. It would be good for them - Telemachus and Shale, his new brotherhood - and it would be good for him. To grow. To move on. And it would be good for the others, the ones that Shale had spoken to him about. The faceless mass of children he had never met, who hadn’t yet escaped the half-life Quartz had lived.

Quartz fingered the daffodil that the girl had given him, its dainty petals trembling slightly. He was going to save them. Whatever it took, he was going to save them all.

This was his chance to rebuild, to change. To matter. To be somebody for someone.

And yet beneath his rising determination, his ambition, lay a gnawing unease. One that didn’t want to go away. Quartz willed himself to ignore it. He forced it downward.

Because he didn’t want to go back. He had had his fill of that. The chaos, the filth, the savagery. He had already been there; on the streets, in the arena. Not any more.

Once was enough.

In the distance, a black iron gate swung open, a pair of lofty eagles beckoning him forth, their eyes keen and piercing, just as they had been almost nine years ago when Telemachus had brought him here. Promising to make him tougher. Stronger. Better.

Move forward, Quartz thought. Only forward.

Forward is enough.

He never looked back.

Chapter Text

Johanna:

In the weak winter light, District 12 is kind of pretty. Not in a warm, welcoming way. It's otherworldly. Eerie. Reminds me of the horror flicks and scary hologames that Blight and I used to play together.

Thinking of him twists something in my gut. Gods, I miss that good-for-nothing lumberass. I make a mental note to visit his grave next time I'm home.

I've been to Twelve before, of course. I was here on my tour. Seventeen years old, seething, and bound to silence. Forced to admire the mines, recite stuffy speeches to the half-dead citizens. It was a quiet, depressing place back then, too. Gave me groosebumps. It still does.

Because even now, there's something about it. I look out the window of the newly rebuilt Justice Building. There's a thin, melancholic layer of ash that sleeps on top of what they call the Seam, replacing the coal dust. They still haven't gotten it all out. Even in victory, even now, the district has all the cheer of a graveyard. And I suppose it is one, after what happened.

Still, progress is progress. Rebuilding. People mill about below us - trading, talking, heading to work. Normal life, or something like it. Still, it feels foreign. Wrong. I can't help but brace for the next disaster, whatever it is. I'm always ready for it. You can't be a Victor and not be that way. We don't win because we're better. We win because we're lucky. And luck doesn't last forever.

I swirl my drink absentmindedly. I made it myself. It's a frothy, fruity monstrosity - pink, rainbows, marshmallow ridiculousness. Totally inappropriate for where we are and what we're doing. Which must be why I like it.

My counselor says I seek validation through confrontation. I wish she had a sense of humor.

The drink is a distraction, at least, from the dark chasm on the holoscreen. The boy from District 2 is glassy-eyed, soaked head-to-toe in a bloody mist. The torchlight flickers against the jagged walls, casting sharp, eerie shadows across his face.

"Did you know him, Enobaria?" Beetee eventually asks.

Enobaria nods. "Quart used to send me a birthday card with a bottle of alcohol-free gin every year. He was a nice guy. Famously sober." She glances at Haymitch pointedly. "The Program and the recruits were Quartz's life's work - he devoted himself to it. To us."

A few of us - myself included - bristle at that, but we keep our mouths shut. Best to leave the past in the past.

Still, this little trip down memory lane has been... interesting. Old Games, new faces. A history class and therapy session all wrapped in a pretty, diplomatic bow.

Granted, I haven't enjoyed actually watching any of it. The watery arena in the Fourth Games, particularly, launched me into a fully-fledged panic attack. That was bad. And later, seeing Fen after not allowing myself to think of him. What they did to him.

There's a very irritating lump in my throat, and I feel the urge to put an axe in something.

I look to the others. There's a mixed reaction from the group. Annie is murmuring under her breath, looking anywhere but at the screen. Peeta is pale as a ghost, his hands visibly shaking, as Katniss looks nervously at him, knowing what might come but still unsure what to do.

Tough crowd.

Noden tries to neutralise the atmosphere, flashing us a dimpled smile. "Drink, anyone?"

Haymitch raises a hand, but Peeta gently pushes it down. He's right. Abernathy has had enough. This is what happens when we take him away from his geese.

"Let's move on, then," I say swiftly. "Who's next?"

Beetee clicks a button on his holopad, and an image of an old Victory Tour poster pops up. In Honor of the Tenth Annual Hunger Games: Robin Cartwright, the Pride of District 12. The boy in the image has a heavy brow and snubby nose, with wheat-blonde hair and dark, sad eyes. He's dressed all in white and is looking off hopefully, meaningfully at something in the distance.

"Robin Cartwright," Beetee says. "District 12."

The three Twelvies immediately share a dark, curious look.

"He looks a little like you, Mellark," I remark. Peeta doesn't say anything. The colour has returned to his face a little.

"I remember that name," says Katniss softly. "They used to read it at the Reaping every year."

Haymitch shakes his head, reaching from inside his jacket to retrieve a flask. He takes a quick swig. "Never met him. He wasn't someone you really talked about."

"How come?" I ask.

"You just didn't. People in Twelve had enough to worry about besides old, dead Victors."

Peeta looks up at the hologram. "Cartwright," he says slowly. "Beetee, we know this girl, Delly -"

Beetee smiles sadly. "I have spoken to her, Peeta. When I first began my research. Both her and nd her brother. There is a blood relation, distantly, but while Delly knew about Robin, she couldn't tell us anything we didn't already know."

While they chatter away, I rummage in the holodisc set. Why am I doing this, I think in annoyance. I'm not a gods damned librarian. But as I search, it skips straight from nine to eleven, which is strange, so I try it alphabetically. Both ways. Still, there's nothing. I frown in confusion.

"The tape's not here," I huff. "There must be a mistake."

Haymitch looks up, bleary-eyed. "Don't be dumb, Jo. That ain't a mistake. The Capitol hardly ever made mistakes. Just corrections."

"I should have mentioned," Beetee interrupts, getting us back on topic. "There isn't a tape to watch for the Tenth Games, unfortunately."

I scowl at him. "You could've told me that before I went looking for it."

Peeta interjects. "Why can't we watch it, Beetee?" he asks.

"It isn't there."

"What do you mean it isn't there?" I press, setting my candy floss cordial on the maple desk. It doesn't feel so flirtatious anymore. "Everything's there, Beetee. You've got footage from the First Games, for crying out loud. Why not the Tenth?"

Enobaria sits upright. Haymitch has put his glass down. Katniss stares at Beetee expectantly. She wants to know, surely. All of us do. Games footage just doesn't go missing, not even now. It's of national interest. Historical importance.

Beetee sighs and adjusts his glasses. A nervous tic. "It's complicated," he says.

I cross my arms. "Un-complicate it for us."

Beetee hesitates. Beneath his calm demeanor, I can see the cogs turning, as if he isn't sure how much he wants to - or can - tell us. He presses another button, and the holograph changes.

We see a blurry video recording appear on the screen. It must be from a spectator's hidden handheld device, because the footage is shaky. Informal. I see a sandy, scrubby arena, a gleaming Cornucopia. Twenty four little pinpricks encircled around it. On the footage, there's the excited murmurings of the countdown, the roar of the crowd as the tributes sprint in.

And suddenly, a deafening explosion. Blinding light. Screaming. A lot of it.

The hologram disappears with a zap. "The video cuts off here. It's all we have. Regarding the original, high-definition footage of the Games, we don't know."

"What did they say happened?" asks Enobaria.

"Officially? A storage failure. The whole Tenth Games footage, gone."

"Lost?" Peeta echoes, his voice strained. "All of it?"

"That's the story they told. I believe they made a spectacle of firing the Gamemaker responsible, at the time."

"And unofficially?" I ask. We're wasting time. Let's just get to the bottom of it.

Before Beetee can answer, Annie speaks. Her voice is gentle, but confident.

"They erased it," she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You know, people treat Annie like she's a baby doll that might break, but she's not crazy as she's painted. Just a little batty. I like this intuitive, straight-to-the point chick. I wonder if this is what she was like before - the lethal, tart-tongued Career girl from District 4 that cut her way through the opening bloodbath of the Seventieth.

I guess we'll get there soon enough.

Beetee clears his throat. "The case is unresolved."

When nobody responds, Noden steps in. "They did, then. Erase it."

It's not a question.

The silence in the room is deafening. I lean back in my chair, my mind going a million miles an hour. The old Capitol would do anything to cover its ass, but this? What is the point in deleting the physical proof of an entire Hunger Games?

"Why?" Peeta's voice is hoarse. "What could they have been hiding?"

Beetee takes a deep breath. "I don't know for certain," he admits. "But there are theories."

"Conspiracy theories?" I scoff, my voice dripping in scepticism. "Let me guess. Time travellers rigged the Games, or Robin Cartwright was actually Snow in disguise?"

Beetee doesn't laugh. No one does. Boring.

"To be fair, they did erase his entire Hunger Games," I continue, more serious now. "And people died in the Games all the time. What made this different?"

"I suspect there was more to the bombing of the arena than the Capitol let on. Whether it was who was truly responsible, or the recollection of how things actually happened, they didn't want the official footage of it getting out."

"Then we need the facts," states Enobaria sternly.

Beetee clears his throat. "Correct. To start, it was a bad year for the Capitol."

"In what way?"

The man from Three rubs his temple. "The Capitol citizens were engaged in the Games, but the government was experiencing a downturn in district viewership. People were not tuning in. As well as that, pockets of rebellion had begun to reignite across the country. District 7, District 8. District 11, of course. There were walk-outs, disappearances, attacks on personnel and Peacekeepers. The usual. It was small and relatively contained, but it was there."

"And what did they do?"

"Tigellinus Thorn, in his wisdom, simply got stricter. Higher fences, more security, harsher punishments for rule breakers. It only made people angrier, and more resistant to the Games. And, as we just saw, there was the bombing of the arena."

"Wait, that video was of the arena being bombed?" Noden is incredulous. "By who?"

"The government put out that it was a terrorist attack by…" He refers to a note on his holopad. "District Exclusionary Capitol Radicalists."

"That's a mouthful," laughs Haymitch derisively. "Why blame them?"

"The DERC were very anti-district, and notably unpopular on both sides, even prior to the bombing. It would have been an easy, convenient lie for the Capitol to perpetuate."

"What happened to them?" Peeta asks.

"Life imprisonment, most of them. Execution for the senior leaders. It wasn't just tributes killed, Capitol men, women and children died in the blast, too. The DERC were never heard from, at least not publicly, again."

Enobaria folds her arms, her brows furrowed. "Two birds, one stone," she mutters to herself.

"Afterwards, everything changed. The Games were no longer held in the Capitol - they switched to outdoor arenas and used the city for parties, betting, screenings, talk shows, and so on. How we later came to know them." He clears his throat. "Of course, the new format for the Eleventh was not a coincidence… the parade, the sponsors, the pageantry - it was a very deliberate rebranding by Thorn and his Gamemakers."

Katniss speaks up. "Did they stop the Games, Beetee? After the bomb went off?"

"They didn't need to. All of the tributes were killed in the blast, with the exception of one."

I roll my eyes. "Three guesses who."

"Robin Cartwright was District 12's first Victor, and their only one for the next forty years. Until you, Haymitch."

Haymitch toasts himself. I send rapturous, mock applause his way. "Did he mentor you, Abernathy?"

Haymitch makes a noise of indignation. "As if. No, I was all on my own for that."

"So that was it? He won by a fluke?" Noden asks.

"Yes, essentially," answers Beetee. "He didn't break any rules, technically, and so was declared Victor by default."

Peeta pipes in. "Do we know anything about him? His background?"

Beetee adjusts his glasses again. "The paperwork is there, but it's sparse." He flicks through his holopad. He's far too reliant on that thing, I think. "Robin was born to a middle-class family in District 1. After the war, they were exiled to District 12, and set up a cobbler's shop in the town there."

"They were merchants," Katniss says. "Like you, Peeta. And my mother."

Peeta nods. "Maybe one of the first."

"I don't think I ever heard her talk about Robin," Katniss continues slowly. "Did your parents ever mention him?"

She realises her mistake a moment too soon. Peeta's hands begin to shake, his face spasms, and we all watch him beadily, nervously. Nobody steps in. We've been told not to, before. It's a part of his recovery, to let him handle this by himself. Unless it gets… bad.

Come on, Mellark, I urge silently.

After a few minutes, Peeta's twitching and shaking stops. Not all at once, but he gets there. I clap him on the back, and he smiles weakly.

"I'm sorry," he mutters to the group, sighing. "Where were we?"

I observe my fingernails. "Had you heard about this Robin guy before?"

"Oh." Peeta thinks. "No… no, we only dealt with the Cartwrights in the bakery. Delly's family, that is." He looks over at Beetee. "Did you say he was exiled?"

Beetee moves on quickly. "Yes, his family were. For suspected rebel sympathies. District 12 lost much of its population in the Dark Days, and as they still needed their coal, the Capitol thought it made sense to have other districts compensate. The Cartwrights were, like many others, given the option of death or relocation."

"Easy decision," I say.

"They weren't alone. I know Districts 3 and 8 had a significant amount relegated to Twelve, also. A history professor at Panem University recently published a paper on the topic."

Noden clicks his tongue. "It can't have been easy. Starting a whole new life after the war, away from home."

"Boo hoo," I scoff, rolling my eyes. "They were alive, weren't they? Feel more sorry that he had to be a Victor of a district he didn't even like."

"Thanks Johanna," scowls Haymitch. He looks over at Beetee. "Anything else?"

Beetee sighs. "Apart from the information on his Capitol file, there isn't anything else. In an official capacity, until his death, Robin himself effectively disappeared from the record."

"That's impossible," I say sharply. "Victors didn't just disappear. The Capitol had rules about it."

Beetee retorts as if I've accused him of deliberately misinforming us. "The record simply states that he was returned to the Capitol for standard post-Games processing and rehabilitation. He was transferred back to District 12, completed his Victory Tour, and died the following year."

"That was fast," Noden says suspiciously. "How did he die?"

Beetee doesn't say anything, and it feels intentional. I clear my throat. "Beetee. How did he die?"

The older man sighs. "He was assassinated."

I almost laugh in disbelief. The atmosphere in the room has changed, and not in a good way. I turn to the others, but nobody is quite sure how to respond.

Enobaria is the first to speak. "Was it arranged?"

We all stare at her blankly.

"Let's not be naive," she says coolly. "When you grow up in Two and train at the Program, you learn not to take these things at face value."

I cock my head curiously at the woman from Two, and she smiles just enough to show me her razor-sharp incisors. Weirdo.

"It wasn't a tragic accident, if that's what you mean. An anti-Capitol miner by the name of Astor Emberstatt walked up to Robin's house in the Victor's Village on the morning of the reaping for the Eleventh Games, and shot him point-blank using a stolen Peacekeeper's handgun."

Something smells like horse dung to me. "That easily? No security, no warning, nothing?"

"Truthfully, I don't think the Capitol foresaw the districts as a threat to their own Victors, so they didn't foresee the need for personal protection. Not at that point, at least."

"What about this guy who did it?" asks Haymitch, sounding tired.

"Astor grew up in poverty, and lost his wife and sons during the Dark Days. His only daughter, Verity, died in the Tenth Games' bombing. The testimony he gave before his execution blames the Capitol for his losses. He says he targeted Robin as their representative in the district, and as someone whom he saw as a constant reminder of his daughter's death."

Noden leans back, his boyish features clouding over with a distant expression. "Look, I get it. People want someone to blame, right? We have a saying in Four: 'On the sea at night, any light is a lighthouse.' This Emberstatt guy just wanted to hurt the Capitol, and Robin got stuck in the middle. The Games left a lot of grieving parents behind. I'm sure he wasn't the last person to think about doing that."

Beetee interlocks his fingers and peers out at us from behind them. "Yes, if his testimony is to be believed. Honestly, I… have my doubts."

"About what?" Peeta asks curiously.

Beetee hesitates for just a fraction of a second. "Everything." He exhales sharply. "We're assuming that Robin was a Capitol pawn, a Victor used for their agenda. But what if he wasn't just a problem for them?"

Katniss frowns. "Who else would have wanted him dead?"

Beetee doesn't answer right away. "The Capitol wanted him as their symbol. But symbols don't belong to one side. And District 13 -" He stops himself, then shakes his head. As if the thought itself lacks rationality. Like it's not even worth considering. "No. It doesn't matter."

We all exchange a significant look at this, but let him continue. Besides, what could Thirteen have done back then? They weren't supposed to exist.

Beetee goes on. "A lot changed in District 12 after Robin's death. Obviously, there was the national increase in Peacekeeper presence, stricter curfews - and, perhaps most interestingly, the reshuffling of local authority… and the instatement of a new district mayor."

I purse my lips. "Who?"

"Astor Emberstatt's cousin, and only living relative. A man called Edmund Undersee."

Katniss looks on in disbelief. "Undersee? As in Madge Undersee?"

Beetee acknowledges his holopad, tracking a list, some family tree, that we can't see. "Correct. Edmund was her grandfather."

Katniss looks at Peeta, as if for comfort. I don't know who this Madge is, but there's a brief, mutual something, before they awkwardly look away.

I roll my eyes. Honestly, these two.

"He was still mayor when I was a kid," Haymitch grumbles. "Died not long after my Games."

Katniss looks at Haymitch. "Do you think it was related?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Capitol cracked down on everyone then, hard. Besides, his son became mayor after him. So they couldn't have been that mad."

Beetee raises a finger to grab our attention. "There are records from the now-defunct Pegasus Bank Group, whose assets were acquired by the Bank of Panem upon their liquidation," he says. "They show an immodest and highly discreet bonus transferred to Edmund, an extra fee which he received at the start of every month until his eventual death."

Haymitch lets out a humorless laugh. "Oh, come on. Mayor job, monthly bribes, cousin takes the fall? Thorn must've wanted Emberstatt dead before he could start talking. And they got a new little puppet in the process."

Beetee sighs, but doesn't argue.

Silence envelops us again. I don't know what to think. Robin's Games go missing, he gets assassinated, and his killer's cousin is selected by the Capitol as the mayor? It's too big a coincidence. Could Emberstatt just be a vigilante, misguided and angry, acting all by himself?

Or.

Maybe he was in on it, a childless father too lonely to face the world by himself. With hardly any family left, no friends… just this one person he could raise up, this cousin, who he could do one good thing for before he bowed out?

It seems almost selfless, in that way.

I choose not to air this particular thought to the group.

"What about the other Victors?" pipes up Noden. "The nine before him, and the ones after. River. Mags. Or Ronan, maybe? Surely they spoke about him? Had their theories?"

I lean forward. "Exactly. They had to have done. Fen would've said something, some way. And Mags staying silent? Mags?"

Annie is moaning again, and Noden goes to comfort her, shooting me a very fixed, pointed look.

Beetee exhales sharply, his fingers hovering over the holopad as if unsure whether to proceed.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, another image appears. It's of an old newspaper cutting, its headline emblazoned in a large, striking font: VICTORS GATHER TO MOURN TRAGIC MURDER OF PEER. Beneath the words, there's a photo. An assembly of almost a dozen grim-faced youth gather, dressed in their mourning blacks. One of them, who I now recognise as a sombre-faced Telemachus, lays an engraved plaque.

Enobaria speaks first. "So, they had to play along? Quartz and Mags and the others?"

Beetee nods. "By the looks of it, yes - whether they wanted to or not. The Capitol didn't waste time in using Robin's death for their own purposes, either."

This time, the holoscreen displays a high-quality recording, emblazoned with the Capitol emblem.

I see the Avenue of Victory, where Tigellinus Thorn is making a speech from the presidential balcony. He looks older, more weary, but his voice booms with authority and passion as he addresses what must be the entirety of the city's population - and the districts, too. Presumably.

"My fellow citizens," he thunders. "Today we mourn a grave and terrible loss. A young man, a hero, a symbol of unity and perseverance - Robin Cartwright - has been taken from us in an act of senseless, barbaric violence. His life, one of promise and duty, was so cruelly snuffed out by the very forces that seek to dismantle the order and peace we have worked so hard to restore.

Robin Cartwright's legacy will not be forgotten. He will be remembered not only as a Victor, but as a martyr for peace. His sacrifice reminds us why the Hunger Games exist - to help us remember the price of disorder, and the cost of disobedience. His name will echo through history, not as a victim, but as a beacon of our nation's strength, who gave up his life for the country he loved.

Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever!"

The recording ends. I feel sick.

Katniss stares at the frozen image of Thorn's speech, her jaw clenched. Peeta doesn't look at her. He doesn't have to. They both know what it feels like to be used. We all do.

"He was their symbol," she says. Her tone doesn't leave room for contest.

"Yes," Beetee replies sadly. "I suspect that the Capitol used Robin's story to keep their Games alive. And it worked."

"So what?" Haymitch asks. "They just used him for a promotional campaign?"

Katniss looks at her old mentor. "Like the rebellion did with me."

The room stops, and there's a suffocating infusion of awkwardness, guilt and discomfort lingering in the air. No one dares to speak, but the implications hang heavy in the air. Haymitch in particular has gone ashen. We know why, but we don't dare say it aloud. He wouldn't let us.

"Manipulating a dead Victor for their own agenda?" I say, trying to move on. "Sounds about right."

Beetee clears his throat and fixes his glasses. "In their twisted way, Robin Cartwright was the Capitol's Mockingjay."

The words hang in the air, weighty and awful. No one speaks. The holopad hums faintly, casting cold, sterile light over all our faces.

A sharp knock echoes from the entrance of the conference room, and we all tense instinctively at the sudden stimuli. I turn my back to the wall, remember my exits, look for prospective weapons.

Old habits die hard.

As the door creaks open, my eyes and Katniss' meet. It's a fraction of a second, but it tells me what I need to know. Something feels wrong.

The boy who enters is dressed simply, with a badge on his chest that marks him as an intern. He's a twitchy, sweaty type - barely eighteen, with a few wisps of facial hair on his top lip. His expression is panicked as he holds out a small, rectangular box. "This was just brought to the front desk for you. They said it was of the utmost urgency that I take it up now."

"To who?" I ask, standing up.

His eyes dart over our faces, uncertain, like he wants to be anywhere but here. "He said it was for the Victors. That was it."

Annie shifts in her seat, arms wrapped around herself. She doesn't speak, but her fingers dig into the fabric of her sleeves, knuckles white. She looks to Noden, her eyes wide, her mouth moving wordlessly.

Haymitch grumbles. "I hate surprises."

Without wasting time, Beetee whips out a small, black remote and holds it over the box. A thin blue light sweeps over it. It must be scanning and analysing its contents for potential threats.

The results flash up on-screen a second later.

Clean.

"Not rigged," Beetee murmurs, but his face is grim. "At least, not in a dangerous way."

Noden tries to move closer to Annie. "See? It's all okay."

"No, no, no," she groans, pulling at her hair. "The boy says broken birds can't fly away, that's what he said…"

Peeta looks from Annie to the rest of us unsurely. "Guys…" he says. "Do you think we should go somewhere else?"

I ignore him and push past Beetee, impatient. "Well, now that we know the mystery box won't kill us, let's take a look, shall we?"

The others are glaring at me, hawk-like, but they don't move. They want to know what's inside as much as I do.

I snatch the box off of the nervous boy, and flick the metallic latch upward. It opens with a gentle click, and when I push the lid away from me, I see what lies within.

It's a single, silvery denares.

"What is it, Johanna?" asks Katniss.

I'm seriously confused. "It's nothing. Just a denares coin."

Annie is getting louder now. I want to shake her, tell her to shut it. But I know this wouldn't go down well, even for me. When I lift the coin, she lets out a broken wail.

Enobaria crosses her legs. "I don't understand."

I have nothing sarcastic or witty to say, because I don't get it either. It's stupid. Pointless. I know my gut feeling is trying to tell me something, but there's nothing logical to connect the dots.

I'm turning the coin over in my palm, frowning, when Haymitch lets out a slow breath. "Shit."

"What?" I demand, looking at him oddly. "It's just a - "

And then it hits me like a log truck.

"Oh, fuck."

The coin. Alma Coin. District 13.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Move," I say, my voice rising. "Everyone out!"

But it's too late. The boy, damp with sweat and eyes bulging, takes out a small device with a blinking red light from his coat pocket.

"Stay back!" he shouts, his voice cracking. "Don't move!"

For a split second, nobody does. We've all been trained - by the Games, by war - to recognise death. To feel its hot breath on our necks. And we all see the same thing.

He's going to detonate it.

I move first, lunging forward, but the boy jerks away, his fingers tightening over the trigger mechanism. "For our true president, Alma Coin!" he screams frantically. "You must face -"

He doesn't get to finish.

Enobaria strikes like a viper. It's incredible to watch. One second, she's sitting calmly, almost bored, in her chair. The next, she's on him, her razor-sharp fangs sinking into the soft flesh of his forearm with ruthless precision. The boy howls, his grip faltering as pain overtakes him.

The device wobbles in his hands, slipping just enough -

I don't think about it. I just move.

I kick the device out of his grip, sending it sliding across the floor. Beetee is there in an instant, his eyes alight with relief - he must know it, this tech, because he's deconstructing it in seconds.

As Noden wrestles the thrashing boy to the ground, Katniss and Peeta watch on in horror. Annie is hysterical, screaming at the top of her lungs and crying out for Finnick and her little one.

Beetee's voice rings out. "It's disabled!"

A collective sigh of relief passes through the room, but we don't get much time to regroup. Because then, the second explosion happens.

Not in the conference room, but outside. The building trembles with the force of it, the windows rattling in their frames. Smoke begins to seep through the cracks, and the acrid scent of burning metal fills the air.

"There's others! Back-ups!" Beetee shouts. I can hear his fear.

"Go!" Haymitch bellows. "We need to get out of here - now!"

I turn to Noden, who's still pinning the boy down. "Noden! Take him with you!"

The man from Four nods and hauls the kid off the floor, dragging him forcibly alongside him.

We move as a single system. Myself and Enobaria lead from the front, fleeing down the grey stairwell. I can hear my own breathlessness echoing back at me, feel the adrenaline pulsating in my ears. My heart hammers in my chest, against my ribcage, just like it did not so many years ago on those bare, windy cliffs I try so hard to forget. But I can't escape them. I never will.

The walls groan and the ceiling cracks, covering us in dust and specks of debris. There's another burst of noise, and the staircase behind us gives in. I turn around and see Annie first. She's being carried by Haymitch and Peeta, a limp, mute ragdoll of a thing. Like she's given up.

For a singular, terrifying moment, I feel the same. We're not going to make it.

And then, without warning, we burst into the cold, ashen air of District 12.

People are screaming. Flames lick at the Justice Building, smoke curling into the sky like greedy, grasping fingers. Fiery tendrils coil and weave themselves in and around the stone like a great, flaming serpent. It's terrible and magnificent to watch.

We all collapse outside, and the boy who just tried to kill us speaks again. He's still fighting against Noden's grip, a terrific fight considering his thin, sickly frame. His face is full of hatred.

"Traitors, all of you!" he hisses at us. His eyes find Katniss, and that's when his expression turns ugly and twisted. Into something that I can only describe as pure loathing. It's sad to look at.

The boy spits in her direction. "You! You have no idea what you did!" He chokes out a few choice insults, and then grins maniacally. "Don't forget, Mockingjay, you have to be lucky lots of times. We only have to be lucky once. We're not finished!"

We. He's not acting alone.

And he thinks we don't know why he - they - have done this. But we do. Or at least, we're starting to.

Because this isn't just about the past anymore.

Something bigger is coming.

Chapter Text

D12F

The first thing I notice is the salt.

The scent hits me like a slap. It's sharp. Tangy. Almost metallic. My nostrils flare, stung by its intensity. Not rotten, not foul, but strong enough to make my belly clench. I don't know what it is, only that it's real.

A sound rises behind me, the sound of churning water crashing against rock. I turn, my pulse racing, and the world opens up before me.

There's the ocean. Vast and sprawling, shifting in endless ripples of a deep, rich blue. It's not a picture in a history book, not a whispered story. It's real.

The waves curl, licking at the pale shore.

Beautiful.

And unfamiliar.

Where am I?

I'm not in the Capitol. I can't be. The trucks took me and the others away, far away, in the middle of the night. I don't know where we've come to, but this isn't like the other Games I've watched before from the town square. No live audience, no glass dome. This year must be different.

I force my gaze forward.

I need to focus.

Ahead, the cove gives way to something wilder than any forest I've ever imagined. The trees don't just stand - they twist, grabbing at the sky with limbs draped in thick, snaking vines. Their leaves are enormous, bigger than my head, slick with moisture that drips onto the tangled undergrowth below.

Everything is too green, too alive, humming with unseen movement. Shadows shift and flicker between the trunks, deep and endless, swallowing whatever dares to step inside.

My breath catches in my throat. This isn't a storybook forest, where trees whisper secrets in the dark. This one breathes. It watches.

I can smell it from my pedestal. Damp, rich, and unfamiliar, like rain trapped in a cage of earth and leaves. It hums with sounds I don't recognize - high-pitched chirps, clicking noises, something shrieking in the distance.

I don't like this. I don't like not knowing what lives there. In the stories, the forests are dark places where monsters wait. But this - this isn't a bedtime tale. This is real.

Maybe if I had someone to help me, guide me, I would feel better. But I don't. There was an accident, an attack… nobody explained. I was expecting Robin to be there, but our baffled and mortified escort has been dealing with - and mostly ignoring - me since the start.

I grip my lopsided, hand-sewn rabbit. My sister made it for me. She's good at sewing, and knows rabbits are my favorite. Every spring, I love to watch them bounce and nibble at the sprouts of grass behind the fence.

Rabbits don't fight, I think. They run. They live.

It's been a tradition, every year, to bring it to the reaping as a good luck charm. And every year, until this one, it has worked. Still, I snuck it onto the train and brought it to the city. The reporters in the Capitol, probing, asked me about it during the press conference they set up for all of the tributes.

One of them said the good luck might continue. Push the odds in my favor. They thought it was sweet. Cute, even. Maybe that's why they let me bring it in here.

A bolt of dread shoots through me, hot and sudden. I don't want to be here. The words claw at the inside of my skull, desperate and loud. I suddenly miss District 12. I miss my father's rough laugh, his terrible jokes. I miss the Community Home food - lumpy porridge and stale water, and whatever I could find for myself. I even miss my stiff mattress and snoring bunkmate.

If I could go back, I'd sleep on the floor forever if I have to.

Just let me go back.

I swallow hard, scanning the ring of tributes. Dangerously close to my left, I see the boy from District 2, hulking and determined. To my right, his wingman, the butcher from Ten, all scowls and sharp edges. I saw the pair of them fighting during training. They didn't just spar. They tore into each other like wolves.

Rabbits don't fight wolves.

I think of my father again. The way his rough hand rested on the top of my head when I was little. The way he smelled - of sweat and soot, of the mine, of home. He was never a talking man, not good with words, but he was always there. Until he couldn't be. He was good, even if he hadn't been able to hold me in a long time. It wasn't his fault. He was sad about mother.

I wonder if he's watching now.

From my pedestal, my straying gaze lands on the girl from Four. The one who's stolen the Capitol's attention from the moment of her arrival. She's everything I wish that I was - beautiful, graceful, charismatic. Even now, she stands proud, her posture impeccable; straight back, chin high. Shoulders squared. Her pensive green eyes are fixed wistfully, not on the Cornucopia - as so many of ours are - but the coastline far beyond it.

She looks like she belongs here, in this place. Like the sand beneath her feet, the salt on the wind, the rolling crash of the waves behind us - it's all hers, and hers alone.

She isn't fidgeting. Isn't trembling.

She's waiting.

I want her bravery. To keep some of it for myself.

The girl turns her head, and our eyes meet. She smiles, ever so slightly, and winks. It's nice. Kind. Then, her eyes return to something in the Cornucopia, and her expression intensifies. Whatever she's after, it's out of my sight.

There's so much that is.

Still, I know that's the signal. I tense my legs, balance my weight, and lean forward. It's time.

The gong shatters the silence.

My muscles coil. Every instinct screams at me.

Run like a rabbit.

And I do.

********************************************************************************

D9F

I've always been sensitive.

The littlest one in my big, brash family. The only girl. My brothers always make fun of me. They say I'm soft, sappy. A sugarcube. If I don't stop crying I'll make myself melt, they say.

Pops doesn't like it.

The way that I tear up so easy, how I always feel sorry for small things like me.

Truthfully, I don't know why I feel so strongly.

It's hard to explain. It's as if I'm a dish rag, soaking up feelings that aren't mine, and I can't wring them out.

Sometimes, it gets so bad I can't get out of bed.

The worst time was when my brothers found a coyote in the old, empty tool shed behind our family's cottage.

The rebels in Nine had robbed it of the scythes and sickles my grandfather and uncles hoarded before the war. It's hollow as a husk now, and in early winter it must've seemed a cozy shack to the poor creature. It was only a baby. Hadn't yet learned when to run from humans.

That was its mistake.

They cornered it, pelted it with rocks for what felt like hours. Laughed at it. I pleaded with them, begged them to stop. And I really did try. But my brother Miller's big, strong arms held me back, and his raspy voice told me to shut up, and so I did as I was told. Like always.

At one point, the baby coyote stared right at me, and its experience latched onto mine. I swear I could feel my skin absorbing its pain, my bloodstream saturating the fear.

It was so afraid, Momma, I wept to my mother hours later. So afraid. And they hurt it.

She cooed at me, consoled me, and then she cooked it in a stew.

Any kind of meat in Nine is hard to come by, so she didn't want to waste it. That coyote kept my family fed for over a week.

But not me. Oh no; I didn't eat a bite of it. Couldn't. The pain of hunger gnawed at my tummy, bad, but the alternative…

No.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the gong.

As the others start running, I feel their fear. Acrid, burning, rotten. There's something else in there, too. It's hot, perverse excitement. Like spice, but wrong. Twisted.

I gag as bile rises in my throat. The scents are thick enough to choke on, the fear rolling off the smaller, weaker tributes in sour waves.

But it's the other feeling that churns my guts the most… that blistering, electric thrill. It stinks of unwashed scavengers ripping at long-dead corpses.

None of it belongs to me.

My knees lock, my breath hitches, and I know I have to move. It's the only option. That's what Brandon slurred at me on the train between swigs of whiskey. Run and just keep running, girl. That's your best shot. His self-hatred curdled in my mouth, like bad milk. But I agreed. With him, and with the others. The ones from training. I told them that I'd run with them.

I take a few paces forward, then stop.

A toy rabbit lies splayed across the ground. Its right eye, a black button, dangles by a thread.

I freeze. Stare at it.

And suddenly, I'm back in that tool shed. Back with the coyote. Its wild, desperate eyes locked onto mine. Begging me to do something, to make it stop.

And all I can do is watch.

Somebody barrels into me.

I hit the ground hard, my head snapping back against the sand. I feel a boot press against my ribs and try to scramble up, digging my fingernails into the muscle of the leg holding me down.

The foot comes down again, harder, forcing the air from my lungs.

Above me, far above me, the sun blazes blindingly against the pale sky, turning the figure above me into a shifting shadow.

Why did you stop running?

I can practically hear everyone screaming it at me.

I blink against the glare. My vision swims, finally sharpening enough to make out a face. A boy. The one from the fishing district. I know him by his sun-speckled skin, the crooked nose.

He holds aloft a slim rod, sharp at the end. It's slick, dark at the tips. Not with water. It's red.

Warmth blooms across my legs. Sticky, wrong. Staining my jumpsuit.

Oh gods, no. Not like this.

"You're scared," the boy observes, voice monotone. "Why didn't you run?"

His voice is soft. Devoid of malice. He speaks it as a fact, as simple as the tide rolling in and out behind me.

I try to respond, but only whimper. The stench of death is everywhere, paralyzing me. My heart hammers, my head pounds, and my limbs won't move. I can't think.

The boy sighs, firming his foot on my ribs. He raises his weapon, face hardening. "Sorry."

As the lance falls, I try to remember home.

The scent of my mother's apron. Fields of sunflowers. Summer days along the Wishing River.

But I only see the fisher boy's eyes, which become the coyote's. Dark and angry and fixed on mine. Accusing me.

Now you know how it feels.

The pain is hot.

I feel cold.

********************************************************************************

D8F

It's hotter under the trees.

As I dash under the leafy canopy, branches and vines whip and nick at my face, but I barely feel them. The scent of damp earth clogs my throat, mixing with the sour tang of sweat. The ground is uneven, roots curling like skeletal fingers, grasping, trying to drag me down.

I'm not used to them. Trees and plants. I'm more accustomed to the smoggy streets, grimy high-rises and noisy factories that make up the Loom. Our rain is sharp and cutting, but yields no life. No flowers or shrubs… not even weeds. We don't get any of that stuff.

Not in District 8.

I lurch forward, and keep running. The sounds of death echo behind me, and blur into the rustling branches. The drumbeat of my own pulse.

My mind replays everything, over and over, like I'm stitching the same pattern again and again.

I see them still. Limbs askew. Eyes glassy.

The tributes crashed against one another, their bodies colliding in a rush of limbs and bone. A chorus of screams erupting. And then, the metal. Slashing, tearing, ripping.

Chaos.

With a shake of my head, I force the images from my mind.

The trees reach upward, thick and imposing, the fronds of their limbs caressing the sky. I vault over a log, its bark slick with moisture, and I land hard, knees biting into the ground.

I push myself up, ignoring the sharp sting.

As I do so, the girl trailing me slows to a stop, and I whip around.

"Solara," I hiss at her, tired and irritated. "We have to keep moving. The boys are following us."

But the girl from District 5 is in shock, her hair stringy and tangled in detritus.

"The others," she gasps. Her words come out in stutters. "Georgette, we left them behind."

I don't answer, and swallow against the weight in my chest. I should say something. Anything.

But what is there to say?

That I ran because I didn't want to die with the rest of them? That I abandoned the plan the second the blood started spilling? That I knew, deep down, we were never really allies?

At least, not in the way that mattered.

Because this is all only going to end one way.

"We had to run," I tell her, my voice hoarse. "If we stayed, we'd be dead too."

Solara's eyes well up. "They killed Elsie."

I vaguely recall the mousey girl from the coal district.

"She tried to run. To meet us," Solara continues.

And now she's gone, I think.

Just like we would be.

A shudder runs through Solara's tiny frame. "I don't know what to do," she whispers.

I run my hand through my hair. It's so hot in here. "Just… give me a second to think," I say.

She watches me, gaze flicking over my face, searching, testing. We need to find somewhere to rest.

A new sound drifts across the jungle.

My lungs heave, eyes darting between the shifting leaves. Wind? An animal? Or worse… one of them?

The ones who seem to enjoy this. The ones who don't run.

I listen more closely. The noise is distant, but distinct. It's the sound of footsteps.

Multiple footsteps.

We aren't alone.

I go rigid. Solara does too.

And then, we hear them. Voices. Low, and buzzing with anticipation.

I spin, weaponless, and curse myself for not grabbing something at the Cornucopia.

Glancing through the trees, I see shapes move in the distance. At least three of them, slipping between the trunks like snakes. Even from here, I can tell who they are. It's the boys.

They're hunting us.

Us. Not Mags and the others. Not the ones who pose a threat.

They're picking off the weaklings first.

I suck in a slow, careful breath, shifting my gaze back to Solara. She's seen them too.

Her face is white, and she looks at me imploringly.

What do we do?

There's only one thing we can do.

I don't waste any time and grab Solara's wrist, pulling her with me into the undergrowth.

We move in silence through the jungle.

The deeper in we go, the stranger it gets. We navigate a sea of gnarled roots and enormous ferns, jagged rocks swathed in vines and exotic flowers that move of their own accord.

Behind us, the boys are getting closer. I catch fragments of their conversation - words like prints and near - and I know they're looking for us, specifically.

Looking to get their first kills.

Solara hears it too. Her fingers twitch against my forearm, her body tense with barely restrained panic. But she doesn't resist me, doesn't make this more difficult, so that's something.

We crest a small incline, and emerge into a clearing.

There's a pool, made from a glistening waterfall. And there, barely visible beneath a curtain of vines, is a dark hollow in the rock.

It's a cave.

The mouth is wide but shallow, dug into the base of a weathered cliff, but big enough for us.

It isn't much, but it's enough.

I pull Solara toward it, ducking beneath the swaying leaves, and we squeeze inside.

The air is thick with the scent of moss and wet stone. It's much deeper than I expected… deep enough, in fact, that the darkness swallows us after only a few feet.

Solara scrambles in behind me, pressing her back against the cold rock. She's quiet now.

Good.

I don't look outside, not yet. They'll still be searching for us. I press my lips into a thin line, and settle into the shadows.

It's not comfortable. The air inside the cave is so… thick. It's so damp, and warm, and humid. A deep, musky odor clings to the stone, something bitter and organic. It reminds me of the factories and laundry houses back in Eight, the reek of when your wet clothes begin to rot.

I sit across from Solara and draw my knees up to my chin. For a moment, neither of us speak.

The silence isn't comfortable, but it's necessary. We need it to breathe. To think.

Eventually, Solara looks up. Her eyes go wide, mouth opening like she wants to say something.

"What?" I say, snappier than I intended.

And then, I hear it.

But not from her.

The sound is slick and rhythmic.

It clicks.

I freeze, and something scuttles nearby.

It brushes against my back. A thread of saliva drips onto my shoulder, hot and wet.

Solara's mouth is moving, but no noise comes out.

I try to move, but it doesn't work. A sudden, crushing weight slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.

My spine scrapes against the rock as I'm dragged away.

Something wraps around my torso, hard and segmented.

The clicking gets worse.

The light at the cave's entrance shrinks, twisting as I'm yanked backwards, deeper into the dark.

My world spins.

"Solara!" I scream. "Solara! Help me!"

But she's already scrambling out, as fast as she can, away from me. Leaving me.

I think she's screaming, too.

Desperately, I claw at the stone, but my hands don't catch on anything.

There's only wet heat and clicking mandibles and the endless, endless dark of its burrow.

I don't even have time to feel afraid.

There's a wet, tearing sound.

And then -

Nothing.

********************************************************************************

D5F

They find me seven minutes later, sitting on an outcrop of rocks by the pool. There's a lot of them. At least, I think there are.

At first, they're elated, thinking I'm an easy kill. But after, when they see my face, their glee fizzles into something else.

Disgust.

"She's puked herself," the boy from Ten laughs.

He's right. I dimly realise that my chin is slick with vomit.

Only I know why.

I didn't mean to leave her. Not like that.

The cave entrance gapes like an open wound, its jagged mouth barely visible under the curling vines.

It's silent now. Empty. As if nothing ever happened.

Like Georgette never existed at all.

But she does. No, I correct myself silently. She did. A fire of shame burns through me.

I'm a coward.

I can still feel it. The damp, musky heat. The presence of… whatever that thing was. I hear the wet clicking of its mandibles in my head, over and over, the rhythm now glued into my brain.

The thing didn't chase me. It didn't need to. It got what it wanted.

And I ran. Just like I always do.

"What happened to you?" the boy from District 1 asks, not getting too close.

Two steps forward, his arms folded. Expression unreadable. "Hey, kid. Are you alone?"

The question barely registers. I look up at him, eyelids half-open in a daze.

"Are you deaf?" His tone is sharper now. "Where's the rest of your little pack? The girls from training?"

My throat is too tight to speak.

"Maybe they're nearby," the boy from Four says, glancing toward the trees, raising his lance cautiously.

Ten smirks. "She doesn't look like she's got anyone left." He nudges me with his boot. "Right, honey? All alone now?"

I swallow hard, my hands clenched together in my lap.

Trying not to shake.

Say something, Sol, I tell myself. Lie. Scare them off.

"Where are they?" Two presses, his voice low, dangerous. He crouches beside me, peering into my face. "Nike, and that bitch from his district." He points at the boy from Four. The swearing makes me wince. "They were with you, weren't they?"

"I think she's confused," says Sky, the male tribute from my district.

I wonder if he remembers it like I do.

The sparkling reservoirs. Majestic turbines. Thrumming power plants.

Far away, my parents and grandparents are watching me from their little flat above the shop in Thornton.

I want to be strong for them.

Another boy, I think from District 9, scoffs. "Let's not be soft, boys. She's just scared. Knows that if she talks, we'll kill her anyway."

That sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. My body tenses instinctively, but I force myself to stay still.

Just like I did in the cave.

At first.

Four tilts his head. "You were all running from something, weren't you?"

I don't answer. I don't need to. I think he sees it in my eyes.

"She's seen them." Two steps closer, rolling his shoulders like he's loosening them up. "Tell us, do you know where they went?"

Ten clicks his tongue, and I jump. "Last chance, darlin'. Where are they?"

I try to say something, but a fresh wave of nausea makes me spew more bile up. Most of it splatters over Ten's boots. He jumps back in revulsion as the boy from Two laughs.

"She's useless," Two says.

The boy from District 4 sighs, disappointed, like I failed some kind of test.

I deflate, knowing what's to come.

I don't have the strength to speak, much less fight them.

Maybe it was always meant to be this way.

District 9 confirms it.

"You take this one, Commodus." The others murmur in agreement.

He steps forward, hoisting up a mace with cruel, curved spikes.

I look at him with sad, accepting eyes. He doesn't look away.

There's a swing, and I hear a crack.

The world fractures, and for half a second, I'm weightless.

And then I'm sliding off the rocks and into the water. It covers me like a cool, wet blanket.

The last thing I hear isn't the boys celebrating.

It isn't the light breeze ruffling in the trees, or the gentle bubbles of my final breaths.

It's the clicking.

********************************************************************************

D3F

I wake to the sound of a struggle.

There's wild, panicked thrashing. The sharp creaking of rope as it grinds against bark. A heavy body swinging, twisting, fighting for dear life.

I sit up, eyes darting about.

The jungle night is black and starless, and the air itself is thicker and warmer than it was earlier… if that's even possible.

It's the first night in the arena. The first of any, ever. My brain whizzes through statistics and deductions; the length of each Games I've seen, the median duration, the estimated running time.

The formulas are a comfort in this strange place, where even the natural landscape feels… unnatural. I imagine I'm a sample under a petri dish, and there are people in sterile white coats, some far-off place, analysing me.

I had a fleeting hope, a daring maybe, that the Games would end at break of day. That if we hadn't eliminated each other by the time the sun went down, they'd have put their hands up and let us free.

But that hasn't happened.

The eight of us made it away from the fight at the Cornucopia, somehow. I saw Georgette and Solara run off together, but where they are now, I have no idea.

I don't know how many tributes are left in the arena, even. There could be twenty, or it could just be us.

But, by probability, it's likely there's more.

Still, I wish I knew.

With a flick of my hand, I push my long curls from my face and start to sneak through our makeshift camp, low to the ground.

Some of the others are up, too. The pair on watch, plus Nike and Mags. Those two seem to always be on top of things.

Besides, I think we all know what's happened.

My snare.

Almost all the others snorted at me, investing so much time at the newly introduced station.

They're not laughing now, I bet.

Because now, it's caught something. And I know what I must do.

Assess. Analyse. Action. The three As. Every child in District 3 knows, should know, the procedural code.

Behind me, I see that the girls from One, Seven and Eleven are fast asleep still, their breaths rising and falling softly. The five of us who are awake accumulate in a semicircle around the figure, just outside the copse of trees where our little camp is nestled.

It feels tribal. Uncivilised. I don't like it.

Through the dark, I can still make out the shape of it. Of him. The boy from District 7.

He's hanging upside-down. Trapped. His axe lies beneath him, just out of reach. He must have dropped it as he was yanked upwards.

I don't move. Just stare, agog, at the sight of him dangling like a hog, swinging gently from the tree I picked, the rope I tied, the knot I wove with trembling hands.

It was my idea to set a trap, just in case someone snuck up on us. And now we've caught them.

Him.

I caught him.

"Please," he urges us, eyes wide. "Let me down."

I should feel triumphant, or proud. But I don't.

All I can feel is the hum of calculation, the machine in my head spinning and untangling its wires.

Carly grumbles. "He's going to bring the others down on us."

She's right. As his body flails, his back arching and muscles jerking in a violent struggle, every flex and twist makes the rope bite harder into his ankle.

He grunts and screams more, and louder. The branches above him groan. Leaves shudder.

Too much movement.

Too much sound.

"He wasn't attacking us," remarks Oxalis, a burly girl from District 10. "He might've just been wandering nearby. Got caught by accident."

Nike clears her throat. "Or, mre likely, he was sneaking up on us. Scouting for the other boys."

"I wasn't!" he protests.

This doesn't convince Nike, and she shakes her head. "We need to get rid of him."

I shift uncomfortably at her implication. "You mean… kill him?"

"I thought people from Three were meant to be smart," Carly says, rolling her eyes.

Oxalis glowers at her. "Watch your mouth, Six."

Carly opens her mouth to retort, but goes quiet as Mags raises her hand.

"That's enough," she says. Her voice is calm. Stern. "Arguing isn't going to help things."

We all fall into a deferential silence, bound by mutual respect.

The fisher girl put herself at risk to wrangle and guide us through and out of the bloodbath, so the least we owe her is our ear.

The boy from Seven continues to swing, panting hard now, sweat glistening on his brow.

Mags takes a breath, her eyes flicking from face to face, reading us. She doesn't speak for a moment. Only watches. Then, slowly, she turns her gaze to me.

"It's your snare, Sigrid," she says simply.

My mouth goes dry. I glance at the others expectantly, waiting for someone to speak for me. To interrupt. To defend me. To say no, it's not fair to make her decide.

That's what I want them to say.

But nobody does.

Mags doesn't flinch. "You caught him. You decide." At the look on my face, she says: "I'll do it for you, if you can't."

My world stops.

And I can feel them looking; Nike's stare hawk-like, Carly's judgemental, Oxalis' impatient. Even the boy watches me now, torn between resignation and defiance.

"Please," he urges me. "Don't."

I swallow. My fingers twitch against my thighs, itching to reach for some kind of equation, a calculation that can make this easier. But there is no formula for this. No spreadsheet or probability model to quantify the weight on my shoulders. No equation to tell me who I am.

I think of the three As.

Assess. Analyse. Action.

If I let him go, he might lead others back here. He might kill one of us before the next dawn. He might not. There's no certainty. Only risk.

And If I don't let him go, he dies. And I'm a murderer.

So I make my decision.

Kneeling beneath the tree, my fingers shake like a loose battery, fumbling at the complex knots. As the last coil slips loose, the boy crumples to the forest floor.

No one moves.

He just lies there, gasping, staring up at me with something I don't know how to read. Gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief. I glance at Mags. She gives me a single, almost imperceptible nod, and steps forward, levelling her spear at the boy.

"Leave," she says firmly. "And don't come back. You understand?

District 7 pushes himself up on his elbows and staggers to his feet. He's leaning on his good foot, the one that wasn't constricted and mangled by rope and metal only seconds ago.

"Thank you," he says, breathlessly. To me.

We watch him hobble into the dark, the trees swallowing him whole.

When he's gone, the air is thick with words unsaid between myself and the other girls.

Carly stalks back to the camp, refusing to look at me.

"Thanks for killing us, Three."

The others trail after her, not openly agreeing, but I can feel their disappointment. All of them say nothing.

Only Mags rests a gentle hand on my shoulder, understanding.

"You did good," she says.

I walk back to camp alone.

As I curl into the dirt, trying to think of anything else, I think of things that make me happy. Copper wire. Static lullabies. The predictable, safe patterns of code.

But all I see is his face.

And I tell myself I did the right thing. The merciful thing.

I close my eyes, hoping for rest.

It doesn't come.

********************************************************************************

D1F

We spend almost two days mapping the arena.

It hasn't been easy. Trudging through vine-choked gullies, marking paths with twine, cataloguing every ridge and ravine with careful eyes and bleeding hands.

It's not the kind of role I ever imagined myself playing. I always dreamed of being a performer. A musician, of sorts.

Sometimes, on market days, I sneak uptown and put down an old basket, and I sing. The kindly Pavilion ladies toss me a spare denares as I perform old district folk songs.

Diamond Of My Eye. Calborough Square. The Little Burnish Boy.

You know, the classics.

Capitol approved.

On occasion, I'd make them cry. Happily, of course. The lyrics are sentimental. Romantic. It's hard not to be brought to tears.

Besides, more practically, having extra cash means we don't have to risk our right hand - or worse - by rooting around in the Fairfax or Gatsby's trash for more food.

Still, it wasn't so bad. Much better, at least, than where I am now, covered in mud and blood in a jungle that never stops humming.

Maybe if I make it back, they'll let me sing at the Victory Ceremony.

"Celeste? Are you listening?"

The sound of Nike's bullish voice stirs me from my daydream.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Go ahead."

The attention is back on the girl from District 4. We're doing what Mags call a terrain analysis. I have no idea what that means, but I'm not arguing with her.

We just followed her lead, because frankly, it's the only option we have.

And besides, we trust Mags.

Or at least, I do.

Since the first night, when we caught the boy from District 7, things have been different. The next morning, Mags pulled us together and has made us move like a unit, together.

Always staying ahead of the boys, who we know are trailing us.

And there have been some close calls, honestly, but we've made it through.

Thanks to her, and Nike.

The girl from District 2 has been Mags' second-in-command, reinforcing her command and quashing any disruption.

Still, there's tension in the air. Carly and Kimber spatting, Sigrid keeping quiet, and Nike herself just watching… but none of us want to end up dangling from a trap, either. Or worse.

So we've been planning. Preparing.

And now, apparently, we're ready.

The fisher girl crouches low near the ashes of a long-dead fire, features scrunched in concentration as she drags the smaller of her two spears through the dirt, drawing lines.

A type of map, maybe.

"The boys will come from the north," she says, her voice low and measured. Like a conductor guiding an orchestra. "We've seen the pattern, just like Meadow reported back." She nods at the girl from Eleven. "Their loops are tightening. They're going to find us, eventually."

Oxalis scoffs under her breath. "Let them. I have a bone to pick with Albero."

Her voice curls at the sound of her district partner. She loathes him, and hasn't been shy about it.

I'm not sure why, but it sounds personal.

"No," Mags replies coolly. "We don't wait for them to find us and pick us off one by one. We choose the ground. We set the pace."

She taps the stick against a rough line in the dirt. "Here. The gully by the ridge from yesterday."

Nike steps forward, arms crossed. "The funnel zone. It's dense, for coverage. One way in, one way out."

Mags nods. "Exactly."

Sigrid leans in, peering at the rough sketch. I look at her. She looks exhausted, her words coming slowly. "Correct. It's a pinch point, with a treefall…" She struggles for the word. "Barrier on one side. And a rock face on the other."

"The roots are thick enough to keep them from flanking," Mags says.

Meadow looks worried. "Flanking?"

"Attacking us from the side."

This doesn't seem to ease her anxiety, but the little girl doesn't say anything further.

"We lure them in," Mags continues. "And force them together. Then we go on the offense."

Oxalis smiles. "Finish them."

"That's right," says Mags, not missing a beat. "Kimber. Celeste." She looks at me. "You're the bait, laying the false trail. We want discarded gear, heavy prints, signs of panic. Lead them where we want them."

Kimber nods, jaw clenched. I keep my expression neutral, but I feel the pit in my stomach tightening like I'm setting a gem.

I've already memorized the trail that Sigrid marked out for us.

Twenty paces, cloth scrap. Thirty-five paces, boot prints. Seventy, broken branch.

I practiced placing them this morning until my fingertips were raw.

I hope this works.

"They'll smell the bait," Kimber mutters, flexing her fingers. "They want the chase, right?"

Mags nods again. "So we give them what they want."

"What they think they want," grins Oxalis.

Carly shifts nervously. "And if they don't follow?"

"They will." Nike answers before Mags can. "They're overconfident, and think we're scattered prey, running away when we hear them coming. That's why the ambush is going to work."

Mags continues. "Nike, you're holding the fallback path, in case there's a problem. Sigrid and I will watch the ambush area, since we know it best. Oxalis and Meadow, both of you are to scout ahead, and keep your eyes sharp for movement."

"And me?" Carly asks, her voice tights and arms folded. Almost sulking.

"You're the perimeter watch," Mags replies, relaxed and final. "On the east side."

Carly purses her lips. "That's just lookout."

"It's important, and it's what you're suited for."

A flicker of heat rises under Carly's cheeks. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you to stay alert, and send up the signal when the boys arrive." Mags replies, cool as stone. "And if the boys suspect anything, we'll need you there to warn us." She turns to the rest of us. "I wouldn't give any of you these roles if I didn't think you could do it. I promise."

Nobody speaks for a moment.

Kimber breaks the silence. "So if something does go wrong, or the boys don't follow the plan, we're exposed. What then?"

Mags looks up, meets her eyes directly. "If we get stuck, we follow our trail back to the beach and fight them in the open."

"What if we lose?" Meadow whispers.

Mags doesn't hesitate, and adopts the gentle tone she saves for the girl from Eleven.

"Then we lose. But we take as many of them with us as we can."

Nike nods. "They'll come in a pack. We've seen how they move."

Kimber rolls her neck. "The risk is, they might not stay in formation," she murmurs. "If they split, someone has to draw them back."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Mags looks around the circle. "If that happens, we're going to make noise. Force pressure. Look, even if this works out, it won't be clean. We'll feel it."

Some of us must look doubtful, because she doubles down hard.

"Guys. We're not going to survive because we're lucky. We'll survive because we're stronger. Smarter. Okay?"

No one argues.

For the first time, looking at her, I realise she could almost be from One. High cheekbones, doe eyes. A mane of lovely, curly brown hair. She's smart, too, and resourceful. Fished. Kept us fed.

And the alliance was her idea. She came up to us all at training, told us that after ten boy winners, an all-girl team would attract attention. Or sympathy, at least.

She was right. At the press conference, the Capitol went wild for it.

Unfortunately, the boys didn't.

And now they're trying to get us before we can get them.

Mags looks around the group. "Any other questions?"

I raise my hand, verbalising what's been on my mind for days. "I got one. How do you know how to do all this stuff, Mags? I mean, I'm impressed by the plan, but they sure as state didn't teach it in training."

At first, she doesn't respond. After a moment of thought, she decides to share.

"My mother was a general, in the army. During the Dark Days."

A few of the others glance at one another.

Even Nike's expression shifts, curiosity flickering at the edges of her normally impassive face.

Mags shrugs. "It's in my blood, I guess."

She's not looking at us and for a second, I think she's going to say something else.

But then, she just taps the stick once more into the dirt, marking a final point.

Carly's eyes narrow. "And what side did she fight on? Your mother?"

A few of the other girls lean in, interested.

The girl from Four smiles reassuringly, but doesn't answer. Her sea-green eyes hold a different feeling, one that I can't quite place. But it weighs on her. I can tell. She stands up straight.

"You should get some sleep, Carly. All of you should." She nods at the girl from Two. "Except you, Nike. We're both on watch tonight." She looks at the others. "We move before dusk, and remember - stay sharp, stay fast. And no mistakes."

No mistakes.

That may not be possible.

My fingers move to my pocket, where I find the crisp, elegant sheet music that my mentor, Gold, gave to me the night before the Games began. He definitely wasn't allowed to do it, but he did.

Maybe it wasn't anything, in terms of strategy, but it was comforting.

And besides, it was more than Gatsby did.

The paper is folded into neat pieces, its numerous melodies and countermelodies, harmonies and cadences hiding beneath the cloth.

My little secret.

Deep down, I know I have to keep it hidden at all costs.

Because this is not a place for music.

It reminds me of something my grandmother told me, once. A song that the rebels in District 1 used, back during the Dark Days, to identify one another. It was a type of secret code, you see.

She wouldn't tell me what it sounded like, but she said that when the Capitol found out about it, they outlawed it and executed anyone caught singing it. And so it became known as the swan song.

Maybe that's what my final song will be.

A swan song.

But even if it is, I swear by every gem in One, I'll sing it loud.

********************************************************************************

D6F

They don't need me. They never did.

I tag along at a snail's pace, a few steps behind the others as we move through the trees. Mags looks back at me, gives me a wink. I think it's meant to be encouraging.

I return it with a tight smile, forcing my lips upward.

Honestly, she reminds me of the girls at school, the ones who are all encouragement and compliments until you hear them laughing at your hand-me-downs in the bathroom stalls.

Still, she's kept us alive. I'll give her that.

Wheh Mags turns back, we start to fracture, splitting off toward our assigned positions.

No one looks back at me. No one checks I'm still there.

Of course they don't.

Mags didn't even hesitate when she handed me lookout duty. She said I was suited for it. Liar. She's playing a game, milking the grand dame, she-hero act.

What she meant was you're not useful for anything else. Just like the kids in school, the boys who'd rather be reaped than be seen with oily, smelly, ugly Carly.

Not even the Capitol stylists and pampering teams, who did our hair and clothes up nice for the press conference, could hide their discomfort. Gabbing about Mags' lovely, voluminous hair, Celeste's perfect skin, even boring Sigrid's hipless, fashion-forward figure.

But with me, they just stared and pursed their lips and squinted their eyes and said that it was probably the best I ever looked. How unconventional my looks are, with my piggy nose and bushy eyebrows and tiny chin.

Nothing we can't fix, if you win! That's what they said.

Yeah. I know what that means.

The ones here don't say it, not out loud. But I hear it in the way they talk around me. Always Nike this and Mags says that and Kimber thinks we should. No one ever asks what I think.

If they did, we would never have let the boy from District 7 go.

Even the thought of that annoys me.

I wonder, do they notice that I'm the one who pulls the most night shifts? That I always, without fail, sleep with one eye open, all for the rest of them? And who was it that knew when the boys had found our first camp, and prompted Mags to make us move?

But of course, it was all her idea. Perfect, flawless, lucky Mags.

Well, screw that.

The anger and paranoia swirls in my mind, flowing like petrol, and noisier than a bad car engine.

I stop suddenly. In the near distance, I can see the eastern perimeter watch. A gentle uprise, and then a dense wall of trees. Enough to cover my waifish frame, but running far enough for me to sprint ahead and warn the others of when the boys are en route. That's my only job.

Do they even expect me, trust me, to fight when the time comes?

Or am I too scrawny and craven for that, too?

I clench my jaw, fists curled at my sides.

And something inside me shifts.

No.

I keep on walking, but now, I veer slightly east - not to my post, but away. I'm not sure where to… maybe the beach, or the waterfall, or the Cornucopia.

Anywhere but here.

Let them screw their stupid ambush up without me.

Let them see what happens when the lookout isn't there.

I'm not dying for them. Not for a group that can hardly spare me a look, or that glances away like I never have anything good to say. Even Meadow, the runt of the litter, barely acknowledges me. And Celeste? Well, snobby is as snobby does. She gives me this weird, affected little smile every time I say anything, as if she's just waiting for me to embarrass myself.

Like I need any help doing that.

No. No, I'm done.

I must be walking for half an hour when the trees thicken, brush clawing at my ankles, humidity gluing my hair to my neck. I don't know where I am. It's a part of the arena we didn't cover.

The light is different here… not sunny like where we camped, but grayish. Like rotten tesserae bread. Or the paste we use in Six to protect new automobiles from scratches and bumps.

It even makes ugly, polluted District 6 look good.

All I can feel is hatred.

Hatred for this place, hatred for others. Hatred for myself.

And I just want to leave.

I'm just thinking about how hungry I am, regretting not saving more of my fish for later, when I feel my foot sink.

I stop, confused, and the earth gives under me with a thick, wet slurp.

What?

I try to jerk my leg free, but in a panic, my other foot slips out from under me. I drop hard, and the quicksand is up to my knees in seconds. The ground glistens around me, alive and moving.

My tummy drops like a faulty crane.

"Okay," I mutter, "okay, okay..."

I throw myself forward, reaching for a nearby root, rock, anything. But it's all too far away, and I can't feel my legs, and then my waist, as the mire begins to rise.

Oh please no.

The more I struggle, the deeper I go. The wet earth drags at me, like a hungry predator with a mind of its own. It's hot and thick, and as it reaches my upper torso, I abandon all sanity.

"Help!" I scream, finally, not caring who hears. "Help me! Please! Somebody!"

There's no answer. Only the distant, unanswered call of a bird I don't recognise.

I scream again, but my voice is smaller this time. Weaker.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I didn't mean to go this far. I just - I just wanted them to worry, maybe. Realise I wasn't useless. Maybe they'd be scared. Maybe they'd miss me.

My fingers tremble as I reach up to the vines, almost grazing them, but they're hanging just out of reach.

My arms are getting heavier. My body feels stretched and heavy and full of stone.

I don't want to die. Not like this. Not alone.

"Mags!" I sob. "Celeste! Please - somebody, please -"

But no one comes. I don't even know if they notice I'm gone.

I should've stayed. I should've just stayed at my post. I wasn't useless. I can be good. I wasn't -

It's up to my throat.

I tilt my head back, straining for air. Above me, the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

Mocking me.

I imagine the girls now, crouched in silence, waiting for the boys to come. Waiting for my signal.

A signal that will never arrive.

And I wonder if they'll notice when the attack fails. When they realise no one ever saw the flank coming.

I wonder if they'll think of me. If they'll hate me.

Of course they will. If they don't already.

The sand is in my mouth. My eyes. My stomach. I can't hear or speak or breathe. I can't think.

For a split second, I swear I see a pair of eyes, familiar, watching me from afar, behind a tree.

But it's a hallucination. Must be.

I don't die screaming. Or crying.

My last thought is simple.

I've killed them all.

********************************************************************************

D11F

It's happening.

Finally, it's happening. For real. And I don't know if I'm ready.

I crouch low in the brush. My limbs are trembling so hard, against my will, that I'm terrified they're shaking the leaves around me. Giving away my location.

"Relax," I hear Oxalis say gruffly.

Sweat slicks my palms. I try to wipe them on the front of my trousers. Can't make too much noise. When this happens, it has to be a surprise. And it has to happen fast.

I recite Mags' instructions in my head like a lullaby.

Stay quiet. Watch for the signal. Hold your nerve.

We have to hold our nerve back home, too. During harvest, when the Peacekeepers prowl the orchard rows, ready to swing their batons if they catch you slowing down. I've seen it happen too many times to call their bluff.

Luckily for me, I'm good at picking the pears and the apricots, keeping one eye on the trees and one on the officers' boots. It stops me from getting in trouble. That, and silence. Silence is safer.

Quick hands, quiet mouth. That's what Mama used to say.

I try to imagine her now, standing beside me. Her cracked, calloused hands around mine. Her bright, sad eyes unblinking. The sound of her voice.

Oh, I miss her voice. I miss the songs we'd hum when no one was listening, even if the Capitol doesn't let us sing much anymore.

I still hear her.

I believe in you, Meadow, she says.

That's what Mags said, too, as we ran for our lives through the jungle on the first day.

She said she believed in me. And she knew that I was brave.

It felt like she meant it, too.

I can do this, I think, shuffling slightly in the damp leaves. Because I want to be brave. I want to help us.

I'm just worried I might be too little.

Right now, the others will be scattered in the trees around what they've called the funnel zone. I can't see most of them, but I know where they're meant to be.

Nike is above the path in the overhang; Sigrid and Mags are near the roots, ready to pounce; Celeste and Kimber will be at heart of the ambush point, to draw the boys in.

I keep scanning to the far end of the ridge, searching for any sign of movement.

They aren't here yet.

And worse, Carly hasn't signalled.

I try not to fidget. I can't panic. There's a lot of reasons why we haven't heard from her. She might have gotten delayed, or run into a mutt. Or maybe she had to steer around the other tributes.

Yes, that's it. She's waiting for the right moment, being cautious. Carly's not dumb, we all know that.

But still, I don't like this. The silence.

Oxalis mutters something from behind me. She shifts, low to the ground, eyes narrowed.

"Too long," she whispers, about loud enough for me to hear her.

I don't move my body, but respond quietly. "What do you mean?"

"The boys are late. Carly hasn't sent anything. Something's off."

I want to say she's wrong, but the look on her face tells me otherwise. I hope she isn't right.

"Maybe the boys are…" I squeak, not able to say the word dead.

Oxalis curses under her breath and rises. "Gods damn it, I'm checking on her. Hold your position."

Before I say anything, or convince her not to go, she disappears into the undergrowth without another word.

I tighten my grip on my knife. Well, knife is a generous title. Mags made it for me. It's just a piece of sharpened rock, but it feels heavy and dangerous in my hands.

We all discussed this plan. Committed to it. Only one person is going to get out of here, and this is the best way to make sure it's one of us.

Maybe a girl will finally win, I think. The thought makes my lips flicker into what could be a smile, for just a moment.

What if it's me?

I'm just thinking of how Mags made us practice for hours, running drills, mapping exits, when I hear it.

Them.

Their footsteps.

I freeze, my breath catching.

Four shapes emerge on the northern trail. Boys.

The boy from District 1 comes first, his good looks tainted by the jungle heat, hair slicked back and shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Behind him comes the boy from Five, long and thin, with that sharp, narrow face. And at the back, leading the rear, are the boys from Districts 4 and 9.

I can't remember any of their names. Honestly, with what's about to happen, I'd rather not.

I see them point at the figures of Celeste and Kimber, who are crouched facing away from them, playing the unwary prey.

They're naturals at it. Especially Celeste. She could be an actress, really.

The boys are talking, but gently, so I can't hear what they're saying. Moving slowly inward.

They're taking their time, I think.

But I know I have to wait. Like Mags would want.

I look up, straining to see her, and the others. I catch the barest glint of movement - Mags is there, the metal spear she nabbed at the Cornucopia poised and ready to strike. In her other hand, she clutches a smaller spear, one she made herself from bamboo and stone.

Sigrid is next to her, crouched like a coiled spring. In her hand, she clutches a mallet she's fashioned from a stick, a thick rock, and the wire from her snare.

We're supposed to wait until all of the boys hit the marker, and then we jump them.

I count their steps. I'm used to counting. Our hut in Zone F isn't far from the loading depot and sometimes, I count them as they leave. It's fun. I know that if one truck can carry twenty-eight crates, how many crates are hauled off to the Capitol each week.

I wish they kept some for us.

I enjoy doing it, though. Auntie Cherlize told me once, while we watched my baby cousin chasing grasshoppers, that it's one of those things that helps us feel in control, even when we don't have any.

I remember that now, as I count the shapes on the trail. One. Two. Three. Four.

Four?

My eyes flit to the boys. Yes. One, two, three, four of them. Is that right? Was that all of them?

I try to remember what I saw on that first day. The boys that dominated the bloodbath. Those four were there, alright. And the boy from Oxalis' district. The one she hates. Another from District 8, the one Mags killed.

And someone else.

They're twenty steps away, and there's someone missing.

Ten steps.

Who is it?

There's a bad feeling in my gut. Something's wrong, and Oxalis knew it.

I should have begged her to stay.

I'm about to shift forward, to make sure I didn't miss anything, when I hear it.

A twig, snapping. But not from the trail.

From behind me.

I freeze.

There's no birdsong. No wind. Just breath.

Mine, and someone else's.

I turn. Slowly. Carefully.

It's a boy. District 2. The biggest of them all.

His eyes are flat. Focused. He doesn't raise his mace yet. Instead, he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't quite figure out. Like I'm not supposed to be here.

My fear goes cold. Disappears into a void, deep inside of me. I don't know how, or why.

But it does.

And I realise, faintly, it's because I don't have a choice now.

Mama and Mags' faces appear in front of me in a burst, and combine into one.

Be brave, Meadow, they say.

So I move.

My knife slices through the air.

I miss. I knew I would. The boy flinches, ever so slightly, but the distraction has bought me the few seconds that I need.

Empty-handed and doomed, I do what I can.

I scream.

Not words. Just raw, terrified noise, as loud and as carrying as I can.

And I scream again. Words, this time.

"They're here!" I cry, even as Two's hand seizes my wrist.

In one punch, he knocks the breath from my lungs, and I go down hard in the soil. It smells earthy and damp.

I try to scream again, but the air's already leaving me, and his hand is over my mouth.

But I've sounded the alarm. The girls will know, and this boy knows that. He knows what I've done.

And so he doesn't waste time speaking. Doesn't hesitate.

The mace crushes my ribs, and I feel my own blood, red and hot, rushing down my front.

Everything stops. I think of life.

Honeysuckle. Grasshoppers. Crates.

I glimpse the sun through the tree-tops, flickering gently.

My skin burns. My arms go light. The jungle hums around me like Mama's song.

And I think: I warned them.

Yes.

I mattered.

********************************************************************************

D10F

It feels like the arena is alive.

No. That's not true, I tell myself.

What's alive is me.

Breathe in, breathe out. Just reminding myself I'm still here.

The heat clings like it does in the dry season back home, when the cattle cry for shade and the elders whisper to the dust for rain.

It's an old, familiar curse, stitched into my skin so tight the air can't get in. Sweat pools down my spine, soaking the light cotton I'm wearing.

I can't stop moving, and Meadow's fear has rubbed off on me, like sap. It clings. Sticky and wrong.

I don't like leaving her alone. I don't. But something's wrong, and we all know it.

No signal from Carly. No birdsong. No wind. Just… stillness.

Like the jungle knows we're waiting.

I trudge east, toward the edge of the trap zone, past the twisted roots and creeping vines. I swear I see them move intentionally, curiously, as if of their own accord. I blink and shake my head. It's the heat, the stress. Getting to me.

As the trail curves, I spot the slick stones we marked with chalk. The lookout point should be just ahead, right past this cluster of broad leafs.

When I reach the ridge, no one is there.

No rustle of branches. No crouched figure. No sign that Carly ever took her post at all.

I curse under my breath.

Traidora.

I need to get back to Meadow, to the others. Tell them what's happened.

But when I turn around, he's there.

Leaning against a tree, one boot pressed lazy against the bark like he's been waiting for me. He probably has.

I've been waiting for him, too.

Albero.

Of course it's him. The Capitol's little traitor-son.

He hasn't changed. Smug face, light brown skin darkened by the jungle sun. Greasy brown locks clinging to his temples. A jagged blade, covered to the hilt in dried blood, rests in his hand, like it was grown there.

"Fancy meeting you here," he drawls, voice thick with mockery. "Didn't think the Kaw girl would be first to sniff trouble."

I don't flinch. "Didn't think a Porla brat would have the spine to leave his pack."

That gets his attention. His lip twitches.

"Still playing rebel in the trees, then?" he sneers. "Your whole clan's been picking at bones since the war. I thought maybe you'd died with the rest of 'em."

I grit my teeth. "I'd rather starve with pride than sell out my people to the Capitol for a few scraps," I say. "Like your daddy did. And your granddaddy before him."

He pushes off the tree, rolling his shoulders. "Careful, Oxalis. Someone might think you're still bitter."

"You turned them in for rations." I stalk toward him, blade gripped tight. "Neighbours. Friends. Family. Let them burn our camps and take our women. You think I forgot that? Do you think we forgot?"

"My family survived," he says simply, as if that explains it all away. "Yours bled out in the desert. And for what?"

That's it. I jump towards him -

But halfway there, I freeze.

Meadow's scream rips through the air like a war horn. High. Wild. Real.

We both whip our heads toward the sound.

Albero straightens, expression sobering just for a heartbeat. He heard it too. Knows what it means.

His gaze darts back to mine.

And in a moment, all civility ends.

"Looks like the party's started without us," he says, slipping into a crouch. "Let's make it fun."

I snarl. "Let's end it."

We lunge, and I go to meet him.

I meet him with the ghosts of my sisters.

My mother.

My stolen land.

Albero comes at me with the force of every family who's ever spit on our names, every child from the Pale who threw us scraps and called it charity.

He swings wide, trying to drive me back. It works - a little. He's stronger, but I'm faster.

I duck under him, score a line across his thigh with my machete. He grunts. Slashes back. A shallow nick at my side. We trade pain. Blow for blow.

I imagine our mentor, the mulo Victor from half a decade ago, watching us, as remote and unenthusiastic as the day on the train. Watching us fighting each other. Hating each other.

I wonder if he cares.

"Your people always thought you were better," spits Albero. "Just because you got there first."

"We were!" I yell, slamming my foot into his knee. He collapses for half a second. It's enough.

I grab the curved hook of my blade and swing.

Albero catches my wrist. Grins, gums and teeth bloodied. "You're going to die here, Kaw."

I grin right back. "Not before I take you with me, traidor."

We hit the ground, limbs tangled, snarling like wild things.

Somewhere, I hear another scream - maybe Celeste's. Or Sigrid's. Maybe the Games have just come down to the two of us, Albero and me. Doesn't matter.

Right now, it's just me and him.

Past and present. Betrayer and betrayed.

We slam into the undergrowth.

His weight crashes down on me, but I twist, using his momentum to roll us. Dirt fills my mouth. My machete is gone. Doesn't matter. I grab a stone and slam it into his temple - once, twice - but he's faster than I thought. He roars, catching my arm, jerking it back until my shoulder pops.

I scream.

He grins again, a mouthful of blood and ugly teeth. "You always scream," he growls. "You Kaw bitches love to scream."

He thrusts, and I feel the metal between my ribs, serrated and cold.

For a moment, my vision goes white. I elbow him in the throat, scrambling up just enough to reach - yes, there - the blade, sunk half in the jungle floor.

I lunge for it, and he does too.

Our hands close on the hilt at the same time.

We look at each other.

There's no pause.

No mercy.

We drive the blade forward together, him with his raw male strength and me with the dying rage of a hundred ancestors.

Both of us aiming for the other.

Only one of us wins.

********************************************************************************

D7F

"They're here!"

Meadow's voice, so small and delicate, carries across the clearing. I can't see her, but it's from exactly where she was positioned.

High, urgent, terrified.

A warning.

Celeste freezes beside me, her whole body stiffening. My mind whizzes like a woodchipper. The boys aren't supposed to be this close - not yet.

The signal should've come from Carly.

Carly, not Meadow.

What's happening? Was she intercepted, or did she abandon us?

Within seconds, I realise I don't have time to think about it.

With a twist toward the path, I see them already moving.

Running.

The boy from One leads. Reavan, Mags' district partner, trails behind with the lad from Nine, spear aloft. She told us to leave him last, unless he gave us no choice. And between them, is the weird one from Five - thin, mean, unsettling. His eyes don't blink.

They're swarming. Faster than they should.

And in a crash, Commodus, the giant from Two, skids down the brush to our right, all discretion abandoned. A spray of fresh blood across his chest. He's charging straight at us.

Celeste says something, but I don't hear her.

"As we planned," I whisper to her, and we both raise our swords.

The ambush isn't fully over, I think.

Not yet. Not while we're still good bait.

The boy from One has just reached us, his grin wide, when Mags and Sigrid burst from the trees behind.

And now it's five against five.

Evenly matched.

Already in motion, Mags throws her smaller spear. The boy from Five ducks, and it ends up skewering the surprised boy from Nine. He drops slowly to the ground with a sad, confused whimper. I almost feel bad for him.

Sigrid stands there, frozen in shock.

With her other spear, Mags swipes at the boy from One, catching him off-guard. He swivels, which instead of losing him an organ, earns a nice, deep cut across his side. With a shout, he counters, his cutlass singing as it displaces air.

Mags blocks it easily.

"Together!" she screams, and our ambush dissolves into all-out warfare.

Nike drops from her perch above with the precision of a hawk, and Five springs forth to engage her.

It's her saber against his longsword. It's mesmerising to watch. I look around for Oxalis, but she's nowhere to be seen.

Where is she? Did her and Carly run off together?

No, I think. Oxalis wouldn't do that. She's too proud, too loyal. I trust her.

As I'm thinking this, Reavan tries to surprise us. But, thank the gods, Celeste is more ready than I am.

I'm angry at myself, disappointed, for not taking her seriously from day one. For thinking she was some pretty little trinket with sawdust for brains, just because she winked and giggled her way through the press conference. I thought she was just fighting for attention. Only attention.

More fool me.

Celeste uses Reavan's momentum against him, kicking him in the stomach and driving him backward. He spits at us, his eyes now sparkling with annoyance.

He moves on me, too, and I bare my teeth at him.

No more running, I think.

"Go on then," I growl at him. "Prove you're the big man."

He's quick. Surprisingly quick, spinning and jabbing his weapon at our exposed areas. It takes the two of us to keep him at bay, even as we try to circle him.

From the corner of my eye, I see the boy from One beginning to tire. Mags is winning.

It's time for her to go in for the kill.

And then, Commodus ruins it all. He's on her, pushing his ally to the side, and goes on an all-out offensive. Mags is holding him off, both of them, and scores a few jabs either side, but Commodus is moving her forward, forcing her back against the thick wall of branches.

I want to help, but I'm too focused on Reavan. So is Celeste.

Nike and Five are still doing their dance of steel, neither spilling the other's blood.

And then, I see her. A slight, black-haired figure darting right past me.

I realise it's Sigrid.

She's sprinting through the melee, not away but towards Mags, who's cornered now. Two is on her, mace high. Mags' expression is defiant, courageous, and she's not giving up. That isn't her.

Commodus raises his weapon, and I see Sigrid make her choice.

"No!" she shrieks.

And without hesitation, she leaps.

Her wiry frame latches onto Commodus' back like a snake. She's tiny but relentless, viciously biting and clawing at his neck, his ears, jamming her tiny, self-made mallet against his temple.

For a fraction of a second, it works.

And then, with a snarl, he reaches over his shoulder and grabs Sigrid by the scruff of the neck and, with hardly any effort, throws her to the ground.

She goes to scramble away, to let Mags use the opportunity and the distraction to finish him off.

It's a smart idea. A good idea.

But it doesn't work. Because we've forgotten that the boy from One is there.

He's weakened, yes, his right hand holding back the blood pouring freely from his side. But the other is holding his sword, which near-decapitates the girl from Three in a single fell swoop.

Mags give an enraged scream.

I want to go to Sigrid. To comfort her. To tell her that she was smart, and courageous. To offer her our rites, as any godsman would. To see her off safely into the next life.

I don't know if she'd want it. If she believes in it.

But she's already gone.

And there's no time to mourn, no time to let the grief or shock in… because to stop, to feel, would mean death.

So we keep fighting.

To my left, Nike still dances with District 5. Ahead, Commodus and Mags are fighting again, but she's gained ground. And Celeste and I are locked with Reavan.

His razor-sharp javelin comes at me. I dodge it once, twice. The third time, it catches my shoulder, and I scream.

I see the rest of this happen before it does.

Reavan is going to finish us. He'll kill me, then Celeste, and then Five will kill Nike and he and Commodus will kill Mags and all of them will hunt down Oxalis or Carly or both.

And then, they'll turn on each other. And that will be it. Our plan failed. Another boy Victor for the Capitol to worship and adore.

I block an incoming attack with my sword, feel the shock run to the hilt as it's driven downward.

The boy from One starts to limp over, ready to join Reavan in the death blow.

I dig my feet into the ground, get ready for the end.

Thunk.

A blur of iron splits the air.

The boy from One jerks as the axe hits his skull, spewing chunks of bone and brain matter across the jungle floor.

He twitches and falls forward, dead before he hits the dirt.

I whirl around, breathless.

Out of the brush steps a figure I haven't seen in days. Who I thought I would never see again. Dirty, blood-streaked, eyes steady. He's breathing hard, face now tight with focus, not fear.

Douglas. My district partner.

He doesn't look at me. Or any of the girls. He doesn't say a word.

They told me he got caught in our snare, but Sigrid let him go.

Why is he here?

He just walks forward, retrieves his axe from the One's corpse, and joins the line beside me and Celeste.

"I know you said not to come back," Doug says, motioning at Mags. He looks at Sigrid, sprawled pale and bloody on the ground. Dead as a duckling. "Just wanted to return the little girl's favour."

So there it is.

I feel myself swell with pride.

He's District 7, through and through. And in Seven, we don't leave our debts unpaid.

Suddenly, in the jungle, with my district brother beside me, surrounded by my sisters, I change.

Something arises inside me. It's always been there, but I didn't need it. Not until now.

It's not courage, exactly. It isn't showboating or the thoughtless action that the Capitol loves, the type of recklessness they broadcast with fanfare and medals.

No. This isn't about me.

It's quieter.

Older.

It's the knowledge that lives beneath the bark of the oldest trees, in the redcedars and firs and spruces back home.

It lives in the wrists and the hands that swing axes and make paper and carry logs not for power, but for their kin, for the hope of a warm hearth and fresh bread and clean water.

It's loyalty, plain and simple. The kind we don't question.

I look at Douglas. He's standing tall, steady, like the last tree in a razed grove.

He gives me the smallest nod. The same nod we shared at the reaping.

He knows. He knew the moment he stepped out of the brush.

We both did.

We are District 7, our roots go deep, and we will not be moved.

I flick my eyes to the sky, briefly. I hope they all see this. The Gamemakers, Fen, the people back home.

All of Panem, gods damn it.

"Get them out," I yell, my voice cracking through the sound of the chaos. Reavan has fallen back a few paces, realising he can't hold all three of us off. "The back-up plan! Like we talked about!"

Celeste turns to me, blinking like she's not sure she heard right. "What are you talking about?"

"We'll hold them," I say, already turning towards Reavan, who's trying to close in again.

I hear Celeste begin to protest, but my expression silences her.

"Mags! Nike! Go!" I shout.

With that, Douglas and I split up, marching on Reavan and Commodus and Five, our weapons swinging.

They split away from their intended targets as we encroach them, forcing them towards the wall of trees. Away from the path that leads to the cove, past the Cornucopia, and to the beach.

Back where this all began.

Behind us, Nike is already on the move. Celeste is moving back, but her face reads conflicted.

Mags won't move.

"I'm not going without you," she says, firmly. "We face the storm together, remember?"

Her words to me from the first day in the arena moved me when she first said them.

Now, I want to scream at her.

"Stop wasting time!" Our eyes meet. "We'll be fine. I'll find you after, okay?"

The words are wind, but they're what I have to give.

Mags doesn't believe me, I can tell.

She can't leave. Or she won't.

I look at her, this girl who came up to me during the dress fittings, making some pithy, dry comment about how dull the whole affair was. Who found me at training the next day, not wanting to mingle. Who killed a boy to get me out of the bloodbath, that very first morning.

And so I remind her.

"You took care of us this far," I say, swinging at Commodus, who's limping toward us. He grunts and steps back. "Now let us take care of you. We'll find you after."

She doesn't move a muscle.

Her eyes are locked on mine, wild with refusal. Because she knows what this is, and wants to argue. Wants to fight it. But we don't have time for an argument. Not here. Not now.

I'm faintly aware of Doug beside me, grunting as he wields his axe at Reavan. A deterrent.

"Mags," I say, just enough for her to hear me. "Please. I'm a big girl, okay?"

It's the one thing she can't argue with.

She's still staring at me, furious. No, not furious. For the first time, I see the mask slip, and the exhausted girl beneath the hardy, ballsy young woman shows herself. And she isn't angry. She's heartbroken. At having to fight, at having to kill. Having to leave us.

But still, she nods.

It's the smallest movement. But it's what I need.

Celeste reaches out and grips Mags' elbow. "Come on," she says. "We have to go."

And for the first time, our leader lets herself run away.

It takes everything in her, I can tell, and she allows Celeste to half-drag her after Nike, away from us. Her spear is still clutched in one hand, like maybe she'll turn back, and run straight toward the danger. As if she'll change her mind, follow her instinct, and fight the tide after all.

But she doesn't.

She disappears into the trees, her brown hair flashing once in the green, and then she's gone. Like mist in the water.

It's just me and Douglas now. We turn, shoulder to shoulder, to face what's left.

Commodus. Reavan. The boy from Five.

They hulk forward. These boys, who thought their domination, their victory, was an obligation. Who would sell each-other out in a second, just for another turn in this game. They don't know what it means to stay behind. To stand up.

I feel sorry for them.

"Bad move, District 7," snarls Commodus.

I laugh, mockingly, and ready my blade. Douglas lifts his axe.

We don't run. We don't charge.

Our killers come to us.

And we hold the line.

********************************************************************************

D2F

I'm the first out.

I stagger into the cove, lungs burning, legs aching. My blade drags through the sand behind me, slicing a crooked line in my wake.

The jungle is gone now.

In the sunlight, the Cornucopia shines, spurts of days-old blood splashed up its curved walls. I walk straight past it, not sparing it a second glance.

It's quiet, I think. The sounds from the jungle - the birdcalls, the clicking, the heavy rustling of leaves - have stopped.

This is the end.

I can feel it.

I keep going, on and on and down, down the declining slope of rocks until it's just me and the beach.

It stretches out before me. Pale, sun-bleached. Empty.

Peaceful.

It doesn't last long.

Celeste and Mags are with me in less than a minute. They half-fall down the slope, collapsing near a line of driftwood as the girl from One tries to catch her breath.

"I saw Oxalis," she pants. "Both of them. Her and the Ten boy. Dead."

I look back at the sea. "They finish each other?"

Breathless, Celeste nods.

Atta girl, Oxalis, I think.

Mags leans on her spear, her eyes fiery. Haunted. Before the arena, I would've called it weakness. But now, I see it for what it is.

The lust for vengeance, and fear. Not of danger. But of what that feeling, that poisonous, self-destructive feeling, brings with it.

I've fought it all my life. I understand it, but can't indulge in it.

Not now.

"So Carly abandoned us," I eventually say.

Mags looks at me. "You don't know that for certain."

I try not to roll my eyes. She's strong, yes, maybe the strongest of us. But she believes in people too much.

"Do you think she's still out there?" asks Celeste.

Nobody answers her. She probably isn't, but nobody wants to speak it into actuality.

We don't say anything else for a little while.

When the girl from District 1 does raise her voice, it's quiet. Thoughtful.

"It's weird," she says. "I thought, when it came to this, I'd be thinking about my parents. Or dying. But all I can think of is this bakery cake I saw when I was little, shaped like a swan."

We're both looking at her - me strangely, Mags curiously. Why is she telling us this?

Celeste shrugs. "Anyway, they couldn't sell it." She hesitates. "Not even to the rich folk. So the bakers just handed it out for free, to some people who had never tasted cake before." I hear the tremble in her voice. "It tasted good. I guess what I mean is, I just remember it made me happy. Like… properly happy. Felt like things were getting better. I thought it might always be like that."

Mags doesn't answer right away. She's watching the horizon, brow furrowed.

Then she says, almost to herself: "I wanted to be a boatbuilder. My dad was a marine engineer before the war, see. He was really good at it, and I wanted to be like him. Back home, we live on the edge of the dockyard, so I thought…" She trails off. "But we had to eat, and the trawlers needed deckhands to make the hooks and fish, so I forgot about it." She shrugs. "Just a dream."

The two of them look at me expectantly. I don't know what to say.

I didn't have a dream like that. Or any dreams, really. Not ones that I can remember. In Two, if the war left you without anything, you join the Peacekeepers or the Program. If you're smart.

There's no time for dreaming.

I watch the trees. The ocean's louder, now.

Or maybe it's just the quiet's gotten bigger.

"At the start of this, I didn't know if I'd stick with you," I admit. "I thought it might be stupid, or sentimental. I thought you might all slit my throat in my sleep the first night."

Celeste looks over, her eyes tired, but clear. "And now?"

I glance at her. Then Mags. I see them, and think of the others. The closest things to friends I've ever had.

"I think you're okay," I say, and they both chuckle.

Mags snorts. "That's generous."

"High praise from Nike," says Celeste.

"Yeah, don't get used to it," I mutter.

We laugh, quiet and short. But it's real. And for a second, it feels like we're just three girls on a beach, lying in the sand and talking about our lives. Boring, meaningless chatter.

I wish that was all it was.

"Only us now," says Mags, and the air of solemnity returns.

She's right. All the others are gone. The ones who made it to the ambush, and those who didn't.

Maybe they were the lucky ones.

I get to my feet. So does Celeste. We're covered in jungle filth. We're aching and half-starved and we look nothing like the frilly, pampered things that the Capitol was introduced to.

Lank hair, sweaty bodies - tired, beaten, bloody.

We're just three smelly, half-dead things.

But here we are.

I remain standing, saber at the ready.

"They'll be here in a second," I say to nobody in particular.

No one argues.

I look at Mags. "Any last advice, captain?"

She doesn't blink. "May the best woman win."

I almost smile back.

Mags adopts her commanding, leader voice. "Nike - you take Reavan, like we talked about. He's good, and River has taken an interest in him. But you're just as good. Better, even."

She doesn't say it, but I know she doesn't want to kill him. Not unless she has to. Mags is no hypocrite - she won't force me to do the same to Commodus. It'll be easier when we go home.

If we go home.

"Celeste, you're on Five."

Celeste nods attentively. "I can take him."

She's not wrong. We all know Five's dangerous. But his confidence cracked when Kimber stood her ground. And with that, he'll be a lot easier to crack now.

Besides, she's ready. And always underestimated. I think she likes it that way.

Mags gives a single nod, then stands up, shifting her grip on the spear. "Leave Commodus to me."

And that's it. There's no dramatics. No flowery speeches. Just a plan to get things done, the way only a fisher girl from Four can say it. Straightforward, practical, clean.

It doesn't take long for them to come.

They're not discreet. They don't care about sneaking around anymore, and neither do we.

We all know where we are now.

I step forward, and Celeste falls in beside me. It feels natural, effortless.

Mags is ahead of us, the point of our triangle. Her spear is low, her grip tight. She's watching.

Waiting.

They're coming down the ridge now, in their own little triangle - Commodus at the front, Reavan beside him. And behind, the boy from Five.

All of them are blood-slick and battered. Five is limping. Whatever Kimber and that boy did, they put them through it. I feel bad for suggesting to kill him a few days ago. I'm glad that we didn't.

The boys stop a dozen feet or so from us.

None of them speak at first.

We don't, either. Everybody just looks at each other - six tributes, two sides. No games left. No pageantry. Just… whatever this is.

Commodus sniffs, and spits a wad of blood into the sand. "You girls look like shit."

Celeste gives him the finger. "Speak for yourself."

They start forward again, and we tense. But they aren't charging, just walking. Measured.

I shift my weight.

When I realise that I don't feel afraid, I'm glad.

I'm ready.

Commodus grins at our reaction. "Looks like the sorority stuck it out."

"No choice," Mags says loudly. "All the boys kept dying."

That wipes the smirk from his face.

Reavan shifts, eyes flicking to Mags. He doesn't speak. He never really needed to.

But now he does.

"You're smarter than this, Mags," he says.

Mags lifts her chin, sticks her chest out. Proud. "We still are."

Commodus lets out a short, ugly laugh. "You girls should've stayed hidden. Could've lived a few hours longer. Maybe even until morning."

I roll my eyes. "Is that supposed to scare us, Commodus?"

"Just being honest," he shrugs. "This isn't personal, girls."

Celeste leans in slightly. "Not for you, maybe."

Commodus looks at me. "It's not too late to join the right side, Nike." He grimaces at my allies, like they're not worth his time. "Show these jumped-up wannabes what a real Victor looks like."

Folding my arms, I look him dead in the eye.

"I fancy our chances."

He scowls and goes red, his muscles bulging in anger, and Mags looks him up and down.

"I always knew you'd be the first to crack, Commodus," she says. "Shouldn't be surprised, really. You've got all that weight on your shoulders and nothing between your ears to hold it steady."

He snarls. "Say that again, bitch."

She flashes him a perfect, patronising smile.

"Did I stutter?"

For a moment, everything goes still. No wind. No gulls. Just breath and silence.

Then Commodus speaks again, quieter this time. "You really want to do this?"

Mags meet his eyes. "We already are."

And so the end begins.

Commodus comes at us like a battering ram.

He's fast, faster than you'd expect for someone that big, and he's not holding back. Mags meets him with steel. Literally. Her spear spins, glints once in the light, and strikes downward. Their metal rings and clangs, a song of two leaders.

I don't have time to watch, because Reavan's already in front of me.

He isn't a berserker, like his comrades. He seems almost rational. Resigned to the situation.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

I don't answer.

Our weapons meet mid-swing.

Reavan is good. I knew he would be. Quick with the wrist, careful with the footing. But the Program hasn't been for nothing. I've sparred against tougher, meaner, angrier boys daily.

Telemachus taught us that pain is weakness leaving the body. Reavan never learned that.

We circle each other. He plunges his curved lance at my shoulder, and I let him graze it. The pain sharpens me. Grounds me. I slice back and score his thigh. He stumbles, but doesn't go down.

Celeste lets out a roar somewhere to my right. Her and Five are tearing into each other, conscience to the wind. She has agility and accuracy, but he's… gods, he's relentless. Brutal. He fights like someone who doesn't care how he wins, even if it's ugly. Like the street kids that live in the lowest, most impoverished ring of Marbletown, gnashing their teeth in hunger.

But I can't watch them.

I have my own battle to fight.

Reavan steps in close, uncomfortably close, and I half-duck a blow that shears off part of my right ear. I ram the hilt of my saber into his ribs. He grunts, and I press the advantage, slashing low, tearing his belly to ribbons. He slashes back, and gut-wrenching pain tears through me.

Fresh blood darkens the space between us.

"You can still run," he pants. "Take your chances."

I ignore him.

Because I can't. Because one of us, one of the girls, has to win. Like we talked about it. And as much as I want it to be me, if I'm going to die, it sure as the state can't be one of the boys.

We clash again. Harder. Reavan is slowing. My blade finds the meat of his arm, then his side.

He's bleeding. Bad.

When he looks at me, I suddenly see him. The young boy from District 4. A life lived.

About to end.

The new side of me, discovered in the arena, wants to let him be.

But the old me has been around too long.

"Please," he says.

He tries to say something else, too. I'll never know what it is, because I don't let him finish.

I think of the girls. My first friends. Who ran together, hid together, fought together.

Died together.

And my saber drives forward, sinking into his chest.

His eyes go wide, stunned. Like he didn't really believe I'd do it, until I did.

I don't watch him fall.

Instead, I look for Celeste. She's still fighting Five, her arm soaked red. His eye is swollen shut, streams of blood pouring from his scalp. Her sword is snapped at the tip, but she's still swinging.

Still breathing.

He lunges, and she stumbles.

It's one mistake, her only one, but she suffers dearly for it.

His sword plunges into her stomach.

I move without thinking, grabbing my saber with both hands, and sprint.

Five doesn't see me until I'm already there, driving my saber through his neck.

He gurgles, blood in his throat, and collapses sideways into the sand.

I move toward Celeste, who's on her knees, panting. She's bleeding too, a lot, and from too many places. I kneel beside her, hold her up. Press my forehead to hers. She's cold.

"You got him," she whispers.

I shake my head. "We got him. We got both of them."

She lets out a laugh that's barely more of an exhale, and fixes her eyes on me.

Her gaze softens. "I'm glad you stuck with us, Nike."

Something catches in my throat.

"Me too," I answer.

She smiles weakly, a single tear running down her cheek.

"I wish… I wish I could've..."

I never find out what Celeste wished, as her head falls forward against my shoulder.

And her very last breath warms my neck.

For a moment, I hold her. Just for a moment.

And as the tide comes in, saltwater lapping at us, I sign the foreman's cross over her body.

Mags is still fighting Commodus. I need to help her.

But when I try to stand, to get to her, my legs don't hold. They buckle beneath me.

The light changes. The sun dims.

My hands are shaking.

No.

There's blood. So much blood. Celeste's, and Reavan's and Five's.

And mine.

The wound from earlier. Reavan got deeper than I thought.

Mags is already running toward me. I don't hear her voice. Just the ocean, and Commodus' screams. She's done something to him. Something painful.

I look at the sky, and then to Mags kneeling in front of me. Her face is fierce. Frantic.

"You're okay," she tells me, her voice a whisper. "You're gonna be okay."

It's a lie, I know it is. But it's a kindness I'm not used to, so I take it.

With the last of my strength, I put my saber into her hand.

"May the best woman win," I say.

Mags doesn't cry. I'm glad. She can't let the pain, the weakness, out. Not now. Not yet.

She just holds her hand, calloused and bruised and crusted with blood, in mine.

I lost, I think, as the world blurs.

But looking up at the sky, holding my friend's hand, it doesn't feel that way.

So I close my eyes.

And let myself go.

********************************************************************************

D4F

I take Nike's blade from her.

It's still warm with her blood. The handle is sticky, slippery, but I don't drop it.

Can't.

I tighten my grip until the hilt bites back, just like the pipe wrench I used to hold for Dad, when the ballast tank rusted through. The wisdom of his words come to me, his voice deep and gritty.

Keep pressure on the weld, Mags, or the whole damn thing goes down.

It's what I've done this whole time in the arena.

You hold, you brace, and you bleed if you absolutely have to.

But you don't let go.

I should say something for them. The dead. A song, or a prayer. But my voice is gone.

So I listen to the sea instead.

The tide knows what to do. It takes the blood away, washes us clean. Doesn't ask questions.

In, out. In, out.

When I was a kid, I would sneak down to the dock to watch the waves from the deck. Waiting for my father to come back from his shift.

I was always scared he wouldn't come back.

Our boats still sink. They capsize from overcrowding, or lack of repair, or when they hit an undetected sea mine. Their crews are arrested for not meeting quotas, or for when the Capitol needs to make an example of someone… regardless of whether they've done anything or not.

But watching the waves? It grounded me, funnily enough. Put me at ease.

So I watch them now, too.

And as I do, I realise something.

I'm not just Mags anymore.

I am Nike and Celeste. I'm Kimber and Sigrid, Meadow and Oxalis. I'm Carly.

I'm Elsie and Cornelia and Georgette and Solara. The girls who never found us. The girls who tried their best, but didn't make it.

I'm every girl dragged or launched into the arena, every mother who had to watch them die.

I feel them.

High above me, a lone albatross glides through the air, and I smile.

When you see an albatross, it means someone you care about is watching over you.

That's what Mom told me. It gives me comfort here. Right now. Right when I most need it.

With some effort, I lay Nike's body down, gently, beside me. Celeste lies there, too.

Their faces are still, eyes closed, and lips parted ever-so-slightly.

They look like angels.

I fix their loose strands of hair behind their ears, the way my mother did mine on storm days.

There.

Perfect.

Once I've done it, without warning, it hits me.

The pain. The loss. It all rises inside my body like a scarring, poisonous fog.

My body wants to cry and scream and have me beat my breast and howl at the moon like some wild thing.

My mind wants to cuss out the Capitol, and their gods damned Games, to curse them and hope storms take them and drown them to the bottom of the darkest sea.

Without my allies, I feel rudderless, like a captain without a crew. Before I'd even know what's happening, the slightest current could take me far out.

But I can't let it.

Because I have to finish this. It's just me left.

Almost.

Me and Commodus.

Of course it is.

Reavan's body lies in a heap by the rocks, a trail of blood behind him marking his slow, last attempt to flee.

His fingers are stretched toward the shoreline, the foaming seawater, as if he wanted to feel it, touch it, just one last time. His eyes are still open.

I don't look at them.

Five's corpse is still twitching, as if it's refusing to understand the person within is gone. I stand and wander over, put him out of his misery with one clean, precise stab between the ribs. It's quick and merciful, like killing a fresh catch.

Sky, I remember. His name was Sky.

I wonder who he was fighting for.

But then its body - his body - stops moving, and I have to turn back.

To face Commodus.

Keep the pressure, Mags.

He's struggling to his feet, staggering like a drunk. Crimson leaks from his side. He's already injured, I made sure of that. His knee is bad, and I saw the way his swing was lagging, slow and heavy. Like wet rope.

But he's still strong as a whale. Still massive.

Still a threat.

Commodus grins when he sees me, wild and red-toothed. A long, dripping scar runs along his left eye from where I almost cut it out.

He throws his head back, and laughs maniacally.

He's lost it, I think.

"You're gonna be begging for death when I'm through with you, bitch," snarls Commodus.

I cock my head. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"You will," he sneers, eyes darting to the girls' bodies. "They went down soft, didn't they?"

It's the wrong thing to say.

I race at him, and almost regret it.

He lumbers to meet me, his mace swinging through the air. Instinctively, I duck, feeling its spikes pass over my head. Barely. It almost mashes my skull to a pulp.

My heart hammering, I stumble back, lining my spear at him, my saber - Nike's saber - arched in the air for a follow-up strike.

Time to finish this.

When we collide, it's water against fire.

My spear moves fluidly, ringing against the power of his mace. Sparks fly, and I swerve and move; twisting low, jabbing with the spear again. He avoids my attacks, adding an extra kick which makes me stumble forward.

I manage to turn it into a roll and come up swinging, ducking another attack that would've caved my chest in. I carve a line across his forearm - it's shallow, but it buys me time to create some space between us again.

"Little scrapper, ain't you?" he grunts.

I grin at him. "You have no idea."

He lunges. I sidestep, slash at his ribs. The saber bites deep this time.

Good.

"Should've killed you on day one," he snarls, sweat and spit flying.

I smirk. "You tried, remember?"

He swings again, this time aiming high. Instinctively, I raise my spear to block it, and it snaps at the base, shattering in two.

Shit.

Slashing out with my saber now, I slice the front of Commodus' knee. He drops to one leg with a roar. I use the butt of my broken spear to jab at his collarbone with all my force, and something cracks.

I feel a lift of satisfaction that quickly dissipates. Because now, we're too close, and Commodus slams his head into mine.

Stars explode across my vision. My nose breaks, and I stagger. Drop to one knee.

He raises his mace.

In panic, I blindly throw the broken spear like a javelin.

It hits.

A lucky shot.

The metal goes straight through Commodus' bicep. He screams and swings out again, downward, and I don't have time to do anything as the mace makes contact with my knee.

I hear it, maybe my entire leg, break.

No, worse.

It shatters.

And now it's my turn to scream. Long, loud, harrowing.

The collision has ruined my leg, but it's the spikes that are the worst. They pierce my flesh, ripping out skin and muscle as Commodus pulls the mace back.

It's excruciating.

He trudges forward to finish the job and I realise, very clearly, that I am about to die.

You can't. The voice comes from deep inside of me.

Because I have to live. Because they can't all have died for nothing.

And so, as Commodus towers above me, lying on the ground helplessly, I take a cheap shot.

A desperate shot.

I lunge with Nike's saber, driving it forward, straight into his groin.

The noise Commodus makes is inhuman.

"Bitch! You evil fucking bitch!"

His mace slips from his fingers, falling with a thunk into the sand beside him, as his hands instinctively drop to cradle what's left of his pride. He stumbles back a few paces, and falls on his knees, weeping, as blood pours in a heavy gush down his thighs. Soaking it like oil.

Unable to stand, I can only force my body forward. It's utter agony. Every nerve is on fire, and limbs and muscles are begging me to stop, telling me I shouldn't be doing this.

But I know I have to keep the pressure.

Dad's voice urges me on.

Keep going, Mags.

I grip Nike's saber with all my might and crawl the last few feet on my stomach. When I reach Commodus, he's scrambling for his weapon.

I can't give him time to find it.

Pulling myself up by his shirt, he tries to stop me, twisting my hand away. His rage is shaking us both violently, and he pulls me close, closer, until his laboured breath is hot and foul in my face.

Forcing my hand still, I raise my blade to his throat.

My voice is steady. "Any last words?"

Commodus laughs. I'll never know why.

"You're just some girl that got lucky," he says.

I press the metal against the soft, tender flesh of his neck.

His pulse.

I can feel it through the steel.

"No, Commodus. I'm the girl that beat you," I say.

And I lean in, eliminating the space between us.

Because I want him to hear this. I want them all to hear this.

I look at the sky, where I know they'll be watching.

The boys. The men. The Gamemakers.

"I'm the Victor."

I pull the sword back.

His blood sprays forth, wetting my face, my chest, my hands.

Everywhere.

But it's not just his. It's theirs. It's mine. It's everyone's.

Tribute blood.

District blood.

I lie back in the sand. To live. To die. To let the tide take me, because I have nothing left.

For a moment, the beach is silent.

And then, the trumpets blare all around me.

"Ladies and gentleman!" a ceremonious voice announces. I can hear crowds cheering, somewhere. "I give you your Victor of the Eleventh Annual Hunger Games - Mags Flanagan!"

It echoes across the beach, the cove, the jungle. Across broken bones and blood-pink water.

I don't pay any attention to it. Right now, I just want to be here, with them.

To say goodbye.

Alone.

I look back at their bodies. They're so at peace, they could be asleep, and for a second, I imagine them rolling over and waking up. Laughing at how dramatic I'm being.

But they won't.

None of them will.

I will make it up to you, I think. To all of you. I promise.

They don't answer me.

Only the sea does.

In, out. In, out.

As the hovercraft descends slowly, ready to take me away, I swear I hear their voices in the air.

My sisters.

They all say the same thing.

Keep fighting for us, Mags.

So I close my eyes.

I seal their words with salt and blood.

And I never break my promise.

********************************************************************************

The doors to the infirmary burst open, and our district's first Victor stomps in.

I turn my head away from the gods-awful Capitol soap opera on the television screen, where a plot of embezzlement and adultery is unfolding.

It's so bad, it's good.

And River looks just as bad, like he hasn't slept in days.

His mouth is agape, and he has nothing to say. I can tell. But if I were him…

I'd be feeling pretty dumb now, too.

Lazily, I pick a strawberry from my fruit salad. Pop it in my mouth. Take my time. Chew it slowly.

River just keeps staring.

I return his bafflement with a devilish smile.

"And you said girls don't win the Games."

Chapter Text

In the scarlet alleys of the Place-du-Desir, The Cherub's Kiss shone bright.

Neon bled across the cobbles - hot pink, searing blue, dirty gold. The street smelled of cloyingly sweet perfume and razor-sharp cologne, layering the thick, repulsively honest stink beneath it.

Poverty, sweat, sex. The kind of smell that crawled up the back of your throat and stayed there.

Jasmine wrinkled her nose. With a dissatisfied sniff, she spritzed her pulse points with a bottle from her bag. Orris root, lily, and a hint of the flower that was her namesake. Her scent, her blend. Her control. It settled her nerves.

She walked on.

Around her, the Desir pulsed. War veterans staggered past in shredded coats, drunk on memories and cheap wine. Sons of First Families disguised their faces behind embroidered scarves, slipping into the brothels they would demonise as soon as the sun came up.

But there was no hiding, Jasmine knew.

Not here.

A man bumped into her out of nowhere - drunk, unshaven, his breath a musk of hooch and cigarettes. He turned on her; saw a woman, alone and young, and bared what few teeth he had.

"Watch it, whore," he sneered.

The slur rolled off his tongue easily, as if he were used to saying it. A habit shaped by years of thinking of people as items, things to be purchased, to sit silent and passive as you used them until you were finished.

Jasmine knew his type.

She set her jaw, and faced him. His right arm was missing from the shoulder down. A war casualty, blown off in combat. Or, taken from him as punishment. For aligning with the wrong side. Regardless, he had a look, that look, that said that he wasn't above teaching her a lesson.

Jasmine met his eye, and she didn't look away.

The man's smug expression faltered as recognition suddenly dawned on his face.

His mouth twisted, his eyes darting to the embossed lapel of her plum overcoat, where a glistening pin of Panem's eagle, a gift from President Thorn, shone beneath her collarbone.

"Didn't know it was you," the man muttered, fumbling to remove himself from the situation.

He turned his back to her, the nape of his neck a fleshy target, just like the boy from District 7 had been. So vulnerable, so unwittingly oblivious. If she wanted to kill him, she could. Easily.

This time, Jasmine let it go.

Not because the man deserved it, but because he was so… unimportant. He was nothing, barely a footnote in her day, and as such: a waste of her valuable time. The next thing she knew, he was swallowed up by the tsunami of people that swept over the Desir's cobbled paths.

Still, his insult moved under Jasmine's skin, ugly and familiar.

Whore.

She didn't dwell on it. She had more important business to attend to.

Jasmine returned her eyes to the Kiss.

From afar, it still played its part, and well: golden filigree, carved cherubs, gauze draped like lingerie. But up close, the illusion frayed. It was littered by chipped cornices. Water damage bloomed under the paint. The cherub's wings were speckled and spotted by cigarette burns.

It was a beautiful lie.

Like everything in this place, thought Jasmine.

The first time she'd come here, she had only been nine years old.

Her father had stood at her back, grave and thin. There was no warmth from him, no affection for his only daughter. He kept his love for the district's taverns, and the oddsmakers in them.

"Tell her your name," her father instructed, shoving her in front of the buxom owner.

Jasmine had spat at the woman's feet.

"See what I put up with?" he implored, eyes bulging. "Community Home kicked her out. I heard you pay better for younger." His eyes flickered to Culot's fine clothes. "You do commission?"

Madame Culot said nothing at first.

She simply lifted a drawn-on eyebrow and circled Jasmine, inspecting her. Her hair, her cheekbones, her body. She had felt like a piece of fruit at the market, being checked for bruises.

"We won't have her work, Mr. Delarene. Not at her age," Culot stated. "We're… old-fashioned in that way."

A flicker of disappointment and desperation crossed Jasmine's father's eyes.

Jasmine herself stood still. Her fists clenched. She didn't cry.

She hadn't cried in a long, long time.

Culot continued, sensing Jasmine's father's concern. "However, she isn't… unusable."

"What do you mean?"

The Madame's eyes glinted in the candlelight. "We can pay you for her upfront. She has potential, so we'll give you a fair price. But no commission, and no coming to take her back."

She gave Jasmine's father the number, a fee better than he'd hoped for. He accepted the thick, lumpy bag of jingling denares without question, and stalked back out into the night without a second look at his daughter. To place another bet, or spend it in the Desir, Jasmine didn't know.

It didn't matter. She never saw or heard from him again.

After he'd left, Culot cupped Jasmine's face in her hand, her red acrylic nails like talons.

"You're pretty," she purred, grinning a predator's grin. "But I will make you expensive, my angel."

Jasmine's training had begun almost right away.

By day, she scrubbed the floors, laundered the linens, and changed the bedsheets. It was dull and laborious work. Only once did she try to shirk her designated duties. That was when she learned; when you disobeyed Madame, she didn't discipline you. The clients did. And she wouldn't tell them what they could and couldn't do.

A year in, when the fight and backchat had gone out of her, they began her training in earnest.

"Desire is a language all men speak," Culot taught her. "But, not every dialect is the same."

As Jasmine learned, some of them wanted shyness and averted eyes, trembling hands and nervous giggles. Others wanted confidence, boldness, a girl who was strong and decisive and forward. But it couldn't be real. It had to be a sureness that would segue into submission.

She hadn't been good, not right away.

After a particularly awkward encounter, she'd been called to Madame's office.

"Know your audience, girl," Culot whispered, tapping a lacquered nail against her temple. "No man likes to be told who he is. You need to let him believe he's revealing himself to you alone."

They taught her how.

A year later, Jasmine learned to smile in the mirror. There were many variations, and she gave them all their own names. The Ingenue. The Coy Serpent. The Gracious Lady. The Promise. She mastered them all.

At eleven, she began her lessons in speech and interaction; how to stretch a word like silk across the tongue, how to laugh with the corners of the mouth but not let it reach your eyes, and how to say a thousand things without uttering a single sentence aloud.

"You don't need to feel it," said Topaz. She was Jasmine's only friend and confidante, the sole person she had let herself trust at the Kiss. "You just need to make 'em believe that you feel it."

Jasmines wanted to learn, stealing Capitol-approved etiquette manuals and soft-porn novellas dressed as society romances. She devoured them, reading late at night in the mirror, a single candle to illuminate the dried ink, practicing diction and vocabulary as she braided her own hair.

She learned the words the men liked best, memorised which ones made them lean forward, which ones made them last longer. And most importantly, which ones made them pay extra.

Before long, Jasmine was the best and most sought-after angel in the Kiss.

No, in all the Desir.

And then, one cold summer afternoon, a single slip of milk-white paper changed everything.

In the farewell room in the Justice Building, Madame Culot had made it so much worse.

"You'll be famous, my angel," she'd said, her red smile wide and grotesque. Even from across the room, she'd stunk of gin and rosewater. "Not just here, but everywhere. And when you die, you'll die beautiful."

But Jasmine had not died.

Beneath the burning sun of the arena's wide open plains, she had adapted, as she always did.

And, as she shoved the twitching corpse of the lustful boy from Ten off of her - the one she had reassured and declawed and let trust her - the trumpets hadn't been for anyone else. They had been hers, and hers alone. She could still hear them. Ringing, in the distance, calling her home.

The thought of it moved Jasmine forward.

She pushed the door of the Cherub's Kiss open with great ceremony.

Overhead, the bell chimed sweetly.

It was a warning.

Inside, the Kiss had not changed. It reeked of opium, mildew, and synthetic roses. Through the walls, Jasmine heard muffled moans and headboards thudding in rhythm. The same old script.

A girl in a velvet halter dress, not much older than Jasmine had been when she'd first arrived, glanced up from the reception desk. She was new. She hadn't been here when Jasmine had.

"Good evening, miss," she whispered, her voice soft and trained. "May I ask what you're looking for this evening?"

A shriek burst from somewhere upstairs, and Jasmine forced herself still, trying not to see the stick-thin, hollow-cheeked girl from District 5, a dirty rat of a thing, coming to steal her food in the middle of the night. She had shrieked, too, when Jasmine caught her. She had tried to flee.

Tried.

"I know who I'm here for," Jasmine said coolly.

"Of course. And so you're aware, here at The Cherub's Kiss, we aren't interested in judgement. We have a wide range of options that cater to a number of preferences. If you're unsure where to start, are you interested in a young lady or a gentleman to spend your time with? Or both?"

But Jasmine was no longer listening.

Her heels struck like a metronome, confident, as she swept across the marble foyer.

The concierge rose from her stool. "Excuse me, miss?"

Jasmine didn't break stride.

"Miss! You can't go back there!"

Jasmine shot her a withering glare, and the girl shrunk back against her seat.

Another bell sounded, this one less sweet, and three middle-aged, paunchy, balding guards appeared from a side room. She made to go past them, and they banded together. The fools.

"Move, please. You're in my way."

The one in the middle, the ugliest, chuckled. "Let's go, blondie. Before someone gets hurt."

"Gentlemen," Jasmine sighed. "I've asked as politely as I can. Let me through."

The oldest one folded his arms. "Or what?"

"There will be consequences."

The left guard scowled. "That might work in the Pavilion, lady. Not here."

As he said it, he reached for her arm.

It was the wrong decision.

Jasmine's instinct took over. She pivoted, her elbow slamming into his face with a sickening crunch, as his nose burst in a geyser of blood. He went down like a sack of powdered opals, groaning. The right-hand guard rushed at her clumsily, grabbing blindly at her waist, but Jasmine twisted under his grip, and swept his legs out from under him with a vicious kick. The air rushed from his lungs in a strangled, wheezing noise, but it was Jasmine's sharp jab to his throat that dropped him flat, unconscious to the world.

She looked back to the middle man, frozen in fear. His face slackened, eyes bulging, a baton trembling in his sweaty grip.

With one last, fleeting look, he ran, leaving his colleagues on the floor.

Jasmine scanned her clothes. No blood on them, thankfully - and no broken nails, state forbid.

That was the last thing she needed.

From the hallway, curious figures had begun to emerge. Girls in corsets. Boys in blush. One of them stepped forward, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Jas?" She did a double take. "Is that you?"

Topaz.

The girl looked mostly the same, but the fresh bruise blooming across her clavicle was new. She reached out, then hesitated.

"Shouldn't you be at the Village? What are you doing here?"

Jasmine's voice was firm. "Topaz, I need you to listen to me. Gather these ones, and the others." She motioned to the workers standing aimlessly in the hall. "Remove the clients. Do what you have to do, okay?"

Topaz's eyes widened. "What are you talking about? Madame will put us out on the streets."

"No, she won't."

"You don't -"

"I'm handling it, I promise. I'll explain everything later."

"But -"

"Tope, please. Trust me."

There must have been something in the fierceness of her voice, or her eyes, because the older girl sighed.

"I trust you."

Jasmine grabbed her by the shoulders. "Do it fast. Don't let them fight back, or talk you down."

They were the same words that had kept Jasmine alive, mere months ago. The advice that the others had forgotten when facing her. What she'd told herself, back when she'd had no choice.

"Go. Now."

Topaz kissed her on the cheek, and was gone.

Chaos erupted from all corners of the building. There were shouts, curses, drunken refusals. But Jasmine stood calm at the centre of it all, listening to the crescendo as feet pounded, doors slammed, belts clinked. Men fled, half-dressed, chased into the night by vengeful angels.

And for the first time in years, The Cherub's Kiss sang a song that Jasmine didn't hate.

As the heat of gilded candelabras and thick incense stuck to her, Jasmine almost felt like she was back in the arena again; sunburnt and sweaty, the imposing switchgrass concealing her from the others as she lay in wait. A lioness, the media had dubbed her. A natural predator.

She continued to climb the stairs in silence, the thrum of retreating footsteps receding behind her. The hallway narrowed, as it always had, like a throat closing tight. The peeling lemondrop walls still bore erotic portraits and stains etched on door frames like unhealed scars.

Jasmine came to a stop at an old rosewood door.

Withoutithout caring to knock, she let herself inside.

When she entered, Madame Culot was on the phone.

"If the mayor wants to pay that fee, he'll come to the Kiss himself like the rest of his cheap little friends," Madame Culot barked down the phone. "I don't run a state-damned convent, Sterling."

"You never did," Jasmine said.

The line went dead.

There was a rustling noise, of fake silks and the creak of an armchair, as Madame Culot turned.

She looked worse. Much worse. She was fatter, her three chins jiggling when she moved, and her face was painted far too heavily, a putrid mish-mash of pale foundation and ruby-red lipstick. But it was her eyes, still sharp and cruel and greedy, that had not changed.

At first, she didn't speak.

"Well, well," she said, eventually. "My favourite angel has flown back to me."

Jasmine pursed her lips.

"Don't call me that. I don't belong to you anymore."

Madame's eyes narrowed, her smile shark-like. "That's right. You're the Capitol's whore now, aren't you?"

Jasmine nearly slapped her.

Culot continued to observe Jasmine, taking in all her finery; the coat worth a half year's rent in the Tenements, a pair of Capitol designer shoes even she could never afford. The presidential eagle pin.

She clicked her tongue. "You've done well, my dear. I always said you would."

"When I was a girl," Jasmine said softly. "You told me that I would be expensive one day."

"And I was right, wasn't I?" Culot smiled, her teeth yellowing under her wine-hue lipstick. "Oh, I watched you in the Games, and before. How could I not? You made me so proud. A Desir girl through and through; you sold them a fantasy, and they paid you in return."

Now, it was Jasmine's turn to not say anything, because the Madame was right. Partly.

But what she'd forgotten was that Jasmine had paid a price, too. Not in coins, or in favours, but in pieces of herself. The parts she'd sacrificed to live. Parts she might never get back.

She'd paid that price long before.

To Culot. To the Kiss.

And tonight she would collect her due.

The Madame continued. "I must admit, I didn't expect to see you back here. What is it you want, my angel? To show me you're better now? Or are you simply feeling… nostalgic?" She wrinkled her nose. "Frankly, I think we both know all the money in the world can't hide what you are, and you have no love for me. So which is it?"

Jasmine considered answering.

There was a part of her from the past, a part that hadn't quite died, that wanted to deliver the death blow. It wanted to hurt her. To engage in the final, visceral, verbal dance, a sparring beneath silken words, where the old witch would spin out her ugly little truths that Jasmine could and would slice apart, with the surgical precision of her rapier. She could have done it, truly.

But she didn't.

The performance was over.

This was real.

Jasmine moved toward the desk with the silent, deliberate grace of someone who'd once been taught to walk that way, and placed a folded envelope down on the smooth, holly wood. The wax seal, marked by the double 'T' initials of the president, shone in the lamplight.

Madame Culot glanced at the letter, but didn't touch it.

"I'm not here for you, or the past," Jasmine said, her voice steady. "I'm here for the future."

Culot didn't move.

"I bought The Cherub's Kiss," Jasmine said. "And the land it stands on. In full. Title, deed, and debt. The letter is the official approval, if you'd like to read it. I have a number of spare copies."

The older woman went rigid, her eyes wide and disbelieving. "You can't do this."

"I can, and I am," Jasmine replied. "By order of President Thorn. I've discussed it with him at length, and he agrees that youth are better trained for real careers, not as playthings for your type of… clientele." At the look on Culot's face, Jasmine shushed her consolingly. "Don't worry, Madame. I put in a good word for you. You won't be in any trouble."

"What will you do with it?"

Jasmine smirked. "Oh, that would be telling."

Culot said nothing, her face devoid of expression. For a moment, it so resembled the boy from District 10. The final opponent. He was all rage and muscle, like a storm brewed beneath his very skin. But Jasmine had subdued him, pierced him, cut him open, and there had been no storm. Only blood.

"I'll give you until the end of the week to pack your things," she continued. "If you're still on the premises after this, I will have you forcibly removed for encroaching on private property."

As she went to leave, the Madame's voice, poisonous and rageful, came from behind her.

"You can pretend all you want, girl," she hissed. "Act like you're better than you are, just because the Capitol wants you. You can be their shiny new Victor. But this place will always be a part of you. I will always be a part of you."

Jasmine faced her.

"No, you won't."

Culot made a final, desperate attempt. Her voice was small.

"Please, Jasmine. Not like this."

Jasmine gave her one last, pitying look.

"Goodbye, Madame."

She didn't wait for a reply.

Outside, the girls and boys had gathered to eavesdrop, listening in on Jasmine and Culot's conversation. Some of them whispered, eyeing Jasmine reverentially. Others stood with their arms folded, wary and curious.

Jasmine passed them, pausing in the lobby, her eyes sweeping over the faded velvet furniture, the ugly wallpaper, the half-empty vials and flutes of potions.

Her fingers brushed the corner of the front desk, where, several years ago, a rather unruly angel had carved her name into the wood with a stolen nail file.

With a flick of her hair, Jasmine pulled a pair of thick, officious papers from her tote bag and handed them to the concierge.

"Have everyone sign," she instructed. "It covers their room, board and wages for twelve months. Guaranteed. But no clients, no exceptions."

"And after that?"

"We open again."

The girl blinked at her. "As what?"

Jasmine smiled.

And for the first time, it didn't have a name.

"Something better."